Chapter I: Guy Takes the Cross (6)

"I believe we all trust in something, if my Damoiselle pleases. A great many trust in themselves; and a great many more trust in circumstances,--fate, or chance, or luck,--as they call it. Some few trust in other human creatures; and their waking is often the saddest of all. But it seems as if the one thing we found it hardest to do was to trust the good God. He has to drive us away, often, from every other trust, before we will learn to trust Him. Oh, how we must grieve His heart, when He has done so much for us, and yet we _will not_ trust Him!"

I wonder what she means. I feel as if I should like to know, and could not tell how to begin.

The Lady Queen is gone back to her people. And I am so glad--Lady Judith is not gone with her. I was sadly afraid she would do. But Melisende is gone, and Messire Renaud de Montluc, for whom the Lady Queen trusts to obtain some high position at the Court of the Byzantine Caesar.

I am not at all sorry that Messire Renaud is gone. He made me feel uncomfortable whenever I looked at him. I cannot well express my feeling in words; but he gave me a sensation as if nothing stood on any thing, and every thing was misty and uncertain. I fancy some people like that sort of feeling. I detest it. I like figures (though Amaury says it is a very unladylike taste) because they are so definite and certain. Two and two make four; and they will make four, do what you please with them. No twisting and turning will persuade them to be either three or five. Now I like that--far better than some arts, more interesting in themselves, such as music, painting, or embroidery, of which people say, "Yes, it is very fair,--very good,--but of course it might be better." I like a thing that could not be better. Guy says that is very short-sighted, and argues a want of ambition in me. I do not quite see that. If a thing be the best it can possibly be, why should I want it to be better?

"Oh, but one wants an aim," says Guy; "one must have a mark to shoot at. If I were besieging a castle, and knew beforehand that I could not possibly take it, it would deprive me of all energy and object. There is nothing so devoid of interest as doing something which leads to nothing, and is worth nothing when done."

"Well," I say then, "I think if sieges and wars were done away with, it would be no bad thing. Just think what misery they cause."

But such an outcry comes upon me then! Amaury informs me that he is incomparably astonished at me. Is not war the grandest of all employments? What on earth could the nobles do, if there were no wars? Would I have them till the earth like peasants, or read and write like monks, or sew and dress wounds like women?

And Guy says, good-naturedly,--"Oh, one of Elaine's curious notions. She never thinks like other people."

"But think," I say, "of the suffering which comes from war--the bereft widows and fatherless children, and human pain and sorrow. Does a woman weeping over her husband's corpse think war grand, do you suppose?"

"Stuff!" says Amaury. "Can't she get another?"

(Would he say, if Eschine were to die,--"Never mind, I can get another"? Well, I should not much wonder if he would!)

Once, after a rather keen contest of this sort, I asked old Marguerite if she liked war. I saw her eyes kindle.

"Damoiselle," she said, "my husband followed his Seigneur to the war, and left me ill at home in my cot. He had no power to choose, as my Damoiselle must know. The night fell, and the Seigneur came home with banners flying, and along the village street there were bonfires and rejoicings for a great victory. But my husband did not come. I rose from my sick-bed, and wrapped myself in a sheepskin, and went out to the fatal field. Like a candle in the sunlight, the pain of the heart put out the pain of the body. What I saw that night my Damoiselle will not ask. It were not meet to rehearse in the ears of a young noble lady. I do not know how I bore it, only that I did bear--going from one to another in the moonlight, and turning my lantern on the dead still faces, ever looking for that face which I feared to find. And at last I found him, my Piers, the one love of my young life,--where the fight had been the most terrible, and the dead lay thickest. I knew that he had acquitted himself right well, for his face was to the foe, and the broken shaft of his Seigneur's pennon was still grasped tightly in his hand. Damoiselle, there was no funeral pageant, no table tomb, no herald's cry for him. Strangers' hands buried him where he lay, as they might have buried the Seigneur's horse, if need were. And there were no white weeds and seclusion for me, his young widow, who knelt by my baby's cradle, too miserable for tears. But may be, in those halls where all souls are alike before the King of Kings, the Voice from the Throne said to him, 'Well done!' And the Voice did verily say to me, 'Fear not! Come unto Me, and I will give thee rest.'--Ah, my Damoiselle knows now what her old nurse thinks of war."

Oh, why must there be such things?

"How else could a knight win his spurs?" indignantly demands Amaury.

But surely, the winning of Amaury's spurs is not the only thing of any consequence in the world. Does the good God Himself take no account of widows' tears and orphans' wails, if only the knights win their spurs? Could not some other way be contrived for the spurs, which would leave people alive when it was finished?

"Now, Elaine, don't be such a simpleton!" says Amaury.

So at last, as nobody else (except Marguerite, who is nobody) seems to understand me, I ask Lady Judith what she thinks.

"My child," she says, "'He maketh wars to cease unto the ends of the earth; He breaketh the bow, and snappeth the spear in sunder, and burneth the chariot in the fire.' 'The Father of the age to come, the Prince of Peace!' It is one of His fairest titles. But not till He comes, Helena. Till then, earth will be red with the blood of her sons, and moistened with the tears of her daughters. Let us pray for His coming."

"But holy Mother, that is ages off!" said I.

"Is it?" she made answer. "Has the Lord told thee so much, Helena? Ah! it may be--I know not, but I see nothing else to keep Him--it may be, that if all the earth would come to Him to-day, He would come to us to-morrow."

"Holy Mother, I do not know what you mean by 'coming' to Him!"

"Dear Helena," she said gently, "thou wilt not know, till thou art ready to come."

"But I do not understand that," said I. "How am I to get ready?"

"'If any man thirst, let him come unto Me, and drink.' 'If thou knewest the gift of God, thou wouldst have asked of Him, and He would have given to thee water of life.' Art thou not athirst? and dost thou not know the gift of God, dear maiden? Then ask Him to bestow on thee the thirst, and the knowledge."

I really do not know whether it was right or wrong, but that night, after I had finished my Credo, and Paters, and the holy Angelical Salutation, I ventured to say, in my own words,--"Fair Father, Jesu Christ, give me what Lady Judith and Marguerite talk about." I hope it was not very wicked. I did so tremble! And I do not properly know what this thing is, only that it seems to make them happy; and why should I not be happy too? I suppose the good God will know all about it. And as He appears to be so condescending as to listen to Marguerite, who is but a villein, surely He will hear me, who am noble.

It is so odd that Amaury, who is such a simpleton himself, should be perpetually calling me a simpleton. I do think, the more foolish people are, the more fond they are of exhorting others not to be silly. It is very funny. But this world is a queer place.

"It is, indeed, Lynette," says Guy, with mock gravity, when I make the remark to him. "The queerest place I have been in these thirty years."

As Guy is scarcely twenty-seven, it may be supposed I cannot help laughing.

But there is another queer thing. It does really seem as if villeins--at least some villeins--had genuine feelings, just like us nobles. I have always thought that it was because Marguerite had associated so much with nobles, that she seemed a little different--just as you might impart the rose-scent to a handkerchief, if you shut it in a drawer with rose-leaves. But I know she did not become my mother's nurse until after her husband was dead: so she must have had feelings before that, while she was no better off than any other villein. It is very incomprehensible. And I suppose, too, when one comes to think about it, we are all children of Adam and Eva. How did the difference come, to begin with?

It is very difficult to tell how things began. It is a great deal easier to see how they end. Who would suppose, if men had never found out, that the great river Danube, which rolls into the Black Sea, almost like a sea itself in volume, came from the meltings of the ice and snow upon the hills of Switzerland?

"Ha!" says Marguerite, when I repeat my thoughts to her, "the great God is so rich that He can bring the large things out of the small. We others, we can only bring the small out of the large."

"That sounds like spoiling things," said I.

"Men are very apt to spoil what they touch," she answered. "The good Lord never touches anything that He does not leave more beautiful. Has He not blessed childhood and manhood, by becoming Child and Man? Is not the earth fairer since He dwelt on it? and the little children dearer, since He took them in His arms and blessed them? Ah, He might have cared for me, and felt with me, just as much, if He had never been a Man: but it would not have been the same thing to me. And He knew it. When we love one very much, Damoiselle, we love what he has touched: and if he touch us, ourselves, it sends a delicious thrill through us. The good Lord knew that when He took on Him our nature, with all its sufferings and infirmities,--when He touched us every where--in sorrow, and weariness, and poverty, and hunger, and pain, and death. We can suffer nothing which He has not suffered first,--on which He has not laid His hand, and blessed it for His chosen. Thanks be to His Name! It is like honey sweetening everything. And the things that are bitter and acid want the most sweetening. So the good Lord chose poverty and pain. Ease and riches are sweet of themselves. I have heard Father Eudes read of one or two feasts where He was: He blessed joy as well as sorrow,--perhaps lest we should fancy that there was something holy in pain and poverty in themselves, and something wicked in being comfortable and happy. Some people do think so, after all. But I have heard Father Eudes read a great deal more of funerals than feasts, where the blessed Lord was. He seemed to go where people wanted comforting, much oftener than where they were comfortable. He knew that many more would sorrow than rejoice."

What strange eyes Marguerite has! She can look at nothing, but she sees the good God. And the strangest thing is, that it seems to make her happy. It always makes me miserable. To think of God, when I am bright and joyous, is like dropping a black curtain over the brightness. Why cannot I be like Marguerite? I ought to be a great deal happier than she. There is something wrong, somewhere.

Then of course there must be something holy in poverty--voluntary poverty, that is--or why do monks and nuns take the vow of poverty? I suppose there is nothing holy in simply being poor, like a villein. And if our Lord really were poor, when He was on earth, that must have been voluntary poverty. I said as much to Margot.

"Damoiselle," said she, "every man who follows our Lord must carry his cross. His own cross,--not somebody else's. And that means, I think, the cross which the good God lays on His shoulders. The blessed Christ Himself did not cut His own cross. But we others, we are very fond of cutting our crosses for ourselves, instead of leaving the good God to lay them on us. And we always cut them of the wrong wood. We like them very light and pretty, with plenty of carving and gilding. But when the good Lord makes the crosses, He puts no carving on them; and He often hews out very rough and heavy ones. At least, He does so for the strong. He makes them light, sometimes, for the weak; but there is no gilding--only the pure gold of His own smile, and that is not in the cross itself, but in the sunlight which He sends upon it. But my Damoiselle will find, when men sort out the crosses, the strong walk away with the light ones, and the rough and heavy fall to the weak. The good Lord knows better than that."

"But we don't all carry crosses, Margot," said I; "only religious persons."

Marguerite shook her head decidedly.

"Damoiselle, all that learn of the good Lord must bear the cross. He said so. 'If any man serve Me, let him follow Me'--and again, 'If any man will come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow Me.' Father Eudes read them both. My Damoiselle sees--'_any_ man.' That must mean all men."

Well, I cannot understand it I only feel more puzzled than ever. I am sure it would not make me happier to carry a heavy cross. Yet Lady Judith and Marguerite are happy; I can see they are. Religion and good people seem to be full of contradictions. How is one to understand them?

*CHAPTER X.*

_*PREPARING FOR THE STRUGGLE*_*.*

"He that hath a thousand friends hath not a friend to spare,
And he that hath one enemy shall find him every where."

I have thought, and thought, about Lady Judith's question concerning perfection, and, as I expected, I cannot see my way through it at all. And what is more, I do not see how to reconcile it with what she said herself of Sister Eudoxia. So this morning I took the liberty of asking her what she meant.

Lady Judith smiled, and replied, "Wert thou puzzled, Helena?"

"Yes, holy Mother," said I, "very much."

"I am glad of it," she answered. "I wanted to puzzle thee, and make thee think."

"I have been thinking a great deal," I said, "but I cannot think my way out of the labyrinth."

"We must take counsel of Holy Writ to find our way out," answered Lady Judith; and she laid her hand on her Greek Bible, which is a very handsome book, bound in carved wood, and locked with a golden clasp. She unlocked it with the little key which hangs from her girdle, and said, "Now listen, Helena. In the days when our Lord dwelt on middle earth, there were certain men amongst the Jews, called Pharisees, who were deemed exceedingly holy persons. So exact were they in the fulfilment of all duties, that they did not reckon their tithes paid, unless they taxed the very pot-herbs in their gardens. Yet our Lord said to His disciples,--'If your righteousness surpass not that of the Pharisees, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of Heaven.'"

"Likely enough," said I. "Surely any christened man could easily be better than heathen Jews."

"But He said more, Helena. 'Be ye then perfect, even as your Father, He in the heavens, is perfect.'"

"Perfect as the good God is perfect!" I exclaimed.

"That is our standard," she responded. "We are not to rest short of that."

"But we cannot! You yourself said it, holy Mother, when we were talking of Sister Eudoxia."

"I did, my child. Let us take two more passages from Holy Writ, and see if they cast any light upon it. 'The end of the law is Christ, unto righteousness, to every believer.' 'And ye are in Him complete.'"

"I do not understand them, holy Mother."

"I have heard thee speak, Helena, of thy favourite legend of the two good knights of Greece. What was it that Sir Pythias agreed to do for Sir Damon?"

"To suffer death in his stead, if he did not return home at the appointed time."

"Suppose that Sir Pythias had suffered death before Sir Damon's return, and that when Sir Damon came back, the Lord King had put him to death also: what wouldst thou call that?"

"Oh, that would never have been just!" said I.

"But why? Sir Damon had been sentenced to die."

"Yes, but when another had died for him--Oh, it would be cruelly unfair!"

"In other words, Sir Damon would be reckoned to have died, so far as the law was concerned, in the person of his friend?"

"Exactly," said I.

"And this friend, remember, had voluntarily given his life. Now, this is the point to which I want to bring thee. The death of Sir Pythias would have been reckoned to Sir Damon; and this last would have been accounted to have paid the full penalty to which he was sentenced, and to be thenceforward a free and blameless man."

"Of course," said I. "There could have been no other result."

"Now, Helena dear, this is what Christ has done for all believers. His death is reckoned to them, and they are thenceforward free and blameless--perfect as He is perfect, 'complete in Him.' Not in themselves, mind: never! In themselves they are sinners to the last hour of life. But in Him, on account of His atoning death and holy obedience, God's holy law reckons them perfect as Himself. So that, in one sense, they are perfect for ever: in another sense, they are utterly imperfect so long as they live. 'For by one offering He hath perfected in perpetuity the hallowed ones.'"

"But, holy Mother," I asked, "what do you mean by 'in Him'?"

"My child," she answered, "I doubt if any but God knows all that is meant by that deep word. And what man knows cannot be told to another,--it can only be felt. But it means light, and life, and joy, Helena: the very light that God is, the life of all the ages, the joy with which no stranger intermeddleth. Only taste it, and see. No draught of sin can be truly sweet to thee again, after one drop of that wine of Heaven."

I am quite delighted to find that Messire Tristan de Montluc, who has exasperated me for nearly two years past by playing the broken-hearted lover, has got his heart mended again. I was beginning to entertain a desperate wish that he would take the cowl, for it made me feel a perfect wretch whenever I looked at him: and yet what could I have said to Guy but what I did? I feel indescribably relieved to hear that he is going after his brother to Byzantium, and intensely delighted to find that he is privately engaged to Melisende de Courtenay. I believe she will make him a good wife (which I never could have done): and it is such a comfort to know that he has given over caring about me.

It does seem not unlikely that we may have war. There are flying rumours of Saladin's drawing nearer. May the good God avert it! I believe Amaury would tell me that I was a simpleton, if he heard me say so.

The holy Patriarch Heraclius, and the Lord Roger, Master of the Temple, have set forth on a pilgrimage to the shrines of the West. They intend to visit Compostella and Canterbury, amongst others.

Count Raymond has been behaving rather better lately--that is, we have not seen quite so much of him.

A letter from Alix came to hand last week; but there is nothing of interest in it, except that every one is well. She says her child begins to walk, and can already prattle fluently: which called forth a growl from Amaury, who wants to know why every body's children thrive but his. It is not true, for little Heloise is really an engaging child, and has excellent health.

"Ah!--but then," says Guy, aside to me, with arched eyebrows, "she is only a girl, poor little good-for-nothing!"

I know Guy does not think so, for he is devoted to his little Agnes; and Heloise is certainly the prettier child. But neither of them is equal to the little King, who is a most beautiful boy, and has the quaintest sayings ever heard from a child.

There, now! Did any body ever see any thing like these men?

Messire Tristan set forth yesterday morning; and what should he say to Guy (who told me, with his eyes full of fun) but--

"Damoiselle Elaine will find out that it does not do to trifle with a man's heart. She will doubtless be angry at my defection; but I have borne long enough with her caprice, and have now transferred my affections to one who can be truer!"

Was ever mortal creature so misrepresented? Why, the man must have thought I did not mean what I said! My caprice, indeed! Trifle with a man's heart! And as if affection could be transferred at will from one person to another!

Guy seemed excessively amused with my exclamations.

"What a conceited set of people you men must be!" said I.

"Well, we are rather a bad set," answered Guy, laughing. "O little Elaine, thou art so funny!"

"Pray, what is there funny about me?" said I. "And please to tell me, Guy, why men always seem to fancy that women do not know their own minds?"

"Well, they don't," said Guy.

"Only the silly ones, who have no minds to know," I replied.

"Just so," answered he. "But those, thou seest, are the generality of women. Rubies are scarce; pebbles are common."

"Only among women?" said I.

"Possibly not," responded Guy, looking very much amused. "Poor De Montluc appears to be a ruby in his own eyes, and I presume he is only a pebble in thine. Let us hope that Damoiselle Melisende will consider him a gem of priceless value."

Well, I am sure I have no objection to that.

But another idea occurs to me, which is by no means so pleasant. Since other people are always misunderstanding me, can it be possible that I am constantly misunderstanding other people? I do think I have misunderstood Eschine, and I am sorry for it. I like her a great deal better now than I ever expected to do, and I almost admire that quiet endurance of hers--partly because I feel Amaury so trying, and partly, I suspect, because I have so little of the quality myself. But is it--can it be--possible that I am misunderstanding Count Raymond?

I do not think so. Why should I think of a beautiful serpent whenever I look at him? Why should I feel a sensation, of which I cannot get rid, as if that dark handsome face of his covered something repugnant and perilous? It is not reason that tells me this: it is something more like instinct. Is it a true warning to beware of the man, or only a foolish, baseless fancy, of which I ought to be ashamed?

And--I cannot tell why--it has lately assumed a more definite and dreadful form. A terror besets me that he has some design on Lady Sybil. He knows that she is the rightful heir of the crown: and that--I do believe, through his machinations--she has been set aside for her own son. If his wife were to die--the holy saints defend it!--I believe him capable of poisoning Guy, in order to marry Sybil, and to make himself King of Jerusalem.

Am I very wicked, that such ideas come into my head? Yet I do not know how to keep them out. I do not invite them, yet they come. And in the Count's manner to Lady Sybil there is a sort of admiring, flattering deference, which I do not like to see,--something quite different from his manner towards her sister. I do not think she is conscious of it, and I fancy Guy sees nothing.

Oh dear, dear! There is something very wrong in this world altogether. And I cannot see how it is to be set right.

I asked Lady Judith this evening if she believed in presentiments.

She answered, "Yes, when they come from God."

"Ah!--but how is one to know?"

"Ask Him to remove the feeling, if it be not true."

I will try the plan. But if it should not answer?

The heats of summer are so great, and the Holy City is considered so very unhealthy, that the Regent proposes to remove the Lord King to the city of Acre, until the hot weather is over. Guy and Lady Sybil are going to stay at Ascalon, a city which is Guy's own, and close to the coast, though not actually a sea-port like Acre. I cannot help being glad to hear that there will be something like a week's journey between Guy and Count Raymond. I may be unjust, but--I do not know. I have offered seven Paters every evening, that the good God might take the thought out of my heart if it be wicked: but it seems to me that it only grows stronger. I told Lady Judith that her plan did not answer; that is, that the presentiment did not go.

"What is this thought which troubles thee, little one?" said she.

"Holy Mother," said I, "do you ever utterly mistrust and feel afraid of some particular person, without precisely having a reason for doing so?"

Lady Judith laid down her work, and looked earnestly at me.

"I generally have a reason, Helena. But I can quite imagine--Who is it, my child? Do not fear my repeating what thou mayest tell me."

"It is the Lord Regent," said I. "I feel afraid of him, as I might of a tamed tiger, lest the subdued nature should break out. I do not believe in his professions of friendship for Guy. And I do not at all like his manner to Lady Sybil."

Lady Judith's eyes were fixed on me.

"I did not know, Helena, how sharp thine eyes were. Thou wert a child when thou camest here; but I see thou art one no longer. So thou hast seen that? I thought I was the only one."

It struck me with a sensation as of sickening fear, to find that my suspicions were shared, and by Lady Judith.

"What is to be done?" I said in a whisper. "Shall I speak to Guy?--or Lady Sybil?"

Lady Judith's uplifted hand said unmistakably, "No!"

"Watch," she said. "Watch and pray, and wait. Oh, no speaking!--at least, not yet."

"But till when?" I asked.

"I should say, till you all return here--unless something happen in the interim. But if thou dost speak, little one--do not be surprised if nobody believe thee. Very impulsive men, like thy brother, rarely indulge suspicion or mistrust: and Sybil is most unsuspicious. They are likely enough to think thee fanciful and unjust."

"It would be too bad!" said I.

"It would be very probable," she responded.

"Holy Mother," said I, "what do you think he aims at doing?"

I wanted to know, yet scarcely dared to ask, if the same dread had occurred to her as to me.

"I think," she said unhesitatingly, "he aims at making himself King, by marriage, either with Sybil or with Isabel."

"But he would have to murder his own wife and the lady's husband!" cried I.

"No need, in the first case. The Lady Countess suffers under some internal and incurable disorder, which must be fatal sooner or later; it is only a question of time. Her physicians think she may live about two years, but not longer. And so long as she lives, thy brother's life is safe."

"But if she were to die--?"

"Then it might be well to warn him. But we know not, Helena, what may happen ere then. The Lord reigneth, my child. It is best to put what we love into His hands, and leave it there."

"But how do I know what He would do with it?" said I, fearfully.

"He knows. And that is enough for one who knows Him."

"It is not enough for me," said I sadly.

"Because thou dost not know Him. Helena, art thou as much afraid of the good God as of the Lord Regent?"

"Not in the same way, of course, holy Mother," I replied; "because I think the Lord Regent a wicked man."

"No, but to the same extent?"

"I don't know. I think so," said I, in a low voice.

"Of Christ that died, and that intercedeth for us? Afraid of Him, Helena?"

"O holy Mother, I don't know!" I said, bursting into tears. "I am afraid it is so. And I cannot help it. I cannot tell how to alter it. I want to be more like you and old Marguerite; but I don't know how to begin."

"Wilt thou not ask the Lord to show thee how to begin?"

"I have done: but He has not done it."

Lady Judith laid her hand on my bowed head, as if to bless me.

"Dear Helena," she said, "do not get the idea into thine head that thou wilt have to persuade God to save thee. He wishes it a great deal more than thou. But He sometimes keeps his penitents waiting in the dark basilica outside, to teach them some lesson which they could not learn if they were admitted at once into the lighted church. Trust Him to let thee in as soon as the right time comes. Only be sure not to get weary of knocking, and go away."

"But what does He want to teach me, holy Mother?"

"I do not know, my child. He knows. He will see to it that thou art taught the right lesson, if only thou wilt have the patience to wait and learn."

"Does God teach every body patience?" said I, sighing.

"Indeed He does: and perhaps there is scarcely a lesson which we are more slow to learn."

"I shall be slow enough to learn that lesson, I am sure!" said I.

Lady Judith smiled.

"Inattentive children are generally those that complain most of the hardness of their tasks," said she.

We were both silent for a while, when Lady Judith said quietly--

"Helena, what is Christ our Lord to thee?"

"I am not sure that I understand you, holy Mother," said I. "Christ our Lord is God."

"Good; but what is He _to thee_?"

I felt puzzled. I did not know that He was any thing more to me than to every body else.

"Dost thou not understand? Then tell me, what is Monseigneur the Count of Ascalon to thee?"

"Guy?" asked I in a little surprise. "He is my own dear brother--the dearest being to me in all the world."

"Then that is something different from what he is to others?"

"Of course!" I said rather indignantly. "Guy could never be to strangers what he is to me! Why, holy Mother, with all deference, you yourself know that. He is not that to you."

"Thou hast spoken the very truth," said she. "But, Helena, that which he is to thee, and not to me,--that dearest in all the world, ay, in all the universe,--my child, Christ is that to me."

I looked at her, and I saw the soft, radiant light in the grey eyes: and I could not understand it. Again that strange, mortified feeling took possession of me. Lady Judith knew something I did not; she had something I had not; and it was something which made her happier than any thing had yet made me. There was a gulf between us; and I was on the rocky, barren side of it, and she on the one waving with corn and verdant with pasture.

It was not at all a pleasant feeling. And I could see no bridge across the gulf.

"You are a religious person, holy Mother," said I. "I suppose that makes the difference."

Yet I did not believe that, though I said so. Old Marguerite was no nun; and she was on the flowery side of that great gulf, as well as Lady Judith. And if Lady Sybil were there also, she was no nun. That was not the difference.

"No, maiden," was Lady Judith's quiet answer. "Nor dost thou think so."

I hung my head, and felt more mortified than ever.

"Dost thou want to know it, Helena?"

"Holy Mother, so much!" I said, bursting into tears. "You and Marguerite seem to me in a safe walled garden, guarded with men and towers; and I am outside in the open champaign, where the wolves are and the robbers, and I do not know how to get in to you. I have been round and round the walls, and I can see no gate."

"Dear child;" said Lady Judith, "Jesus Christ is the gate of the Garden of God. And He is not a God afar off, but close by. Hast thou asked Him, and doth it seem as though He would not hear? Before thou say so much, make very sure that nothing is stopping the way on thy side. There is nothing but love, and wisdom, and faithfulness, on His."

"What can stop the way?" I said.

"Some form of self-love," she replied. "It has as many heads as the hydra. Pride, indolence, covetousness, passion--but above all, unbelief: some sort of indulged sin. Thou must empty thine heart, Helena, if Christ is to come in: or else He will have to empty it for thee. And I advise thee not to wait for that, for the process is very painful. Yet I sometimes fear it will have to be the case with thee."

"Well!" said I, "there is nobody in there but Guy and Lady Sybil, and a few more a good deal nearer the gate. Does our Lord want me to empty my heart of them?"

I thought that, of course, being religious, she would say yes; and then I should respond that I could not do it. But she said--

"Dear, the one whom our Lord wants deposed from the throne of thy heart is Helene de Lusignan."

"What, myself?"

"Thyself," said Lady Judith, in the same quiet way.

I made an excuse to fetch some gold thread, for I did not like that one bit. And when I came back, things were even better than I hoped, for Lady Isabel was in the room; and though Lady Judith will talk of religious matters freely enough when Lady Sybil is present, yet she never does so before her sister.

Lady Judith is entirely mistaken. I am quite sure of that. I don't love me better than any one else! I should think myself perfectly despicable. Amaury does, I believe; but I don't. No, indeed! She is quite mistaken. I scarcely think I shall be quite so glad as I expected that Lady Judith is going to stay in the Holy City. I do like her, but I don't like her to say things of that kind.

"Marguerite," I said, an hour or two later, "dost thou think I love myself?"

"My Damoiselle does not think herself a fool," quietly answered the old woman.

"No, of course not," said I; "I know I have brains. How can I help it? But dost thou think I love myself,--better than I love other people?"

"We all love either ourselves or the good God."

"But we can love both."

Marguerite shook her head. "Ha!--no. That would be serving two masters. And the good God Himself says no one can do that."

I did not like this much better. So, after I finished my beads, I kissed the crucifix, and I said,--"Sir God, show me whether I love myself." Because,--though I do not like it,--yet, perhaps, if I do, it is best to know it.

We reached Ascalon a week ago, making three short days' journey of it, so as not to over-fatigue the little ones. Those of us who have come are Guy and Lady Sybil, myself, Amaury and Eschine, and the little girls, Agnes and Heloise. I brought Marguerite and Bertrade only to wait on me. Lady Isabel prefers to stay at Hebron, which is only one day's journey from the Holy City. She and Messire Homfroy quarrelled violently about it, for he wished to go to Acre, and wanted her to accompany him; but in the end, as usual, she had her own way, and he will go to Acre, and she to Hebron.

The night before we set forth, as I was passing Lady Judith's door, her low voice said--

"Helena, my child, wilt thou come in here? I want a word with thee."

So I went into her cell, which is perfectly plain, having no hangings of any sort, either to the walls or the bed, only a benitier[#] of red pottery, and a bare wooden cross, affixed to the wall. She invited me to sit on her bed, and then she said--

[#] Holy water vessel.

"Helena, unless thou seest some very strong reason, do not speak to the Count touching the Count of Tripoli until we meet again."

"Well, I thought I should not," said I. "But, holy Mother, will you tell me why?"

"We may be mistaken," she answered. "And, if not, I am very doubtful whether it would not do more harm than good. After all, dear maiden, the shortest cut is round by Heaven. Whenever I feel doubtful how far it is wise to speak, I like to lay the matter before the Lord, and ask Him to speak for me, if He sees good. He will make no mistake, as I might: and He can tell secrets without doing harm, as probably I should. It is the safest way, Helena, and the surest."

"I should be afraid!" said I. "But of course, holy Mother, for you"----

"Yes," she said, answering my half-expressed thought. "It is a hard matter to ask a favour of a stranger, especially if he be a king. But where he is thy father----Dost thou understand me, maiden?"

Ay, only too well. Well enough to make me feel sick at heart, as if the gulf between grew wider than ever. Should I never find the bridge across?

We lead such a quiet, peaceful life here! Some time ago, I should have called it dull; but I am tired of pageants, and skirmishes, and quarrels, and so it is rather a relief--for a little while. Lady Sybil, I can see, enjoys it: she likes quiet. Amaury fumes and frets. I believe Eschine likes it, but won't say so, because she knows Amaury does not. I never saw the equal of Eschine for calm contentedness. "All right"--"never mind it"--"it does not signify"--are the style of her stock phrases when any thing goes wrong. And "Won't it be all the same a hundred years hence?" That is a favourite reflection with her.

"Oh dear, Eschine!" I could not help saying one day, "I do hate that pet phrase of thine. A hundred years hence! That will be the year of our Lord 1285. Why, thou and I will be nowhere then."

"Nay, I suppose we shall be somewhere," was Eschine's grave answer.

"Oh, well, don't moralise!" said I. "But thou knowest, if we were always to look at things in that style, nothing would ever signify any thing. It makes me feel as queer as Messire Renaud's notions--as if all the world, and I in it, had gone into a jelly, and nothing was any thing."

Eschine laughed. But Eschine's laughter is always quiet.

"I think thou dost not quite understand me, Elaine," said she. "I do not use such phrases of things that do matter, but of those that do not. I should not say such words respecting real troubles, however small. But are there not a great many events in life, of which you can make troubles or not, as you choose? An ill-dressed dish,--a disappointment about the colour of a tunic,--a misunderstanding about the pattern of a trimming,--a cut in one's finger,--and such as these,--is it not very foolish to make one's self miserable about them? What can be more silly than to spend half an hour in fretting over an inconvenience which did not last a quarter?"

"My dear Eschine, it sounds very grand!" said I. "Why dost thou not teach Amaury to look at things in that charming way? He frets over mistakes and inconveniences far more than Guy and I do."

Eschine's smile had more patience than amusement in it.

"For the same reason, Elaine, that I do not teach yonder crane to sing like a nightingale."

I can guess that parable. It would be mere waste of time and labour.

Guy did not forget my birthday yesterday; he gave me a beautiful coral necklace, which one knows is good against poison. (I will take care to wear it whenever Count Raymond is present.) Lady Sybil gave me a lovely ring, set with an opal; and if I were at Acre, and had a bay-leaf to wrap round it, I would go into the Count's chamber invisible, and listen to him. Eschine's gift was a silver pomander, with a chain to hang it by. Amaury (just like him!) forgot all about it till this morning, and then gave me a very pretty gold filagree case, containing the holy Evangel of Saint Luke, to hang round my neck for an amulet.

Am I really nineteen years of age? I begin to feel so old!--and yet I am the youngest of us.

I do think that nothing really nice ever lasts in this world. The Baron de Montluc arrived here last night from Byzantium with all sorts of bad news. In the first place, Saladin, with his Paynim army, has re-entered the Holy Land, and is marching, as men fear, upon Neapolis. If he do this, he will cut off Acre from the Holy City, and the young Lord King cannot reach his capital. The Baron sent a trusty messenger back to Acre, to Count Raymond, urging him to hasten to the Holy City with the King, and lose not an hour in doing it. The coast road is still clear; or he could come by sea to Jaffa. Messire de Montluc sent his own signet as a token to Count Raymond--which ring the Count knows well. Guy has ordered us all to pack up, and return without loss of time to the Holy City, where he will take the command till Count Raymond arrives.

"Now, Elaine!--how wouldst thou like a siege?" triumphantly asks Amaury.

May all the holy saints avert such a calamity!

But there is, if possible, even worse behind: inasmuch as a foe without the gates is less formidable than a traitor within them. The Patriarch (I will not call him holy this time) and the Lord Roger had returned as far as Byzantium a few days before Messire de Montluc left that city, and it comes out now, what all their fine talk of pilgrimage meant. They have been at the Court of England on purpose to offer the crown of Jerusalem to King Henry the father, seeing (say they) the distracted state of the kingdom, the peril of Paynim war, and the fact that King Henry is the nearest heir of King Foulques of Anjou. Well, upon my word! As if the crown of Jerusalem were theirs to offer!

It seems to me, too--but every body, even Guy, says that is only one of my queer, unaccountable notions--that, since King Foulques of Anjou had no right to the crown except as the husband of Queen Melisende, so long as her heirs remain in existence, they should be preferred to his heirs by another wife. But Amaury laughs at me for saying this. He says, of course, when Count Foulques married Queen Melisende, and became King, all her right passed to him, and she was thenceforth simply his consort, his children having as much right as hers. It does not seem just and fair to me; but every one only laughs, and says I have such absurd fancies.

"Why, what would be the good of marrying an heiress at all," says Amaury, "if you had to give up her property when she died before you?"

Still I do not see that it is just. And I wonder if, sometimes, the queer ideas of one century do not become the common ideas of the next. But Amaury seems to think that notion exquisitely ridiculous.

"Nonsense, Elaine!" says he. "It was a simple matter of family arrangement. Don't go and fancy thyself the wisest woman in the world! Thou hast the silliest ideas I ever heard."

"Well, I don't, Amaury," said I, "any more than I fancy thee the wisest man."

Guy laughed, and told Amaury he had a Roland for his Oliver.

*CHAPTER XI.*

_*THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM*_*.*

"It was but unity of place
Which made me dream I ranked with him."
--TENNYSON.

Here we are, safe in the Holy City, after a hurried and most uncomfortable journey. All the quiet is assuredly gone now. For the Holy City is full of tumult--cries, and marchings, and musters, and clashing of arms--from morning till night. Lady Judith, looking as calm as ever, received us with a blessing, and a soft, glad light in her eyes, which told that she was pleased to have us back. The Patriarch and the Master of the Temple have not yet arrived. Guy thinks they may tarry at Acre with Count Raymond, and come on in his train.

The Lord de Clifford has come from England, by way of Jaffa, with the answer of King Henry the father. It seems that the Patriarch actually took with him the keys of the Holy City and the blessed Sepulchre. I am astonished that Count Raymond should have entrusted them to him. More than this, they travelled by way of Rome, and through their wicked misrepresentations obtained letters from the Holy Father, urging King Henry to take on himself this charge. King Henry was holding Court at Reading when they came to him, and the Patriarch says he was moved to tears at their account of the miserable state of the Holy Land. (Well, I am not going to deny the misery; but I do say it is Count Raymond's fault, and that if matters had been left in Guy's hands, they would never have come to this pass.) King Henry, however, would not give his answer at once; but bade them wait till he had convoked his great council, which sat at Clerkenwell on the eighteenth of March in last year. The decision of the Parliament was that in the interests of England the offer ought to be refused.

"Well!" said Guy, "as a mere question of political wisdom, that is doubtless right; for, apart from the pleasure of God, it would be the ruin of England to have the Holy Land clinging round her neck like a mill-stone. Yet remember, Lord Robert the Courthose never prospered after he had refused this crown of the world. He impiously blew out the taper which had been lighted by miracle; and think what his end was!"

"But dost thou think, my Lord," asked Lady Sybil, looking up, "that he meant it impiously? I have always thought his words so beautiful--that he was not worthy to wear a crown of gold in the place where our Lord had worn for us the crown of thorns."

"Very beautiful, Lady," said Guy a little drily, "if he had not heard just before the conference of the death of his brother, King William the Red."

Well!--when King Henry gave his answer, what did the Patriarch, but ask that one of his sons might be substituted,--and Guy thinks he specially indicated the Count of Poitou.[#] Guy says there are great possibilities in our young Count; but Amaury sneers at the idea. However, the King and the Parliament alike declined to accept in the name of any of the Princes, seeing none of themselves were present: and the Patriarch had to content himself with a promise of aid alone. King Henry took him in his train to Normandy, and after celebrating the holy Easter at Rouen, they had an interview with the French King at Vaudreuil. Both the Kings promised help, swearing on the souls of each other;[#] and many nobles, both French and English, took the holy cross. It is hoped that the King of France and the Count of Poitou may lead an army hither in a few months.

[#] Richard Coeur-de-Lion, whose reputation was yet to be made.

[#] The usual oath of monarchs in solemn form.

"If we can manage to conclude a truce meanwhile, and they do not come here to find us all slaughtered or prisoners to the Paynim," says Guy. "Great bodies move slowly; and kings and armies are of that description."

Saladin has taken Neapolis! Our scouts bring us word that he is ravaging and burning all the land as he marches, and he has turned towards the Holy City. Almost any morning, we may be awoke from sleep with his dreadful magic engine sounding in our ears. Holy Mary and all the saints, pray to the good God for His poor servants!

And not a word comes from the Regent. Four several messengers Guy has sent, by as many different routes, in the hope that at least one of them may reach Acre, earnestly urging him to send instructions. We do not even know the condition of matters at Acre. The King and the Regent may themselves be prisoners. Oh, what is to be done?

Guy says that whatever may become of him, the kingdom must not be lost: and if ten days more pass without news of the Regent, he will parley with Saladin, and if possible conclude a truce on his own responsibility. I feel so afraid for Guy! I believe if Count Raymond could find a handle, he would destroy him without mercy. Guy himself seems to perceive that the responsibility he is ready to assume involves serious peril.

"Nevertheless, my Lady's inheritance must not be lost," he says.

I asked Lady Judith this morning if she were not dreadfully frightened of Saladin. They say he eats Christian children, and sometimes maidens, when the children run short.

"If I felt no alarm, I should scarcely be a woman, Helena," said she. "But I took my fear to the Lord, as King David did. 'What time I am afraid,' he says, 'I will trust in Thee.' And I had my answer last night."

"Oh!" said I. "What was it, if it please you, holy Mother?"

She lifted her head with a light in the grey eyes.

"'I am, I am thy Comforter. Know whom thou art, afraid of a dying man, and of a son of men who wither like grass: and thou forgettest God thy Maker, the Maker of the heaven and Foundation-Layer of the earth, and fearest ever, every day, the face of the fury of thine oppressor.... And now, where is the fury of thine oppressor?'"

"Did the good God speak to you in vision, holy Mother?"

"No, Helena. He spake to me as He does to thee--in His Word."

I thought it would have been a great deal more satisfactory if she had been told in vision.

"But how do you know, holy Mother," I ventured to say, "that words written in holy Scripture, ever so long ago, have something to do with you now?"

"God's Word is living, my child," she said; "it is not, like all other books, a dead book. His Word who is alive for evermore, endureth for ever. Moreover, there is a special promise that the Holy Spirit shall bring God's words to the remembrance of His servants, as they need. And when they come from Him, they come living and with power."

"Then you think, holy Mother, that the Paynim will be driven back?"