Chapter I: Guy Takes the Cross (4)

"What fairy whispered it to thee, little witch?" said Guy, laughing. "Thou art right, Lynette. The King hath bestowed on me the regency of the kingdom, and the hand of his fair sister. To-morrow, in presence of the nobles, I am to be solemnly appointed Regent: and a month hence, in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, I wed with the Lady Sybil."

"If thou art happy, Guy, I am very glad," said I; and I said it honestly.

"Happy? I should think so!" cried he. "To be Regent of the land of all lands! And she, Lynette--she is a gem and a treasure."

"I am sure of that, Guy," said I.

"And now, my news is not finished, little sister," said he. "The King has given Amaury a wife."

"Oh, poor thing!--who is it?" said I.

Guy laughed till his eyes were full of tears.

"Poor thing!--who?" said he. "Amaury or his bride?"

"Oh, the bride, of course," said I. "Amaury won't care a straw for her, and she will be worried out of her life if she does not dress to please him."

"Let us hope that she will, then," answered Guy, still laughing. "It is the Damoiselle Eschine d'Ibellin, daughter of Messire de Rames. Thou dost not know her."

"Dost thou?--what is she like?"

"Oh, most women are like one another," said Guy--(what a falsehood!). "Except my fair Lady, and thee, little Lynette, and the Lady Clemence, thy fair mother,--a woman is a woman, and that is all."

"Oh, indeed!" said I, rather indignantly. "A man is a man, I suppose, and that is all! Guy, I am astonished at thee. If Amaury had said such a thing, I should not have wondered."

"Men are different, of course," answered Guy. "But a woman's business is to look pretty and be attractive. Everybody understands that. Nobody expects a woman to be over wise or clever."

"Thou hadst better be quiet, Guy, if thou dost not want thine ears boxed," said I. "If that is not a speech enough to vex any woman, I never heard one. You men are the most aggravating creatures. You seem to look upon us as a kind of pretty animal, to be kept for a pet and plaything; and if you are not too obtuse yourselves to find out that your plaything occasionally shows signs of a soul within it, you cry out, 'Look here! This toy of mine is actually exhibiting scintillations of something which really looks almost like human intellect!' Let me tell you, Sir Count, we have as much humanity, and sense, and individuality, as yourselves; and rather more independence. Pretty phrases, and courtly reverences, and professions of servitude, may sound very well in your ears; and of those you give us plenty. Does it never occur to you that we should thank you a great deal more for a little genuine respect and consideration? We are _not_ toys; we are not pet animals; we are not pretty pictures. We are human creatures with human feelings like yourselves. We can put up with fewer compliments to our complexions, if you please, and a little more realisation of our separate consciences and intellects."

"'Ha, Lusignan!'" cried Guy, looking half ashamed and half amused. "'Sainte Marguerite for Poitou!' Upon my word, Lynette, I _have_ had a lecture. I shall not forget it in a hurry."

"Yes," said I, "and thou feelest very much as if Lady Isabel's pet monkey had opened its mouth, and uttered some wise apothegms upon the rights of apes. Not that thou hast an atom more respect for the rights of apes in general, but that thou art a little astonished and amused with that one ape in particular."

Guy went off laughing: and I returned to my embroidery.

Really, I never did see any thing like these men. "Nobody expects a woman to be wise," forsooth! That is, of course, no man. A woman is nobody.

I do not believe that men like a woman to be wise. They seem to take it as a personal insult--as though every spark of intellect added to our brains left theirs duller. And a woman's mission in life is, _of course_, to please the men,--not to make the most of herself as an individual human soul. That is treason, usurpation, impertinence.

They will see what they will see. _I_ can live without them. And I mean to do.

*CHAPTER VI.*

_*THE PERVERSITY OF PEOPLE*_*.*

"'Do one good'! Is it good, if I don't want it done?
Now do let me grumble and groan:
It is all very well other folks should have fun;
But why can't they let me alone?"

Damoiselle Melisende and I have been busy all morning in laying out dried herbs under the superintendence of Lady Judith. The herbs of this land are not like those of Poitou. There was cassia,--of which one variety,[#] Lady Judith says, is taken as medicine, to clear the system and purify the blood,--and garlic, which they consider an antidote to poison,--and the wild gourd,[#] which is medicine for the liver,--and hyssop, spikenard, wormwood (a cure for vertigo), and many others. Two curious fruits they have here which I never heard of in Poitou; the one is a dark, fleshy stone-fruit, very nice indeed, which they call plums or damascenes;[#] they grow chiefly at Damascus. The other grows on trees around the Dead Sea, and is the apple of Sodom, very lovely to the eye, but as soon as you bite it, you find nothing but a mouthful of ashes. I was so amused with this fruit that I brought some home and showed them to Marguerite.

[#] Senna.

[#] Colocynth.

[#] Introduced into Europe by the Crusaders.

"Ah, the world is full of those!" she said, when she had tried one, and found out what sort of thing it was.

"Thou art quite mistaken, Margot," said I. "They are found but in this country, and only in one particular spot."

"Those that can be seen, very likely," said she. "But the unseen fruit, my Damoiselle, grows all over the world, and men and women are running after it all their lives."

Then I saw what she meant.

They have no apples here at all; but citrons and quinces, which are not unlike apples. The golden citron[#] is a beautiful fruit, juicy and pleasant; and Lady Judith says some people reckon it to be the golden apples of the Hesperides, which were guarded by dragons, and likewise the "apples of gold," of which Monseigneur King Solomon speaks in Holy Writ. There are almonds, and dates, and cucumbers, and large, luscious figs, and grapes, and melons, and mulberries, and several kinds of nuts, and olives, and pomegranates. Quinces are here thought to make children clever. They make no hay in this country.

[#] Oranges.

As for their stuffs, there are new and beautiful ones. Here they weave byssus,[#] and a very fine transparent stuff called muslin. Crape comes from Cyprus, and damask from Damascus, whence it is named. But the fairest of all their stuffs is the baudekyn, of which we have none in Europe,--especially the golden baudekyn, which is like golden samite. I have bought two lovely pieces for Alix, the one gold-colour, the other blue.

[#] Cotton.

Some very curious customs they have here, which are not common in Europe. Instead of carrying lanterns when one walks or rides at night, they hang out lanterns in the streets, so that all are lighted at once. It seems to me rather a good idea.

Guy has been telling us some strange things about the Saracens. Of course I knew before that they worship idols,[#] and deal in the black art; but it seems that Saladin, when he marches, makes known his approach by a dreadful machine produced by means of magic, which roars louder than a lion,[#] and strikes terror into every Christian ear that is so unhappy as to be within hearing. This is, of course, by the machinations of the Devil, since it is impossible that any true Catholic could be frightened of a Saracen otherwise.

[#] All mediaeval Christians thought this.

[#] The first drum on record.

We are all very busy preparing for the weddings. There are to be three, on three successive days. On the Saturday, Amaury is to be married to Damoiselle Eschine. (Poor thing!--how I pity her! I would not marry Amaury to be Empress.) On the Sunday, Guy weds with Lady Sybil. And on Monday, Lady Isabel with Messire Homfroy de Tours.

I think Lady Sybil grows sweeter and sweeter. I love her,--Oh, so much! She asked me if Guy had told me the news. I said he had.

"And dost thou like it, Lynette?" she asked shyly.

"Very much indeed," said I,--"if you love him, Lady."

"Love him!" she said. And she covered her face with her hands. "O Lynette, if thou knewest how well! He is my first love. I was wedded to my Lord of Montferrat when both of us were little children; we never chose each other. I hope I did my best to make him a good and dutiful wife; I know I tried to do so. But I never knew what love meant, as concerned him. Never, till _he_ came hither."

Well, I am sure Guy loves her. But--shall I own to having been the least bit disappointed with what he said the other day about women?

I should not have cared if Amaury had said it. I know he despises women--I have noticed that brainless men always do--and I should not have expected any thing better. But I did not look for it from Guy. Several times in my life, dearly as I love him, Guy has rather disappointed me.

Why do people disappoint one in that way? Is it that one sets up too high a standard, and they fall short of it? I think I will ask Lady Judith what she thinks. She has lived long enough to know.

I found an opportunity for a chat with Lady Judith the very next day. We were busy broidering Lady Sybil's wedding-dress, the super-tunic of which is to be white baudekyn, diapered in gold, and broidered with deep red roses. She wears white, on account of being a widow. Lady Isabel will be in gold-coloured baudekyn, and my new sister Eschine in rose damask.

I have said nothing about Eschine, though she is here. It was because I had not any thing to say. Her eyes, hair, and complexion are of no colour in particular; she is not beautiful--nor ugly: she is not agreeable--nor disagreeable. She talks very little. I feel absolutely indifferent to her. I should think she would just do for Amaury.

Well!--we were broidering the tunic, Lady Judith doing the gold, and I the red; and Damoiselle Melisende had been with us, working the green leaves, but the Lady Queen sent for her, and she went away. So Lady Judith and I were left alone.

"Holy Mother," said I, "give me leave to ask you a question."

"Surely, my child," said she; "any one thou wilt."

"Then, holy Mother,--do people ever disappoint you? I mean, when you fancy you know a man, does he never surprise you by some action which you think unworthy of him, and which you would not have expected from him?"

Lady Judith's first answer was an amused smile.

"Who has been disappointing thee, Helena?"

"Oh, nobody in particular," said I hastily; for how could I accuse Guy? _Loyaute d'amour_ forbid! "But I mean in general."

"Generals are made of particulars, Helena. But I have not answered thy question. Yes, certainly I have known such a feeling."

"And, if it please you, holy Mother, what is the reason of it?" said I. "Does one set up one's standard of right, truth, and beauty, too high?"

"That is not possible, my child. I should rather think thou hast set up the man too high."

"Oh!" said I deprecatingly.

"Hast thou ever heard a saying, Helena, that 'a man sees only that which he brings eyes to see'? There is much truth in it. No man can understand a character which is higher or broader than his own. Admire it he may; enter into it, he cannot. Human character is a very complicated thing."

"Then one may be too low to see a man's character?"

"True; and one may be too high. A single eye will never understand a double one.--Or they may be too far asunder. A miser and a spendthrift are both in the wrong, but neither of them can feel with the other."

"But where the temperaments are alike--?" said I; for I always think Guy and I were cast in the same mould.

"They never are quite alike," she replied. "As in a shield borne by two brothers, there is always a difference."

"Pray you, holy Mother, do you think my brother Guy and me alike?"

"Alike, yet very different," she said, and smiled. "Cast from one mould,--yet he on the one side of it, and thou on the other."

"What do you think is the difference, holy Mother? May I know?"

"Wouldst thou like to know, Helena?" she said, and smiled again.

"Oh, I think I can bear to hear my faults," said I. "My pride is not of that sort."

"No," she said; "but thou art very proud, little one."

"Certainly," said I; "I am noble."

Lady Judith looked suddenly up at me, with a kind of tender look in her grey eyes, which are so like, and yet so unlike, Lady Sybil's eyes.

"Little maid, tell me one thing; is thine heart at rest?"

"I have never been at rest, holy Mother. I do not know how to get it."

"No, dear heart; thy shoulder is not under the yoke. Listen to the words of the Master--thy Lord and mine. 'Take My yoke upon you, and learn of Me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.' Little maiden, wilt thou not come and learn of Him? He is the only one in Heaven or earth who will never disappoint thee."

Rather bitter tears were filling my eyes.

"I don't know how!" I said.

"No, dear heart; He knows _how_," said Lady Judith. "Only tell Him thou art willing to learn of Him--if thou art willing, Helena."

"I have had some thoughts of going into the cloister," said I. "But--I could not leave Guy."

"Dear child, canst thou not learn the lessons of God, without going into the cloister?"

"I thought not," said I. "One cannot serve the good God, and remain in the world,--can one?"

"Ah, what is the world?" said Lady Judith. "Walls will not shut it out. Its root is in thine own heart, little one."

"But--your pardon, holy Mother!--you yourself have chosen the cloister."

"Nay, my child. I do not say I might not have done so. But, in fact, it was chosen for me. This veil has been upon my head, Helena, since I was five years old."

"Yet you would not deny, holy Mother, that a nun is better than a wife?"[#]

[#] I trust that I shall not be misunderstood, or supposed to express any approbation of conventual life. At the date of this story, an unmarried woman who was not a nun was a phenomenon never seen, and no woman who preferred single life had any choice but to be a nun. In these early times, also, nuns had more liberty, and monasticism, as well as religion in general, was free from some corruptions introduced in later years. The original nunneries were simply houses where single women could live together in comfort and safety, and were always seminaries of learning and charitable institutions. Most of them were very different places at the date of the dissolution.

"Better? I am not so sure. Happier,--yes, I think so."

"Most people would say just the opposite, would they not?" said I, laughing.

"Most men, and some women," she answered, with a smile. "But Monseigneur Saint Paul thought a woman happier who abode without marriage."

"That is what I should like best: but how can I, without being a nun? Perhaps, if I were an eremitess, like your Nobility, I might still get leave from my superiors to live with Guy."

"It is always Guy with thee," remarked Lady Judith, smiling. "Does Guy never disappoint thee, my child?"

It was on my lips to say, "Oh no!"--but I felt my cheeks grow hot, and I did not quite like to tell a downright lie. I am sure Lady Judith saw it, but she kindly took no notice. However, at this point, Damoiselle Melisende came back to her leaves, and we began to talk of something else.

I asked Marguerite, at night, if people disappointed her.

"Did my Damoiselle expect never to be disappointed?" she answered, turning the question on myself at once. (Old people do. They seem to think one always means one's self, however careful one may be.) "Then I am afraid she will be disappointed."

"But why?" said I. "Why don't people do right, as one expects them to do?"

"Does one always know what is right? As to why,--there are the world, the flesh, and the Devil, against it; and if it were not for the grace of the good God, any one of them would be more than enough."

The world, the flesh, and the Devil! The world,--that is other people; and they do provoke one, and make one do wrong, terribly, sometimes. But the flesh,--why, that is me. I don't prevent myself doing right. Marguerite must be mistaken.

Then, what is grace? One hears a great deal about it; but I never properly understood what it was. It certainly is no gift that one can see and handle. I suppose it must be something which the good God puts into our minds; but what is it? I will ask Lady Judith and Marguerite. Being old, they seem to know things; and Marguerite has a great deal of sense for a villein. Then, having been my nurse, and always dwelt with nobles, she is not quite like a common villein; though of course the blood must remain the same.

I wonder what it is about Lady Isabel which I do not like. I have been puzzling over it, and I am no nearer. It feels to me as if there were something slippery about her. She is very gracious and affable, but I should never think of calling her sweet--at least, not sweet like her sister. She seems just the opposite of Lady Judith, who never stops to think whether it is her place to do any thing, but just does it because it wants doing. Lady Isabel, on the contrary, seems to me to do only what _she_ wants doing. In some inexplicable manner, she slides out of every thing which she does not fancy; and yet she so manages it that one never sees she is doing it at the time. I never can fathom people of that sort. But I do not like them.

As for darling Lady Sybil, I love her better and better every day. I do not wonder at Guy.

Of Guy himself I see very little. He is Regent of the kingdom, and too busy to attend to any thing.

"Marguerite," I said, "what is grace?"

"Does my Damoiselle mean the grace of the good God?"

I nodded.

"I think it is help," she answered.

"But what sort of help?"

"The sort we need at the minute."

"But I do not quite understand," said I. "We get grace when we receive the good Lord; but we do not get help. Help for what?"

"If my Damoiselle does not feel that she needs help, perhaps that is the reason why she does not get it."

"Ah, but we do get it in the holy mass. Can we receive our Lord, and not receive grace?"

"Do we always, and all, receive our Lord?"

"Margot! Is not that heresy?"

"Ha! I do not know. If it be truth, it can hardly be."

"But does not holy Church teach, that whenever we eat the holy bread, the presence of our Lord comes down into our hearts?"[#]

[#] Holy Church had gone no further than this in 1183. Bare transubstantiation was not adopted by authority till about thirty years later.

"I suppose He will come, if we want Him," said Marguerite thoughtfully. "But scarcely, I should think, if we ate that bread with our hearts set on something else, and not caring whether He came or not."

I was rather afraid to pursue the question with Margot, for I keep feeling afraid, every now and then, when she says things of that sort, whether she has not received some strange, heretical notion from that man in sackcloth, who preached at the Cross, at Lusignan. I cannot help fancying that he must be one of those heretics who lately crept into England, and King Henry the father had them whipped and turned out of doors, forbidding any man to receive them or give them aid. It was a very bitter winter, and they soon perished of hunger and cold, as I suppose such caitiffs ought. Yet some of them were women; and I could not but feel pity for the poor innocent babes that one or two had in their arms. And the people who saw them said they never spoke a bitter word, but as soon as they understood their penalty, and the punishment that would follow harbouring them, they begged no more, but wandered up and down the snowy streets in company, singing--only fancy, singing! And first one and then another dropped and died, and the rest heaped snow over them with their hands, which was the only burial they could give; and then they went on, singing,--always singing. I asked Damoiselle Elisinde de Ferrers,--it was she who told me,--what they sang. She said they sang always the holy Psalter, or else the Nativity Song of the angels,--"Glory to God in the highest,--on earth peace towards men of good-will."[#] And at last they were all dead under the snow but one,--one poor old man, who survived last. And he went on alone, singing. He tottered out of the town,--I think it was Lincoln, but I am not sure,--and as far as men's ears could follow, they caught his thin, quavering voice, still singing,--"Glory to God in the highest!" And the next morning, they found him laid in a ditch, not singing,--dead. But on his face was such a smile as a saint might have worn at his martyrdom, and his eyes gazing straight up into heaven, as if the angels themselves had come down to help him to finish his song.[#]

[#] Vulgate version.

[#] This is the first persecution on record in England of professing Christians, by professing Christians.

Oh, I cannot understand! If this is heresy and wickedness, wherein lies the difference from truth and holiness?

I must ask Lady Judith.

Oh dear, why _will_ people?--I do think it is too bad. I never thought of such a thing. If it had been Amaury, now,--But that Guy, of all people in all this world--

Come, I had better tell my story straight.

I was coming down the long gallery after dinner, to the bower of the Lady Queen, where I meant to go on with my embroidery, and I thought I might perhaps get a quiet talk with Lady Judith. All at once I felt myself pulled back by one of my sleeves, and I guessed directly who had caught me.

"Why, Guyon! I have not seen thee for an age!"

"And I want to see thee for a small age," answered he, laughing. "How many weddings are there to be next week, Lynette?"

"Why, three," said I. "Thou wist as well as I."

"What wouldst thou say to four?"

"Wish them good fortune, so I am not the bride."

"Ah, but suppose thou wert?"

"Cry my eyes out, I think."

Hitherto Guy had spoken as if he were jesting. Now he changed his tone.

"Seriously, Elaine, I am thinking of it. Thou knowest thou camest hither for that object."

"_I_ came hither for that!" cried I in hot indignation.

"Thou wert sent hither, then," answered Guy, half laughing at my tone. "Do not be so hot, little one. Monseigneur expects it, I can assure thee."

"Art thou going to wed me against my will? O Guy! I never thought it of thee!" exclaimed I pitifully.

For that was the bitterest drop--that Guy should be willing to part with me.

"No, no, my darling Lynette!" said Guy, taking my hands in his. "Thou shalt not be wed against thy will, I do assure thee. If thou dost not like the knight I had chosen, I will never force him upon thee. But it would be an excellent match,--and of course I should be glad to see thee comfortably settled. Thou mightest guess that."

Might I! That is just what I never should have guessed. Do men ever understand women?

"'Settled,' Guy!" I said. "What dost thou mean by 'settled'? What is there about me that is unsettled?"

"Now, that is one of thy queer notions," answered Guy. "Of course, no woman is considered settled till she marries."

"I should think it was just the most unsettling thing in the world," said I.

"Lynette, thou wert born in the wrong age!" said Guy. "I do not know in what age thou wert born, but certainly not this."

"And thou wouldst be glad to lose me, Guy!"

"Nay, not glad to lose thee, little one"--I think Guy saw that had hurt me--"but glad for thine own sake. Why, Lynette, crying? For what, dear foolish child?"

I could hardly have told him. Only the world had gone dark and dreary. I know he never meant to be unkind. Oh no! I suppose people don't, generally. They do not find out that they have hurt you, unless you scream. Nor perhaps then, if they are making a noise themselves.

"My dear little sister," said Guy again,--and very lovingly he said it,--"why are all these tears? No man shall marry thee without thy leave. I am surprised. I thought women were always ready to be married."

Ah, that was it. He did not understand!

"And thou art not even curious to hear whom it should have been?"

"What would that matter?" said I, trying to crush back a few more hundreds of tears which would have liked to come. "But tell me if thou wilt."

"Messire Tristan de Montluc," he said.

It flashed on me all at once that Messire Tristan had tried to take the bridle of my horse,[#] when we came from the Church of the Nativity. I might have guessed what was coming.

[#] Then a tacit declaration of love to a lady.

"Does that make any difference?" asked Guy, smiling.

"No," said I; "none."

"And the poor fellow is to break his heart?"

"I dare say it will piece again," said I.

Guy laughed, and patted me on the shoulder.

"Come, dry all those tears; there is nothing to cry about. Farewell!"

And away he went, whistling a troubadour song.

Nothing to cry about! Yes, that was all he knew.

I went to my own chamber, sent Bertrade out of it, and finished my cry. Then I washed my face, and when I thought all traces were gone, I went down to my embroidery.

Lady Judith was alone in the bower. She looked up with her usual kind smile as I took the seat opposite. But the smile gave way in an instant to a graver look. Ah! she saw all was not right.

I was silent, and went on working. But in a minute, without any warning, Lady Judith was softly singing. The words struck me.

"'Art thou weary, art thou languid,
Art thou sore distressed?
'Come to Me,' saith One, 'and, coming,
Be at rest.'

"'Hath He marks to lead me to Him,
If He be my Guide?'
'In His feet and hands are wound-prints,
And His side.'

"'Is there diadem, as monarch,
That His brow adorns?'
'Yea, a crown, in very surety,
But of thorns.'

"If I find Him, if I follow,
What His guerdon here?'
'Many a sorrow, many a labour,
Many a tear.'

"'If I still hold closely to Him,
What hath He at last?'
'Sorrow vanquished, labour ended,
Jordan past.'

"'If I ask Him to receive me,
Will He say me nay?'
'Not till earth, and not till heaven,
Pass away.'"

"Oh! Your pardon, holy Mother, for interrupting you," said Damoiselle Melisende, coming in some haste; "but the Lady Queen sent me to ask when the Lady Sybil's tunic will be finished."

Her leaves are finished, but not my roses, nor Lady Judith's gold diapering. I felt much obliged to her, for something in the hymn had so touched me that the tears were very near my eyes again. Lady Judith answered that she thought it would be done to-morrow; and Melisende ran off again.

"Hast thou heard that hymn before, Helena?" said Lady Judith, busy with the diaper.

"Never, holy Mother," said I, as well as I could.

"Did it please thee now?"

"It brought the tears into my eyes," said I, not sorry for the excuse.

"They had not far to come, had they, little one?"

I looked up, and met her soft grey eyes. And--it was very silly of me, but--I burst into tears once more.

"It is always best to have a fit of weeping out," said she. "Thou wilt feel better for it, my child."

"But I had--had it out--once," sobbed I.

"Ah, not quite," answered Lady Judith. "There was more to come, little one."

"It seems so foolish," I said, wiping my eyes at last. "I do not exactly know why I was crying."

"Those tears are often bitter ones," said Lady Judith. "For sometimes it means that we dare not look and see why."

I thought that was rather my position. For indeed the bitter ingredient in my pain at that moment was one which I did not like to put into words, even to myself.

It was not that Guy did not love me. Oh no! I knew he did. It was not even that I did not stand first in his love. I was ready to yield that place to Lady Sybil. Perhaps I should not have been quite so ready had it been to any one else. But--there was the sting--he did not love me as I loved him. He could do without me.

And I could have no comfort from sympathy. Because, in the first place, the only person whose sympathy would have been a comfort to me was the very one who had distressed me; and in the second place, I had a vague idea underlying my grief that I had no business to feel any; that every body (if they knew) would tell me I was exceedingly silly--that it was only what I ought to have expected--and all sorts of uncomfortable consolations of that kind. Was I a foolish baby, crying for the moon?--or was I a grand heroine of romance, whose feelings were so exquisitely delicate and sensitive that the common clay of which other people were made could not be expected to understand me? I could not tell.

Oh, why must we come out of that sweet old world where we walked hand in hand, and were all in all to each other? Why must we grow up, and drift asunder, and never be the same to one another any more?

Was I wicked?--or was I only miserable?

About the last item at any rate there was no doubt. I sat, thinking sad thoughts, and trying to see my work through half-dimmed eyes, when Lady Judith spoke again.

"Helena," she said, "grief has two voices; and many only hear the upper and louder one. I shall be sorry to see thee miss that lower, stiller voice, which is by far the more important of the two."

"What do you mean, holy Mother?" I asked.

"Dear heart," she said, "the louder voice, which all must hear, chants in a minor key, 'This world is not your rest.' It is a sad, sad song, more especially to those who have heard little of it before. But many miss the soft, sweet music of the undertone, which is,--'Come unto Me, and I will give you rest.' Yet it is always there--if we will only listen."

"But a thing which is done cannot be undone," said I.

"No," she answered. "It cannot. But can it not be compensated? If thou lose a necklace of gilt copper, and one give thee a gold carcanet instead, hast thou really sustained any loss?"

"Yes!" I answered, almost astonished at my own boldness. "If the copper carcanet were a love-gift from the dead, what gold could make up to me for that?"

"Ah, my child!" she replied, with a quick change in her tone. It was almost as if she had said,--"I did not understand thee to mean _that_!"--"For those losses of the heart there is but one remedy. But there is one."

"Costly and far-fetched, methinks!" said I, sighing.

"Costly, ay, in truth," she replied; "but far-fetched? No. It is close to thee, if thou wilt but stretch forth thine hand and grasp it."

"What, holy Mother?"

Her voice sank to a low and very reverent tone.

"'Nevertheless, not as I will, but as Thou wilt.'"

"I cannot!" I sobbed.

"No, thou couldst not," she said quietly, "until thou lovest the will of Him that died for thee, better than thou lovest the will of Helene de Lusignan."

"O holy Mother!" I cried. "I could not set up my will against the good God!"

"Couldst thou not?" was all she said.

"Have I done that?" I faltered.

"Ask thine own conscience," replied Lady Judith. "Dear child, He loved not His will when He came down from Heaven, to do the will of God His Father. That will was to save His Church. Little Helena, was it to save thee?"

"How can I know, holy Mother?"

"It is worth knowing," she said.

"Yes, it is worth knowing," said I, "but how can we know?"

"What wouldst thou give to know it? Not that it can be bought: but what is it worth in thine eyes?"

I thought, and thought, but I could not tell wherewith to measure any thing so intangible.

"Wouldst thou give up having thine own will for one year?" she asked.

"I know not what might happen in it," said I, with a rather frightened feeling.

Why, I might marry, or be ill, or die. Or Guy might give over loving me altogether, in that year. Oh, I could not, could not will that! And a year is such a long, long time. No, I could not--for such a time as that--let myself slip into nothing, as it were.

"Helena," she said, "suppose, at this moment, God were to send an angel down to thee from Heaven. Suppose he brought to thee a message from God Himself, that if thou wouldst be content to leave all things to His ordering for one year, and to have no will at all in the matter, He would see that nothing was done which should really harm thee in the least. What wouldst thou say?"

"Oh, then I should dare to leave it!" said I.

"My child, if thou art of His redeemed, He has said it--not for one short year, but for all thy life. _If_, Helena!"

"Ah,--if!" I said with a sigh.

Lady Judith wrought at her gold diapering, and I at my roses, and we were both silent for a season. Then the Lady Queen and the Lady Isabel came in, and there was no further opportunity for quiet conversation.

*CHAPTER VII.*

_*A LITTLE CLOUD OUT OF THE SEA*_*.*

"Coming events cast their shadows before."
--CAMPBELL.

It is Monday night, and I am,--Oh, so tired!

The three grand weddings are over. Very beautiful sights they were; and very pleasant the feasts and the dances; but all is done now, and if Messire Renaud feels any doubt to-night about his body being himself, I have none about mine.

Eschine made a capital bride, in the sense in which a man would use the words. That is, she looked very nice, and she stood like a statue. I do not believe she had an idea in her head beyond these: that she was going to be married, that it was a very delightful thing, and that she must look well and behave becomingly.

Is that the sort of woman that men like? It is the sort that some men seem to think all women are.

But Amaury! If ever I did see a creature more absurd than he, I do not know who it was. He fidgetted over Eschine's bridal dress precisely as if he had been her milliner. At the very last minute, the garland had to be altered because it did not suit him.

Most charming of all the weddings was Guy's. Dear Lady Sybil was so beautiful, and behaved so perfectly, as I should judge of a bride's behaviour,--a little soft moisture dimming her dark eyes, and a little gentle tremulousness in her sweet lips. Her dress was simply enchanting,--soft and white.

Perhaps Lady Isabel made the most splendid-looking bride of the three; for her dress was gorgeous, and while Lady Sybil's style of beauty is by far the more artistic and poetical, Lady Isabel's is certainly the more showy.

So far as I could judge, the three brides regarded their bridegrooms with very different eyes. To Eschine, he was an accident of the rite; a portion of the ceremony which it would spoil the show to leave out. To Lady Isabel, he was a new horse, just mounted, interesting to try, and a pleasant triumph to subdue. But to Lady Sybil, he was the sun and centre of all, and every thing deserved attention just in proportion as it concerned him.

I almost hope that Eschine does not love Amaury, for I feel sure she will be very unhappy if she do. As to Messire Homfroy de Tours, I do not think Lady Isabel will find him a pleasant charger. He is any thing but spirited, and seems to me to have a little of the mule about him--a creature who would be given at times to taking the bit in his teeth, and absolutely refusing to go a yard further.

And now it is all over,--the pageants, and the feasts, and the dancing. And I cannot tell why I am sad.

How is it, or why is it, that after one has enjoyed any thing very much, one always does feel sad?

I think, except to the bride and bridegroom, a wedding is a very sorrowful thing. I suppose Guy would say that was one of my queer notions. But it looks to me so terribly like a funeral. There is a bustle, and a show; and then you wake up, and miss one out of your life. It is true, the one can come back still: but does he come back to be yours any more? I think the instances must be very, very few in which it is so, and only where both are, to you, very near and dear.

I think Marguerite saw I looked tired and sad.

"There have been light hearts to-day," she said; "and there have been heavy ones. But the light of to-day may be the heavy of to-morrow; and the sorrow of to-night may turn to joy in the morning."

"I do feel sorrowful, Margot; but I do not know why."

"My Damoiselle is weary. And all great joy brings a dull, tired feeling after it. I suppose it is the infirmity of earth. The angels do not feel so."

"I should like to be an angel," said I. "It must be so nice to fly!"

"And I," said Marguerite; "but not for that reason. I should like to have no sin, and to see the good God."

"Oh dear!" said I. "That is just what I should not like. In the sense of never doing wrong, it might be all very well: but I should not want never to have any amusement, which I suppose thou meanest: and seeing the good God would frighten me dreadfully."

"Does my Damoiselle remember the time when little Jacquot, Bertrade's brother, set fire to the hay-rick by playing with lighted straws?"

"Oh yes, very well. Why, what has that to do with it?"

"Does she recollect how he shrieked and struggled, when Robert and Pierre took him and carried him into the hall, for Monseigneur himself to judge him for his naughtiness?"

"Oh yes, Margot. I really felt sorry for the child, he was so terrified; and yet it was half ludicrous--Monseigneur did not even have him whipped."

"Yet, if I remember rightly, my Damoiselle was standing by Monseigneur's side at the very time; and she did not look frightened in the least. Will she allow her servant to ask why?"

"Why should I, Margot? I had done nothing wrong."

"And why is my Damoiselle more like Jacquot than herself, when she comes to think of seeing the good God?"

"Ah!--thou wouldst like me to say, Because I have done wrong, I suppose."

"Yes; but I think there was another reason as well."

"What was that, Margot?"

"My Damoiselle is Monseigneur's own child. She knows him. He loves her, and she knows it."

"But we are all children of the good God, Margot."

"Will my Damoiselle pardon me? We are all His creatures: not all His children. Oh no, no!"

"O Margot!" said I suddenly, "didst thou note that tall, dark, handsome knight, who stood on Count Guy's left hand,--Count Raymond of Tripoli?"

"He in the mantle lined with black sable, and gold-barred scarlet hose?"

"That is the man I mean."

"I saw him. Why, if it please my Damoiselle?"

"Didst thou like him?"

"My Damoiselle did not like him?"

Marguerite is very fond of answering one question by another.

"I did not; and I could not tell why."

"Nor I. But I could."

"Then tell me, Margot."

"My Damoiselle, every man has a mark upon his brow which the good God and His angels can see. But few men see it, and in some it is not easy to see. Many foreheads look blank to our eyes. But sooner or later, one of the two marks is certain to shine forth--either the holy cross of our Lord, or the badge of the great enemy, the star that fell from heaven. And what I saw on that man's lofty brow was not the cross of Christ, but the star of Satan."

"Margot, thy queer fancies!" said I, laughing. "Now tell me, prithee, on whose forehead, in this house, thou seest the cross."

"The Lady Judith," she answered without the least hesitation; "and I think, the Lady Sybil. Let my Damoiselle pardon me if I cannot name any other, with certainty. I have weak eyes for such sights. I have hope of Monseigneur Count Guy."

"Margot, Margot!" cried I. "Thou uncharitable old creature, only three! What, not the Lady Queen, nor the Lady Isabel, nor the holy Patriarch! Oh, fie!"

"Let my Damoiselle pardon her servant. The Lady Queen,--ah, I have no right to say. She looks blank, to me. The cross may be there, and I may be blind. But the Patriarch--no! and the Lady Isabel--the good God forgive me if I sin, but I believe I see the star on her."

"And on me?" said I, laughing to hide a curious sensation which I felt, much akin to mortification. Yet what did old Marguerite's foolish fancies matter?

I was surprised to see her worn old eyes suddenly fill with tears.

"My sweet Damoiselle!" she said. "The good God bring out the holy cross on the brow that I love so well! But as yet,--if I speak at all, I must speak truth--I have not seen it there."

I could not make out why I did not like the Count of Tripoli. He is a very handsome man,--even my partial eyes must admit, handsomer than Guy. But there is a strange look in his eyes, as if you only saw the lid of a coffer, and beneath, inside the coffer, there might be something dark and dangerous. Guy says he is a splendid fellow; but Guy always was given to making sudden friendships, and to imagining all his friends to be angels until he discovered they were men. I very much doubt the angelic nature of Count Raymond. I do not like him.

But what a queer fancy this is of old Marguerite's--that Satan puts marks on some people! Yet I cannot help wishing she had not said that about me. And I do not think it was very respectful. She might have said something more civil, whatever she thought. Marguerite always will speak just as she thinks. That is like a villein. It would never do for us nobles.

Guy has now been Regent of the Holy Land for half a year. Some people seem to fancy that he is rather too stern. Such a comical idea!--and of Guy, of all people. I think I know how it is. Guy is very impulsive in enterprise, and very impetuous in pursuing it. And he sees that during the King's illness every thing has gone wrong, and fallen into disorder; and of course it will not do to let things go on so. People must be governed and kept in their places. Of course they must. Why, if there were no order kept, the nobles and the villeins would be all mixed up with each other, and some of the more intelligent and ambitious of the villeins might even begin to fancy themselves on a par with the nobles. For there is a sort of intelligence in some of those people, though it must be of quite a different order from the intellect of the nobles. I used to think villeins never were ambitious. But I have learned lately that some of them do entertain some such feeling. It must be a most dangerous idea to get into a villein's head!--though of course, right and proper enough for a noble. But I cannot imagine why villeins cannot be contented with their place. Did not Providence make them villeins?--and if they have plenty of food, and clothing, and shelter, and fire, and a good dance now and then on the village green, and an extra holiday when the Seigneur's daughter is married, or when his son comes of age,--what can they possibly want more?

I said so to Marguerite.

"Ah, that is all the nobles know!" she answered, quietly enough, but with some fire in the old eyes. "They do not realise that we are men, just as they are. God sent us into His world, with just as much, body and soul, as He did them. We have intellects, and hearts, and consciences, just like them. ('Just like'--only fancy!) I trust the good God may not have to teach it them through pain."

"But they ought to be satisfied," said I. "I am perfectly content with my place in the world. Why are they not contented?"

"It is easier to be content with velvet than duffle," said Marguerite more calmly. "It looks better, and feels softer, too. If my Damoiselle were to try the duffle for a day, perhaps she would complain that it felt harsh."

"To me, very likely," said I. "But a villein would not have a fine skin like mine."

"The finest skin does not always cover the finest feelings," said Marguerite in her dry way.

What a very silly idea! Of course those people cannot have such feelings as I have. It would be quite absurd to think so.

I do think, however, that what vexed me most of any thing, was that Amaury--that silly little boy!--should take it into his head to lecture Guy on the way he chose to govern. As if he could know anything about it! Why, he is two whole years younger than Guy. I told him so, feeling really vexed at his impudence; and what should he say but that I was seven years younger than he. I know that, but I am a woman; and women have always more sense than men. At least, I have more sense than Amaury. I should be an idiot if I had not.

I have made a discovery to-day which has astonished me. Lady Judith has a whole Bible, and Psalter too, of her own, not written in Latin, but in her own tongue in which she was born,--that is, Greek. And she says that a great part of the Bible--all the holy Evangels, and the writings of Messeigneurs the holy Apostles--were originally written in Greek. I always thought that holy Scripture had been written in Latin. I asked her if Latin were not the language the holy angels spoke, and our Lord, when He was upon earth. She answered, that she did not think we knew what language the holy angels spoke, and she should doubt if it were any tongue spoken on earth: but that the good God, and Messeigneurs the holy Apostles, she had no doubt at all, spoke Greek. It sounds very strange.

Lady Isabel has had a violent quarrel with her lord, and goes about with set lips and her head erect, as if she were angry with every one.

I almost think Eschine improves upon acquaintance. Not that I find her any cleverer than I expected, but I think she is good-natured, and seems to have no malice in her. If Amaury storms--as he does sometimes--she just lets the whirlwind blow over her, and never gives him a cross word. I could not do that. I suppose that is why I admire it in Eschine.

A young nun came this morning to visit Lady Judith--one of her own Order. I could not quite understand their conversation. Sister Eudoxia--for that is her name--struck me as being the holiest religious person I have ever seen. She spoke so beautifully, I thought, about the perfection one could attain to in this life: how one's whole heart and soul might be so permeated with God, that one might pass through life without committing any deed of sin, or thinking any evil thought. Not, of course, that I could ever attain to such perfection But it sounded very beautiful and holy.

I was quite surprised to see how constrained, and even cool, Lady Judith was. It was only yesterday that she assented warmly to old Marguerite's saying that no one who served God could love any kind of sin. But with Sister Eudoxia--who spoke so much more charmingly on the same subject--she sat almost silent, and when she did speak, it seemed to be rather in dissent than assent. It puzzled me.

When Sister Eudoxia was gone, Lady Sybil said--

"Oh, what happiness, if one could attain to the perfection of living absolutely without sin!"

"We shall," answered Lady Judith. "But it will not be in this world."

"But Sister Eudoxia says it might be."

"Ah, my poor Sister Eudoxia!" said Lady Judith sadly. "She has taken up with a heresy nearly as old as Christianity itself, and worse than than that of Messire Renaud de Montluc, because it has so much more truth in it. Ay, so much mixture of truth, and so much apparent loveliness, that it can be no wonder if it almost deceive the very elect. Beware of being entangled in it, my children."

"Heresy, holy Mother!" cried Lady Sybil, with a shocked look. "I thought I had never heard any one ascribe more of the glory of our salvation to God than she did. For she said that every thing was done for us by the good Lord, and that even our perfection was wrought by Him for us."

"And not by Him in us," said Lady Judith. "The very point of the heresy, my child. Eudoxia sees no distinction between the righteousness done for us, which is our ground of justification before God, and the holiness wrought in us, which is our conformity to His image. The first was finished on the rood, eleven centuries ago: the second goes on in the heart of every child of God, here and now. She is one of those who, without intending it, or even knowing that they do it, do yet sadly fail to realise the work of the Holy Ghost.

"But how much she spoke of the blessed Spirit!" objected Lady Sybil.

"My daughter," said Lady Judith, with a smile, "hast thou not yet found out the difference between names and things? There are many men who worship God most devoutly, but it is a God they have made to themselves. Every man on earth is ready to love and serve God with his whole heart,--if he may set up God after his own pattern. And what that really means is, a God as like as possible to himself: who will look with perfect complacency on the darling sins which he cherishes, and may then be allowed to condemn with the utmost sternness all evil passions to which he is not addicted."

"That sounds _very_ shocking, holy Mother!" said Lady Sybil.