Chapter I: Guy Takes the Cross (7)

"I do not say that, my child. But I think that the God who turned back Sennacherib is alive yet: and the Angel who smote the camp of the Assyrians can do it again if his Lord command him. And if not--no real mischief, Helena,--no real harm--can happen to him or her who abideth under the shadow of God."

"But we might be killed, holy Mother!"

"We might," she said, so quietly that I looked at her in amazement.

"Holy Mother!" I exclaimed.

"Thou dost not understand our Lord's words, Helena!--'And they shall kill some of you, ... and a hair from the head of you shall not be lost.'"

"Indeed I do not," said I bluntly.

"And I cannot make thee do so," she added gently. "God must do it."

But why does He not do it? Have I not asked Him, over and over again, to make me understand? I suppose something is in the way, and something which is my fault. But how am I to get rid of it when I do not even know what it is?

The ten days are over, and no word comes from the Regent. Guy has assumed, as Vice-Regent, the command of the Holy City. Of course he is the person to do it, as Lady Sybil's husband. Our scouts report that Saladin is marching through the pass of Gerizim. Guy has sent out a trumpeter with a suitable armed escort, to sound a parley, and invite the Paynim to meet with him and arrange for a truce at Lebonah. Until the trumpeter returns, we do not know whether this effort will succeed.

Lady Sybil, I can see, is excessively anxious, and very uneasy lest, if Guy go to parley with Saladin, the wicked Paynim should use some treachery towards him.

"It is God's will!" she said; but I saw tears in her sweet eyes. "The battle, and the toil, and the triumph for the men: the waiting, and weeping, and praying for the women. Perhaps, in their way, the humble bedeswomen do God's will as much as the warrior knights."

The trumpeter returned last night, with a message from Saladin almost worthy of a Christian knight. It seems very strange that Paynims should be capable of courtesy.[#]

[#] A most expressive word in the Middle Ages, not restricted, as now, civility, but including honourable sentiments and generous conduct.

Saladin is willing to conclude a truce, and will meet Guy at Lebonah to do so; but it is to be for six months only, and Guy says the terms are somewhat hard. However, it is the best thing he can do: and as the Regent maintains his obstinate silence, something must be done. So far as our envoys could learn, the Paynim army has not been near Acre, and only crossed the Jordan some thirty miles lower down. It appears clear, therefore, that the Regent might have answered if he would.

Guy and Amaury set out yesterday morning for Lebonah to meet Saladin. It is two or three days' journey from the Holy City, and allowing three days more for conference, it must be ten days at least ere they can return.

I wander about the house, and can settle to nothing. Lady Sybil sits at work, but I believe she weeps more than she works. Eschine's embroidery grows quietly. I have discovered that she carries her heart out of sight.

We were talking this morning--I hardly know how the subject came up--about selfishness. Lady Isabel said, with a toss of her head, that she was sure no reasonable being could call her selfish. (Now I could not agree with her, for I have always thought her very much so.) Lady Judith quietly asked her in what she thought selfishness consisted.

"In being stingy and miserly, of course," said she.

"Well, but stingy of what?" responded Lady Judith. "I think people make a great mistake when they restrict selfishness merely to being miserly with money. I should say that the man is unselfish who will give willingly that which he counts precious. But that means very different things to different people."

"I wonder what it means to us five," said I.

Lady Judith looked round with a smile. "I almost think I could tell you," said she.

"Oh, do!" we all said but Lady Isabel.

"Well, to me," answered Lady Judith, "it means, submitting,--because some one wishes it who has a right to my submission, or else as a matter of Christian love--to do any thing in a way which I think inferior, absurd, or not calculated to effect the end proposed. In other words, my ruling sin is self-satisfaction."

We all exclaimed against this conclusion: but she maintained that it was so.

"Then," she continued, "to Sybil, it means depriving herself of her lord's society, either for his advantage or for that of some one else."

Lady Sybil smiled and blushed. "Then my ruling sin----?" she said interrogatively.

"Nay, I did not undertake to draw that inference in any case but my own," said Lady Judith with an answering smile.

We all--except Lady Isabel--begged that she would do it for us. She seemed, I thought, to assent rather reluctantly.

"You will not like it," said she. "And if you drew the inference for yourselves, you would be more likely to attend to the lesson conveyed."

"Oh, but we might do it wrong," I said.

Lady Judith laughed. "Am I, then, so infallible that I cannot do it wrong?" said she. "Well, Sybil, my dear, if thou wouldst know, I think thy tendency--I do not say thy passion, but thy tendency--is to idolatry."

"Oh!" cried Lady Sybil, looking quite distressed.

"But now, misunderstand me not," pursued Lady Judith. "Love is not necessarily idolatry. When we love the creature _more_ than the Creator--when, for instance, thou shalt care more to please thy lord than to please the Lord--then only is it idolatry. Therefore, I use the word tendency; I trust it is not more with thee.--Well, then, with Isabel"----

Lady Isabel gave a toss of her head,--a gesture to which she is very much addicted.

"With Isabel," continued Lady Judith, "unselfishness would take the form of resigning her own ease or pleasure to suit the convenience of another, Her temptation, therefore, is to indolence and self-pleasing. With Helena"----

I pricked up my ears. What was I going to hear?

"With Helena," said she, smiling on me, "it would be, I think, to fulfil some duty, though those whom she loved might misunderstand her and think her silly for it."

"Then what is my besetting sin, holy Mother?"

"Pride of intellect, I think," she answered; "very nearly the same as my own."

"Holy Mother, you have left out Dame Eschine!" said Lady Isabel rather sharply.

"Have I?" said Lady Judith. "Well, my children, you must ask the Lord wherein Eschine's selfishness lies, for I cannot tell. I dare not deny its existence; I believe all sinners have it in some form. Only, in this case, _I_ cannot detect it."

Eschine looked up with an expression of utter amazement.

"Holy Mother!" she exclaimed. "It seemed to me, as you went on, that I had every one of those you mentioned."

Lady Judith's smile was very expressive.

"Dear child," she said, "these are not my words,--'Blessed are the poor in spirit; for theirs is the kingdom of the heavens.'"

Does she think Eschine the best of us all? Is she? Dear me! I never should have thought it.

"Well!" said Lady Isabel, with a sort of snort, and another toss, "I am quite sure that I have not one of those faults you mentioned."

"Ah, my child!" responded Lady Judith. "Take heed of the Pharisee spirit--Eschine, what wouldst thou say was thy besetting sin?"

"I really cannot tell, I have so many!" answered Eschine modestly. "But I sometimes think that it may be--perhaps--a want of meekness and patience."

I stared at her in astonishment.

"Well, thank the saints, I am in no want of patience!" said Lady Isabel. "And if any one knew all I have to try it"----

I turned and looked at her, if possible, in astonishment still greater.

Really, how very, very little, people do know themselves! If there be a patient creature in this world, it is Eschine: and if there be an impatient one, it is Lady Isabel.

I wonder whether I know myself? I do not think I should have set myself down as proud of my intellect. But we Lusignans always have had brains--except Amaury; he has stepped out of the ranks. And I don't like people to disagree with me, and contradict me, nor to behave as if they thought I had no sense. That is true enough. I suppose I must be proud.

And yet, it cannot be wrong to know that one has brains. What is pride? Where does the knowledge end, and the sin begin? Oh dear! how is one ever to know?

If two and two would only make four in every thing! Or is it that one makes mistakes one's self in the adding-up?

Lady Judith asked me this morning if I was vexed with her yesterday, for what she said of me.

"Oh no!" I answered at once. "But I did not know that I was proud of my intellect. I think I knew that I was proud of my rank."

"Thou art right there, my child," she said. "Yet I fear the pride of intellect is more likely to harm thee, just because thou art less conscious of it."

"Holy Mother," said I, "do you think my sister Eschine the best of us?"

"We human creatures, Helena, are poor judges of each other. But if thou wouldst know--so far as I am able to judge--I think the two holiest persons in all this Palace are Eschine and thine old Margarita."

"Better than Lady Sybil!" I cried.

"I do not undervalue Sybil. She is good and true; and I believe she does earnestly desire to serve God. But it seems to me that the most Christ-like spirit I know is not Sybil, but Eschine."

I must think about it, and study Eschine. I certainly made a sad mistake when I thought there was nothing in her. But the holiest person in the house! That seems very strange to me. I believe, now, that what I took for absence of feeling is a mixture of great humility and profound self-control. But the queerest thing is, that I think she really loves Amaury. And how any creature can love Amaury is a puzzle to me. For no being with an atom of brains can look up to him: and how can you love one whom you cannot respect? Besides which, he evidently despises Eschine--I believe he does all women--and he scolds and snubs her from morning to night for everything she does or does not do. Such treatment as that would wear my love in holes--If it were possible for me ever to feel any for such an animal as Amaury. If I were Eschine, I should be anxious to get as far away from him as I could, and should be delighted when he relieved me of his company. Yet I do think Eschine really misses him, and will be honestly glad when he comes back, It is very unaccountable.

Our anxieties are all turned to rejoicing at once. Guy and Amaury returned last night, having concluded a six months' truce with Saladin: and Eschine had the pleasure--I am sure she felt it a very great one--when Amaury entered her chamber, of placing in his arms the boy for whom he had so fervently longed, who was born three days before they came back. Little Hugues--Amaury says that must be his name--seems as fine a child as Heloise, and as likely to live. Amaury was about as pleased as it is in his nature to be; but he always seems to have his eyes fixed on the wormwood of life rather than the honey.

"Thou hast shown some sense at last!" he said; and Eschine received this very doubtful commendation as if it had been the most delightful compliment. Then Amaury turned round, and snapped at me, because I could not help laughing at his absurdity.

I asked Marguerite this evening what she thought was her chief fault.

"Ha!--the good God knows," she said. "It is very difficult to tell which of one's faults is the worst."

"But what dost thou think?" said I.

"Well," she answered, "I think that my chief fault is--with all deference--the same as that of my Damoiselle: and that is pride. Only that we are proud of different things."

"And of what art thou proud, Margot?" asked I laughingly, but rather struck to find that she had hit on the same failing (in me) as Lady Judith.

"Ha! My Damoiselle may well ask. And I cannot tell her. What is or has an old villein woman, ignorant and foolish, to provoke pride? I only know it is there. It does not fasten on one thing more than another, but there it is. And pride is a very subtle sin, if it please my Damoiselle. If I had nothing in the world to be proud of but that I was the ugliest woman in it, I believe I could be proud of that."

I laughed. "Well, and wherein lies my pride, Margot?" said I, wishful to see whether she altogether agreed with Lady Judith.

"Can I see into the inmost heart of my Damoiselle? It is like a shut-up coffer, this human heart. I can only look on the outside, I. But on the outside, I see two things. My Damoiselle is noble, and she is clever. And she knows both."

"Which is the worse, Margot?"

"Ha! Both are bad enough, to make pride. But this I think: that even a king can never fancy himself so noble as the good God; yet a good many of us think ourselves quite as wise."

"O Margot!--who could think that?"

"Does my Damoiselle herself never think that she could arrange matters better than the good God is ordering them? What is that, but to say in our hearts, 'I am the wiser'?"

It is very queer, how Lady Judith and Marguerite always do think alike.

"Margot, who wouldst thou say was the holiest woman in this house?"

The answer was unhesitating.

"I do not know; I can only guess. But if my Damoiselle wishes me to guess--the noble Lady Judith, and Dame Eschine."

How very odd!

"When I asked thee once before, Margot, thou didst not mention Eschine at all."

"Let my Damoiselle pardon me. I did not know enough of her then. And she is not one to know in a minute. Some are like an open book, quickly read: and others are like a book in a strange tongue, of which one knows but little, and they have to be spelt out; and some, again, are like a locked book, which you cannot read at all without the key. Dame Eschine, if my Damoiselle pleases, is the book in the strange tongue; but the book is very good, and quite worth the trouble to learn it."

"Where didst thou find such a comparison, Margot? Thou canst not read."

"I? Ha!--no. But I can see others do it."

"And what kind of book am I, Margot?"

"Ha!--my Damoiselle is wide, wide open."

"And the Lady Sybil?" asked I, feeling much amused.

"Usually, open; but she can turn the key if she will."

I was rather surprised. "And Count Guy?"

"Quite as wide open as my Damoiselle."

"Then where dost thou find thy locked book, Margot?"

I was still more astonished at the answer.

"If my Damoiselle pleases,--the Lady Isabel."

"O Margot! I think she is quite easy to read."

"I am mistaken," said Marguerite with quiet persistence, "if my Damoiselle has yet read one page of that volume."

"Now I should have called the Regent a locked book," said I.

"Hardly, if my Damoiselle pleases. There is a loose leaf which peeps out."

"Well, that romance is not a pleasant one," said I.

"Pleasant? Ha!--no. But it is long, and one cannot see the end of the story before one comes to it."

At last, a letter has come from the Regent.

It is quite different to what I expected. He approves of all that Guy has done, and more,--he actually thanks him for acting so promptly. (Are we misjudging the man?) The King is in good health, and the Regent thinks he will very shortly do well to return to the Holy City, as soon as the autumn rains are well over. The Lady Countess, he says, is suffering greatly, and he fears the damp weather increases her malady. He speaks quite feelingly about it, as though he really loved her.

Early this morning was born dear Lady Sybil's second baby--still, like Agnes, a little frail thing; and still a daughter. But Guy seems just as pleased with his child as if it were a healthy boy. He is so different from Amaury!

Both Guy and Lady Sybil wish the infant to bear my name. So this evening the Patriarch is to christen her Helena,--thus placing her under the safe protection of the blessed Saint Helena, mother of the Lord Constantine the Emperor, and also of the holy Queen of Adiabene, who bestowed such toil and money on the holy shrines.

As if to show that joys, as well as misfortunes, do not come single, this afternoon arrived a courier with letters from Lusignan,--one from Monseigneur to Guy, another from Raoul for Amaury, and one from Alix for me. All are well, thank the saints!--and Alix has now three children, of whom two are boys. Raoul is about to make a grand match, with one of the richest heiresses in Normandy,--the Lady Alix, Countess of Eu. Little Valence, Guillot's elder child, has been betrothed to the young Seigneur de Parthenay. I am rather surprised that Guillot did not look higher, especially after Guy's marriage and Raoul's.

Guy asked me to-day when I meant to be married.

"Oh, please, Guy, don't talk about it!" said I. "I would so much rather not."

"Dost thou mean to be a nun, then?" asked he. I think he hardly expected it.

"Well," said I, "if I must, I must. But I want to know why I could not go on living quietly without either?"

"Ah, one of the original notions of the Damoiselle de Lusignan," said he. "Because, my eccentric Elaine, nobody ever does."

"But why does nobody?" said I. "And why should not I begin it? Every thing must begin some time, and with somebody."

But Guy seemed so much amused that I did not pursue the topic.

"Please thyself," said he, when he had finished laughing. "But why dost thou prefer single life?"

"For various reasons," said I. "For one, I like to have my own way."

"Well, now, women are queer folks!" said Guy. "Oh my most rational sister, wilt thou not have to obey thine abbess? And how much better will that be than obeying thine husband?"

"It will be better in two respects," I answered. "In the first place, an abbess is a woman, and would therefore be more reasonable than a man; and in"----

"Oh dear! I did not understand that!" said Guy. "I am rather ignorant and stupid."

"Thou art," said I. "And in the second, I should try, as soon as possible, to be an abbess myself."

"My best wishes attend thy speedy promotion, most holy Mother!" said Guy, bowing low, but laughing. "I perceive I was very stupid. But thou seest, I really did not know that women were such extremely reasonable beings. I fancied that, just now and then, they were slightly unreasonable."

"Now, Guy, give over!" said I. "But can I not wait a while? Must I decide at once?"

"Of course not, if that be thy wish," said Guy. "But thou art past the usual age for profession."

"Then I shall be all the more likely to receive promotion quickly," I replied.

"Fairest of nuns, here is my sword!" said Guy, kneeling and offering me the hilt. "I surrender myself, a vanquished prisoner, to thy superior wisdom."

So the matter passed off in a good laugh.

Now that the truce is concluded, all is peaceful and happy. It is so nice, after the tumult, and suspense, and anxiety, to have nothing to think of but what robe one shall wear to this feast, and how one shall arrange one's jewels for that dance. I wish it would last for ever!--if only one did not get tired even of pleasant things, when they have gone on for a while. If one could get hold of some pleasure of which one never got tired!

I want to introduce our national dance of Poitou, the minuet. I have taught it to Lady Isabel, and two or three of the damsels in waiting: and Perette and Bertrade will help. Lady Isabel admires it very much; she says it is a grand, stately dance, and fit for a princess.

It seems very odd to me, that the ladies of this country look upon it as beneath them to superintend the cooking, and leave it all to their servants. How strange it would be if we did that in Poitou! They order what is to be done, but they never put their own hands to the work. I know what Alix would look like, if I told her.

The first banquet was to have been on Monday, but it is an unlucky day, as the moon will be in opposition to Mars; so it had to be deferred. We heard yesterday that the Countess of Edessa actually gave a banquet last week on a vigil, and what should she do but invite just enough to make thirteen! I suppose she never thought about either. She is the most thoughtless woman I ever saw. Messire de Montluc was one of the guests, and when he perceived the calamity, he feigned to bleed at the nose, and asked leave to retire. I suppose he did not wish to run the risk of dying within a year and a day. How can people be so careless? Why, it is almost as bad as murder.

*CHAPTER XII.*

_*WILL SHE GIVE HIM UP?*_

_Elmina_.--We can bear all things!
_Gonsalez_.--Can ye bear disgrace?
_Ximena_.--We were not born for this.
--FELICIA HEMANS.

I suppose it is only about thirty hours, yet it looks as if it might be as many weeks, since I sat in the bower with Lady Judith, broidering a mantle of cramoisie for Lady Sybil. We were talking of different things, carrying on no special train of conversation. Lady Sybil had been with us; but, a few minutes before, Guy had called her into the hall, to assist in receiving a messenger just arrived with letters from the Regent. Something which Lady Judith said amused me, and I was making a playful reply, when all at once there broke on us, from the hall, such a bitter, wailing cry, as instantly told us that something terrible must have happened. The mantle was dropped upon the rushes, and Lady Judith and I were both in the hall in an instant.

The messenger, a young knight, stood at the further side of the dais, where were Guy and Lady Sybil. She had apparently fainted, or was very near it, and he was holding her in his arms, and endeavouring to whisper comfort.

"Oh, what is the matter?" broke from me, as my eyes sought first Guy and then the messenger.

Guy did not answer. I am not sure that he heard me. It was the young knight who replied.

"Damoiselle, if it please your Nobility, our young Lord Beaudouin the King has been commanded to the Lord."

I never wished I was not noble until that minute. Had I been a villein, he would have told me without considering the pleasure of my Nobility, and I should have been out of suspense one second sooner.

Lady Judith's one thought seemed to be for the poor mother, who was utterly overcome by the sudden news of her first-born's death. She actually opened the casement with her own hands, though there were plenty of damsels and squires in the hall, whom she might have called to do it. One she sent for water, and sprinkled a few drops on Lady Sybil's face, entreating her to drink some wine which a squire brought in haste. She appeared to swallow with difficulty, but it seemed to revive her, and her voice came back.

"Oh, my boy, my boy!" she cried piteously. "And I was not there! It was not in my arms he died. My first-born, my darling! I was not there."

Ay, that seemed the climax of her misery--she was not there! I was very, very sorry, both for her and for the child. But another thought soon darted into my brain, and it was too hard for me to solve. Who was the King of Jerusalem now? When I thought it meet, I whispered the question to Guy. He made me no answer in words, but his quick downward glance at the golden head still bowed upon his arm told me what he thought. And all at once the full significance of that death flashed upon me. Lady Sybil was the Queen of the World, and might have to do battle for her glorious heritage.

There was no doubt concerning the right. Only two remained of the House of Anjou: and there could be no question as to whether the elder or younger sister should succeed. Lady Sybil's right had been originally set aside: and now it had come back to her.

In an instant I saw, as by a flash of lightning, that the idea had occurred to others; for the squire had offered the wine upon the knee.

But the Regent! Would he acquiesce meekly in a change which would drive him back to his original insignificance, and restore Guy to his place of supreme honour? Lady Sybil is no child, but a woman of full age. There might (in a man's eyes) be an excuse in putting her aside for her son, but there could be none for her sister or her daughter.

It was not for some hours that I saw the Regent's letter; not till Lady Sybil's bitter wailing had died down to peace, and we were able to turn our eyes from the past to the future. Then Guy showed it me. I was astonished at the quiet matter-of-fact way in which Count Raymond recognised Lady Sybil's right, and deferred to Guy as the person to decide upon every thing. I asked Lady Judith, this morning, what she thought it meant. Was this man better than we had supposed? Had we been unjust to him?

"I cannot tell yet, Helena," she said; "but I think we shall know now very soon. It either bodes great good to Sybil,--or else most serious mischief."

"He says no word about his Lady Countess," I suggested.

"No," said Lady Judith. "I should have liked it better if he had done."

"Then what can we do?" I asked.

"Wait and pray," responded she.

"Wait!" Oh dear me!--it is always waiting. I detest it. Why can't things happen in a lump and get done with themselves?

Count Raymond--for I must give over calling him the Regent,--(and dear me! I must learn to call Lady Sybil the Queen as soon as she is crowned,--however shall I do it?)--Count Raymond says, in the end of his letter, that he will reach the Holy City, if it please the saints, about ten days hence, with the coffin of the young Lord King, that he may be laid with his fathers in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. So, I suppose, for these ten days we shall know nothing. I would scratch them out of the calendar, if I had pumice-stone of the right quality.

And yet--it comes over me, though I do hate to think it!--suppose these ten days should be the last days of peace which we are to know!

"Holy Mother, how _can_ you wait to know things?" I asked Lady Judith.

"How canst thou?" said she with a little laugh.

"Why, I must!" said I. "But as to doing it patiently!"----

"It is easier to wait patiently than impatiently, my child."

"O holy Mother!" cried I.

"It is," she gently persisted. "But that patience, Helena, is only to be had from God."

"But can you help longing to know?" said I.

"Rebelliously and feverishly thirsting to know, I can. But it is only in God's strength that I can do it. Certainly I cannot help feeling that I shall be relieved when His time is come. I should be more or less than woman, if I could."

"But how," said I, "do you keep yourself patient?"

"_He_ keeps me patient, Helena. I cannot keep myself. He knows: He is at the helm: He will guide me to the haven where I would be. Ah, my child, thou hast yet to learn what that meaneth,--'When He giveth quietness, who shall then condemn?'"

Indeed I have. And I do not know how to begin.

We have been very busy, after all, during the terrible interval, and it hardly seems ten days since the news came. All the mourning robes were to be made of sackcloth--bah! how rough and coarse it is!--one need be a villein to stand it!--and the hoods of cloth of Cyprus. I never remember being in mourning before Amaury's poor little baby was born and died in one day, and I did hope then that I should never need it again. It is so abominable to wear such stuff--and how it smells!--and to have to lay aside one's gloves, just like a bourgeoise! Count Raymond is expected to-night.

I did not properly guess what a dreadful scene it would be, when the coffin was borne into the hall by four knights, and laid down on the dais, and the lid opened, and the embalmed body of the fair child brought to view, clad in the cowl of the holy brethren of Saint Benedict, which was put on him just before he died. The holy Patriarch--I suppose he is holy, being a patriarch--held the holy censer, which he swung to and fro by the head of the coffin; and a royal chaplain at his side bore the benitier, from which each of us, coming forward, took the asperge, and sprinkled the still face with holy water.

It was Lady Sybil's turn last, of course. But she, the poor mother, broke down utterly, and dropped the asperge, and if Guy had not sprung forward and caught her, I think she would have fainted and fallen on the coffin of her child. Oh, it was terrible!

Later in the evening, there was a family council, at which Count Raymond suggested--and Guy said it was an excellent idea--that Lady Sybil should convene a council of all the nobles, when her title should be solemnly recognised, and no room be left for any dissension about it in future. The council, therefore, will meet on Midsummer Day next, and at the same time it will be decided what to do after the truce with Saladin has expired.

I tapped at Lady Judith's door as I went up to bed.

"Well, holy Mother," said I, when I was inside, and the door shut, "what think you now of the Count of Tripoli?"

"What thinkest thou, Helena?" answered she.

"Truly, I hardly know what to think," I said. "He speaks fair."

"Ay," she said; "he speaks fair."

I thought I detected the slightest possible emphasis on the verb.

"I think you mean something, holy Mother," said I bluntly.

"Helena, when the Lord Count was proposing the convention of the council, and all that was to follow, and Count Guy assented, and said he thought it a good idea,--didst thou happen to look at Count Raymond's face?"

"No, holy Mother, I did not."

"I did. And at the instant when Count Guy assented to his proposal, I caught one triumphant flash in his eyes. From that hour I was certain he meant mischief."

My heart fell,--fell.

"What sort of mischief?" I asked fearfully.

"The Lord knoweth," quietly said she; "and the Lord reigneth, Helena. 'Wonderful are the ragings of the sea: wonderful in the heights is the Lord.'"

And that seems to comfort her. I wish it would comfort me.

The Council is holding its sitting: and so serious are its deliberations considered, that only one woman beside Lady Sybil herself is permitted to attend it. Of course it was not meet she should be without any lady or damsel. But she chose Lady Judith, with a pretty little apology to me, lest I should fancy myself slighted.

"Lady Judith is old and very wise," she said. "I should like her to hear the deliberations of the nobles, that I may have, if need be, the benefit of her counsel afterwards."

I suppose it is the swearing of allegiance that takes such a long time. They have been four hours already.

Sir God, have mercy upon me! I never dreamed of the anguish that was in store for me. I do not know how to bear it. O fair Father, Jesu Christ, by the memory of Thine own cross and passion, help me, if it be only to live through it!

I wondered why, when the Council broke up, Lady Sybil shut herself up and refused to admit any one, and Guy was nowhere to be found. I felt a vague sort of uneasiness, but no more, till a soft hand was laid upon my shoulder, and I looked up in Lady Judith's face.

And then, in an instant, the vague uneasiness changed to acute terror.

Her look was one of such deep, overwhelming compassion, that I knew at once she had that to tell me which she justly feared might break my heart.

"What--?" I gasped.

"Come here with me," she said; and she took me into her own cell, and barred the door. "Helena, dear child, there is something to tell thee which thou wilt find very bitter, and thy brother and Sybil think best that I should tell it."

"Go on, if you please, holy Mother. Any thing but suspense!"

"The Council of nobles," she said, "are agreed to admit Sybil's right, and to pay their homage to her as Queen, if she on her part will accept one condition dictated by them. But if she refuse the condition, they refuse the allegiance; and will raise against her the banner of Isabel, who was called into the Council, and declared herself ready to accept it."

"And--the condition?"

"That she shall divorce Count Guy, and wed with one of themselves."

It seemed to me as though my head went round, but my heart stood still. And then a cry broke from me, which was a mixture of fear, and indignation, and disdain, and cruel, cruel anguish.

Sybil to divorce Guy! Our sweet-eyed, silver-voiced Sybil, whom we so loved, to divorce my Guy, my king of men! To be willing to do it!--to purchase her fair, proud inheritance at the price of the heart which loved her, and which she loved! My heart and brain alike cried out, Impossible!

Was I dreaming? This thing could not be,--should not be! Holy Saints, let me wake and know it!

"It is not possible!" I shrieked. "She will not--she cannot! Did she not say so?"

"Her first words," said Lady Judith, "were utterly and indignantly to refuse compliance."

"Well!--and then?"

"Then several of the nobles pressed it upon her, endeavouring to show her the advantages to be derived from the divorce."

"Advantages!" I cried.

"To the country, dear," said Lady Judith gently. "But for four hours she held out. No word was to be wrung from her but 'I could not dream of such a thing!' 'Then, Lady,' said the Lord Count of Edessa, 'you can no longer be our Queen.'"

"And did that sway her?" I cried indignantly.

"Nothing seemed to sway her, till Count Guy rose himself, and, though with faltering lips, earnestly entreated her assent. Then she gave way so far as to promise to consider the question."

That was like Guy. If he thought it for her good, I am sure he would urge it upon her, though it broke his own heart. But for her to give way _then_----!

"Holy Mother, tell me she will not do it!" I cried.

"She has locked herself up, to think and pray," said Lady Judith. "But it is well to know the worst at once,--I think she will, Helena."

"Holy Mother, you must have gone mad!"

I did not mean to be rude. I was only in too great agony to see any thing but itself. And Lady Judith seemed to understand.

"Who proposed it?" I demanded.

Ah! I knew what the answer would be. "Count Raymond of Tripoli."

"Well, he cannot be the one she weds!" said I, grinding my teeth.

"He can, Helena. The Countess has been dead these four months. He says he wrote to tell us, and his letter must have miscarried."

"And is Satan to have it all his own way?" I cried.

"No, assuredly, dear child. Christ is stronger than he."

"Holy Mother, can you see one speck of light in this thick and horrible darkness?"

"I never see but one light in any darkness," she said. "'God is light, and darkness in Him there is none at all.' Dear Helena, wilt thou not put thine hand in His, and let Him lead thee to the light?"

"Could the good God not have prevented all this?" I wailed.

"Perhaps not, for thy sake," she said softly.

"Oh, she will not, she will not!" I moaned. "Holy Mother, tell me she never will!"

"I cannot, dear. On the contrary, I think she will."

"I never could have believed it of Lady Sybil!"

Lady Judith made no reply; but I thought the expression of pain deepened in her face.

"Dear Helena," was her gentle answer, "sometimes we misunderstand our friends. And very often we misunderstand our Father."

She tried to comfort me: but I was past comfort. I was past food, sleep,--every thing. I went to bed,--it was a miserable relief to get away from the daylight; but I could not sleep, and no tears would come. Only one exceeding bitter cry,--

"Help me, Jesu Christ!"

Would He help me? What had I ever been to Him, or done for Him, that He should? He had shed His life-blood on the holy rood for me; and I had barely ever so much as thanked Him for it. I had never cared about Him. Where was the good of asking Him?

Yet I must cry to Him, for who else was there? Of course there were Mary Mother and the holy saints: but--Oh, I hope it was not wicked!--it seemed as if in my agony I pushed them all aside, and went straight up to Him to whom all prayer must come at last.

"Help me, Jesu Christ!"

Where was Guy?--feeling, in his darkened chamber, as if his heart were breaking?

Where was Sybil?--awake, perhaps, with a lighted lamp, wrestling between the one love of her heart and the pride of life.

And where was God? Did He hear me? Would He hear? And the cry came again, wrung from my very life as if I must have help.

"Help me, Jesu Christ! I have no help. I can do nothing. I can even think of nothing. I can bear no more. Help me, not because I deserve help, but because I want Thee!"

And the darkness went on, and the quiet beats of the water-clock, and the low, musical cry of the watchmen outside; and the clang of arms as they changed guard: but no holy angel came down from Heaven to tell me that my prayer was heard, and that it should be to me even as I would.

Was there no help?--was there no hope?--was there no God in Heaven?

Oh, it cannot, cannot be that she will decide against him! Yet Lady Judith thinks she will. I cannot imagine why. Our own sweet Sybil, to whom he has seemed like the very life of her life! No, it can never be true! She will never, never give him up.

*CHAPTER XIII.*

_*WAITING FOR THE INEVITABLE*_*.*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ah,--Helena!"

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

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

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

"What hast thou heard, Helena?"

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

"I have heard that your Grace means to give way before the vulgar clamour of your inferiors, and to repudiate your wedded lord at their dictation."

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

"Thou hast heard the truth."

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

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

"The Lord knoweth!" was her cool answer.

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

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

Perhaps I was half mad. I do not know.

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

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

"Trust you, Lady Sybil!--how to trust you?" I cried. "Have I not trusted you these four years, before I knew you for what you are? And you say, 'Trust me!'--Hear her, holy Saints! Ay, when I have done trusting the scorpions of this land and the wolves of my own,--trust me, I will trust you!"

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

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

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

It was thus that Marguerite found me.

I heard her enter the room. I heard the half-exclamation, instantly checked, which came to her lips. I heard her move quietly about the chamber, arranging various little things, and at last come and stand beside my bed.

"Damoiselle!"

I turned just enough to let her see my face.

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

What made her ask that question?

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

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

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

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

"Dost thou know what has happened, Margot?"

"I? Ha!--no."

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

I saw astonishment, grief, indignation, chase one another over old Marguerite's face, followed by a look of extreme perplexity. For a few moments she stood thus, and did not speak. Then she put her hands together, like a child at prayer, and lifted her eyes upward.

"Sir God," she said, "I cannot understand it. I do not at all see why this is. Good Lord, it puzzles poor old Marguerite very much. But Thou knowest. Thou knowest all things. And Thou canst not be hard, nor cruel, whatever things may look like. Thou art love. Have patience with us, Sir God, when we are puzzled, and when it looks to us as if things were going all wrong. And teach the child, for she does not know. My poor lamb is quite lost in the wilderness, and the great wolf is very near her. Gentle Jesu Christ, leave the ninety and nine safe locked in the good fold, and come and look for this little lamb. If Thou dost not come, the great wolf will get her. And she is Thy little lamb. It is very cold in the wilderness, and very dark. Oh, do make haste!"

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

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

"Hear me?" she said. "Ah no, my Damoiselle, I cannot expect God Almighty to hear me. But He will hear the blessed Christ. He always hears Him. And He will ask for me what I really need, which is far better than hearing me. Because, my Damoiselle sees, I make so many blunders; but He makes none."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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