CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.
SATISFIED AT LAST.
"I am not eager, bold, Nor strong--all that is past: I'm ready _not_ to do, At last--at last.
"My half-day's work is done, And this is all my part; I give a patient God My patient heart.
"And grasp His banner still, Though all its blue be dim: These stripes, no less than stars, Lead after Him."
"Fair Lord," said Perrote de Carhaix, in the native tongue of bothherself and the Duke, "I am your old nurse, who held you in her arms asa babe, and who taught your infant lips to speak. I taught you the TenCommandments of God; have you forgotten them? or do you call such wordsas you have spoken honouring your mother? Is this the reward you payher for her mother-love, for her thousand anxieties, for her riskedlife? If it be so, God pardon you as He may! But when you too reachthat point which is the common lot of all humanity--when you too lieawaiting the dread summons of the inevitable angel who shall lead youeither into the eternal darkness or the everlasting light, beware lestyour dearest turn away from you, and act by you as you have done byher!"
The Duke's black eyes shot forth fire. He was an exceedingly passionateman.
"Mademoiselle de Carhaix, do you know that you are my subject?"
"I am aware of it, my Lord."
"And that I could order your head struck off in yonder court?"
"You could, if yonder court were in Bretagne. In the realm of anothersovereign, I scarcely think so, under your gracious pleasure. But doyou suppose I should be silent for that? When God puts His words intothe lips of His messengers, they must speak them out, whatever theresult may be."
"Mademoiselle considers herself, then, an inspired prophetess?" was thecontemptuous response.
"The Lord put His words once into the mouth of an ass," replied Perrote,meekly. "I think I may claim to be an ass's equal. I have spoken, fairLord, and I shall add no more. The responsibility lies now with you.My message is delivered, and I pray God to give you ears to hear."
"Sir Godfrey Foljambe, is this the manner in which you think it meetthat one of your household should address a Prince?"
"Most gracious Lord, I am deeply distressed that this gentlewoman shouldso far have forgotten herself. But I humbly pray your Grace to rememberthat she is but a woman; and women have small wit and muchspitefulness."
"In good sooth, I have need to remember it!" answered the Duke,wrathfully. "I never thought, when I put myself to the pains to journeyover half England to satisfy the fancies of a sick woman, that I was tobe received with insult and contumely after this fashion. I pray you tosend this creature out of my sight, as the least reparation that can beoffered for such an injury."
"You need not, Sir," was the immediate reply of Perrote. "I go, formine errand is done. And for the rest, may God judge between us, and Hewill."
The Duke sat down to the collation hastily spread before him, with theair of an exceedingly injured man. He would not have been quite soangry, if his own conscience had not been so provoking as to secondevery word of Perrote's reprimand. And as it is never of the least usefor a man to quarrel with his conscience, he could do nothing but makePerrote the scape-goat, unless, indeed, he had possessed sufficientgrace and humility to accept and profit by the rebuke:--which in hiseyes, was completely out of the question. Had the Archbishop of Yorkbeen the speaker, he might possibly have condescended so far. But thewhims of an old nurse--a subject--a woman--he told himself, must needsbe utterly beneath the notice of any one so exalted. The excellence ofthe medicine offered him could not even be considered, if it werepresented in a vessel of common pottery, chipped at the edges.
Notwithstanding his wrath, the Duke did sufficient justice to thecollation; and he then demanded, if it must be, to be taken to hismother at once. The sooner the ordeal was over, the better, and he didnot mean to remain at Hazelwood an hour longer than could be helped.
Lady Foljambe went up to prepare the Countess for the interview. In herchamber she found not only Amphillis, who was on duty, but theArchbishop also. He sat by the bed with the book of the Gospels in hishands--a Latin version, of course--from which he had been translating apassage to the invalid.
"Well, what now, Avena?" faintly asked the Countess, who read news inLady Foljambe's face.
There was no time to break it very gradually, for Lady Foljambe knewthat the Duke's impatience would not brook delay.
"Dame," she said, shortly, "my Lord your son--"
"Bring him in!" cried the Countess, in a voice of ecstasy, withoutallowing Lady Foljambe to finish her sentence. How it was to end sheseemed to have no doubt, and the sudden joy lent a fictitious strengthto her enfeebled frame. "Bring him in! my Jean, my darling, my littlelad! Said I not the lad should never forsake his old mother? Bring himin!"
Lady Foljambe drew back to allow the Duke to enter, for his step wasalready audible. He came in, and stood by the bed--tall, upright,silent.
"My Jean!" cried the dying mother.
"Madame!" was the answer, decorous and icy.
"Kiss me, my Jean! Why dost thou not kiss me? Lad, I have not seenthee all these weary years!"
The Duke, in a very proper manner, kissed the weak old hand which wasstretched out towards him. His lips were warm, but his kiss was as coldas a kiss well could be.
"Madame," said the Duke, mindful of the proprieties, "it gives meindescribable grief to find you thus. I am also deeply distressed thatit should be impossible for me to remain with you. I expect news fromBretagne every day--almost every hour--which I hope will summon me backthither to triumph over my rebellious subjects, and to resume my thronein victory. You will, therefore, grant me excuse if it be impossiblefor me to do more than kiss your hand and entreat your blessing."
"Not stay, my Jean!" she said, in piteous accents. "Not stay, when thouhast come so far to see me! Dost thou know that I am dying?"
"Madame, I am infinitely grieved to perceive it. But reasons of stateare imperative and paramount."
"My Lord will pardon me for observing," said the Archbishop's voice,"with a royal kinsman of his own, that God may grant him many kingdoms,but he can never have but one mother."
The Duke's answer was in his haughtiest manner. "I assure you of myregret, holy Father. Necessity has no law."
"And no compassion?"
"Jean, my Jean! Only one minute more--one minute cannot be ofimportance. My little lad, my best-loved! lay thy lips to mine, and saythou lovest thine old mother, and let me bless thee, and then go, if itmust be, and I will die."
Amphillis wondered that the piteous passion of love in the tones of thepoor mother did not break down entirely the haughty coldness of theroyal son. The Duke did indeed bend his stately knee, and touch hismother's lips with his, but there was no shadow of response to herclinging clasp, no warmth, however faint, in the kiss into which shepoured her whole heart.
"Jean, little Jean! say thou lovest me?"
"Madame, it is a son's duty. I pray your blessing."
"I bless thee with my whole heart!" she said. "I pray God bless thee inevery hour of thy life, grant thee health, happiness, and victory, andcrown thee at last with everlasting bliss. Now go, my dear heart! Theold mother will not keep thee to thy hurt. God be with thee, and blessthee!"
Even then he did not linger; he did not even give her, unsolicited, onelast kiss. She raised herself on one side, to look after him and listento him to the latest moment, the light still beaming in her sunken eyes.His parting words were not addressed to her, but she heard them.
"Now then, Du Chatel," said the Duke to his squire in the corridor, "letus waste no more time. This irksome duty done, I would be awayimmediately, lest I be called back."
The light died out of the eager eyes, and the old white head sank backupon the pillow, the face turned away from the watchers. Amphillisapproached her, and tenderly smoothed the satin coverlet.
"Let be!" she said, in a low voice. "My heart is broken."
Am
phillis, who could scarcely restrain her own sobs, glanced at theArchbishop for direction. He answered her by pressing a finger on hislips. Perrote came in, her lips set, and her brows drawn. She hadevidently overheard those significant words. Then they heard the trampof the horses in the courtyard, the sound of the trumpet, the cry of"Notre Dame de Gwengamp!" and they knew that the Duke was departing.They did not know, however, that the parting guest was sped by a fewexceedingly scathing words from his sister, who had heard his remark tothe squire. She informed him, in conclusion, that he could strike offher head, if he had no compunction in staining his spotless erminebanner with his own kindly blood. It would make very little differenceto her, and, judging by the way in which he used his dying mother, shewas sure it could make none to him.
The Duke flung himself into his saddle, and dashed off down the slopefrom the gate without deigning either a response or a farewell.
As the Archbishop left the Countess's chamber, he beckoned Amphillisinto the corridor.
"I tarry not," said he, "for I can work no good now. This is not thetime. A stricken heart hath none ears. Leave her be, and leave her toGod. I go to pray Him to speak to her that comfort which she mayreceive alone from Him. None other can do her any help. To-morrow,maybe--when the vexed brain hath slept, and gentle time hath somewhatdulled the first sharp edge of her cruel sorrow--then I may speak and beheard. But now she is in that valley of the shadow, where no voice canreach her save that which once said, `Lazarus, come forth!' and whichthe dead shall hear in their graves at the last day."
"God comfort her, poor Lady!" said Amphillis. "Ay, God comfort her!"And the Archbishop passed on.
He made no further attempt to enter the invalid chamber until theevening of the next day, when he came in very softly, after a word withPerrote--no part of any house was ever closed against a priest--and satdown by the sufferer. She lay much as he had left her. He offered nogreeting, but took out his Evangelistarium from the pocket of hiscassock, and began to read in a low, calm voice.
"`The Spirit of the Lord is upon Me, for He hath anointed Me; He hathsent Me to evangelise the poor, to heal the contrite in heart, to preachliberty to the captives and sight to the blind, to set the bruised atliberty, to preach the acceptable year of the Lord, and the day ofretribution.'" [Luke four, verses 18, 19, Vulgate version.]
There was no sound in answer. The Archbishop turned over a few leaves.
"`Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy-laden, and I willrefresh you.' [Matthew nine, verse 28.] `And God shall dry all tearsfrom their eyes; and there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, norclamour, nor shall there be any more pain.' [Revelations twenty-one,verse 4.] `Trouble not your heart: believe in God, and believe in Me.'`Peace I bequeath to you, My peace I give to you: not as the worldgiveth, give I to you. Trouble not your heart, neither be it afraid.'[John fourteen, verses 1, 27.] `Whom the Lord loveth, He chastiseth;and whippeth also every son whom He receiveth.'" [Hebrews twelve, verse6.]
He read or quoted from memory, as passages occurred to him. When he hadreached this point he made a pause. A deep sigh answered him, but nowords.
"`And he looked round about on them which sat about Him, and said,Behold My mother and My brethren! For whosoever shall do the will ofGod, the same is My brother, and My sister, and mother.'"
"I dare say He kissed His mother!" said the low plaintive voice. Sheevidently knew of whom the reader spoke. "The world giveth not muchpeace. `Heavy-laden!' ay, heavy-laden! `Thou hast removed from mefriend and neighbour.' I have lost my liberty, and I am losing my life;and now--God have mercy on me!--I have lost my son."
"Dame, will you take for your son the Lord that died for you? He offersHimself to you. `The same is My mother.' He will give you not loveonly, but a son's love, and that warm and undying. `With perpetualcharity I delighted in thee,' He saith; `wherefore, pitying, I drew theeto Me.' Oh, my daughter, let Him draw thee!"
"What you will, Father," was the low answer. "I have no bodilystrength; pray you, make not the penance heavier than I can do.Elsewise, what you will. My will is broken; nothing matters any morenow. I scarce thought it should have so been--at the end. Howbeit,God's will be done. It must be done."
"My daughter, `this is the will of God, your sanctification.' The endand object of all penances, of all prayers, is that you may be joined toChrist. `For He is our peace,' and we are `in Him complete.' In Him--not in your penances, nor in yourself. If so were that my Lord Bassethad done you grievous wrong, it might be you forgave him fully, not foranything in him, but only because he is one with your own daughter, andyou could not strike him without smiting her; his dishonour is herdishonour, his peace is her peace, to punish him were to punish her. Sois it with the soul that is joined to Christ. If He be exalted, it mustbe exalted; if it be rejected, He is rejected also. And God cannotreject His own Son."
The Archbishop was not at all sure that the Countess was listening tohim. She kept her face turned away. He rose and wished her goodevening. The medicine must not be administered in an overdose, or itmight work more harm than good.
He came again on the following evening, and gave her a little more. Forthree days after he pursued the same course, and, further than courtesydemanded, he was not answered a word. On the fourth night he found theface turned. A pitiful face, whose aspect went to his heart--wan,white, haggard, unutterably pathetic. That night he read the fourteenthchapter of Saint John's Gospel, and added few words of his own. Onleaving her, he said--
"My daughter, God is more pitiful than men, and His love is better thantheirs."
"It had need be so!" were the only words that replied. In the corridorhe met Father Jordan. The Archbishop stopped.
"How fareth she in the body?"
"As ill as she may be, and live. Her life is counted by hours."
The Archbishop stood at the large oriel of stained glass at the end ofthe corridor, looking out on the spring evening--the buds just beginningto break, the softened gold of the western sky. His heart was veryfull.
"O Father of the everlasting age!" he said aloud, "all things arepossible unto Thee, and Thou hast eternity to work in. Suffer not thisburdened heart to depart ere Thou hast healed it with Thine eternalpeace! Grant Thy rest to the heavy-laden, Thy mercy to her on whom manhath had so little mercy! Was it not for this Thou earnest, O Saviourof the world? Good Shepherd, wilt Thou not go after this lost sheepuntil Thou find it?"
The next night the silence was broken.
"Father," she said, "tell me if I err. It looks to me, from the wordsyou read, as if our Lord lacketh not penances and prayers, and goodworks; He only wants _me_, and that by reason that He loveth me. Andwhy all this weary life hath been mine, He knoweth, and I am content toleave it so, if only He will take me up in His arms as the shepherd doththe sheep, and will suffer me to rest my weariness there. Do I err,Father?"
"My daughter, you accept the gospel of God's peace. This it is to cometo Him, and He shall give you rest."
The work was done. The proud spirit had stooped to the yoke. Thebitter truth against which she had so long fought and struggled wasaccepted at the pierced hands which wounded her only for her healing.That night she called Lady Basset to her.
"My little girl, my Jeanne!" she said, "I was too hard on thee. I lovedthy brother the best, and I defrauded thee of the love which was thydue. And now thou hast come forty miles to close mine eyes, and heturneth away, and will have none of me. Jeanette, darling, take mydying blessing, and may God deal with thee as thou hast dealt by the oldmother, and pay thee back an hundredfold the love thou hast given me!Kiss me, sweet heart, and forgive me the past."
Two days later, the long journey by the way of the wilderness was over.On the 18th of March, 1374, Perrote folded the aged, wasted hands uponthe now quiet breast.
"All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow, All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing, All the dull, deep pain, and the
constant anguish of patience! And as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom, Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, `Father, I thank Thee!'"
The fate which had harassed poor Marguerite in life pursued her to thevery grave. There was no sumptuous funeral, no solemn hearse, no regalbanners of arms for her. Had there been any such thing, it would haveleft its trace on the Wardrobe Rolls of the year. There was not even acourt mourning. It was usual then for the funerals of royal persons tobe deferred for months after the death, in order to make the ceremonymore magnificent. But now, in the twilight of the second evening, whichwas Monday, a quiet procession came silently across from the Manor Houseto the church, headed by Father Jordan; twelve poor men bore torchesbeside the bier; the Mass for the Dead was softly sung, and thosebeautiful, pathetic words which for ages rose beside the waitingcoffin:--
"King of awful majesty, By Thy mercy full and free, Fount of mercy, pardon me!
"Think, O Saviour, in what way On Thine head my trespass lay; Let me not be lost that day!
"Thou wert weary seeking me; On Thy cross Thou mad'st me free; Lose not all Thine agony!"
Then they prayed for her everlasting rest--not joy. The thought ofactive bliss could hardly be associated with that weary soul. "Jesus,grant her Thine eternal rest!" And the villagers crept round with baredheads, and whispered to one another that they were burying the WhiteLady--that mysterious prisoner whom no one ever saw, who never came tochurch, nor set foot outside the walls of her prison; and they dimlyguessed some thousandth part of the past pathos of that shadowed life,and they joined in the Amen. And over her grave were set up nosculptured figure and table tomb, only one slab of pure white marble,carved with a cross, and beneath it, the sole epitaph of Marguerite ofFlanders, the heroine of Hennebon,--"Mercy, Jesu!" So they left her toher rest.
Ten years later, in a quiet Manor House near Furness Abbey, a knight'swife was telling a story to her three little girls.
"And you called me after her, Mother!" said little fair-haired Margaret.
"But what became of the naughty man who didn't want to come and see hispoor mother when she was so sick and unhappy, Mother?" askedcompassionate little Regina.
"Naughty man!" echoed Baby Perrotine.
Lady Hylton stroked her little Margaret's hair.
"He led not a happy life, my darlings; but we will not talk about him.Ay, little Meg, I called thee after the poor White Lady. I pray Godthou mayest give thine heart to Him earlier than she did, and not haveto walk with weary feet along her wilderness way. Let us thank God forour happy life, and love each other as much as we can."
A hand which she had not known was there was laid upon her head.
"Thinkest thou we can do that, my Phyllis, any better than now?" askedSir Norman Hylton.
"We can all try," said Amphillis, softly. "And God, our God, shallbless us."
APPENDIX.
Marguerite of Flanders, Countess of Montfort, was the only daughter ofLoys de Nevers, eldest surviving son of Robert the First, Count ofFlanders (who predeceased his father), and of Marie or Jeanne, daughterof the Count de Rethel. She had one brother, Count Loys the First ofFlanders, who fell at Crecy. Many modern writers call her Jeanne; buther name in the contemporary public records of England is invariablyMargareta. Her birth probably took place about 1310, and it may havebeen about 1335 that she married Jean of Bretagne, Count de Montfort, ayounger son of Duke Arthur the Second.
Duke Arthur, the son of Beatrice of England, had been twice married--toMarie of Limoges and Violette of Dreux, Countess of Montfort in her ownright. With other issue who are not concerned in the story, he had byMarie two sons, Duke Jean the Third and Guyon; and by Violette one, JeanCount of Montfort, the husband of Marguerite. On the childless death ofJean the Third in 1341, a war of succession arose between the daughterof his deceased brother Guyon, and his half-brother the Count ofMontfort. The daughter, Jeanne la Boiteuse, claimed the right torepresent her father Guyon, while Montfort stood by the law ofnon-representation, according to which no deceased prince could berepresented by his child, and the younger brother even by the half-bloodwas considered a nearer relative than the child of the elder. The Kingof France took the part of Jeanne and her husband, Charles de Blois; hecaptured the Count of Montfort, and imprisoned him in the Louvre. TheCountess Marguerite, "who had the heart of a lion," thenceforth carriedon the war on behalf of her husband and son. In the spring of 1342 sheobtained the help of King Edward the Third of England, which however wasfitfully rendered, as he took either side in turn to suit his ownconvenience. Some account of her famous exploits is given in the story,and is familiar to every reader of Froissart's Chronicle. Shortly afterthis the Countess brought her son to England, and betrothed him to theKing's infant daughter Mary; but she soon returned to Bretagne. In 1345the Count of Montfort escaped from his prison in the disguise of apedlar, and arrived in England: but the King was not at that timedisposed to assist him, and Montfort took the refusal so much to heartthat--probably combined with already failing health--it killed him inthe following September. When the war was reopened, the Countess tookcaptive her rival Charles de Blois, and brought him to England. TheKing appointed her residence in Tickhill Castle, granting the very smallsum of 15 pounds per annum for her expenses "there or wherever we mayorder her to be taken, while she remains in our custody." (Patent Roll,25 Edward the Third, Part 3.) It is evident that while treated overtlyas a guest, the Countess was in reality a prisoner: a fact yet moreforcibly shown by an entry in December, 1348, recording the payment of60 shillings expenses to John Burdon for his journey to Tickhill, "tobring up to London the Duchess of Bretagne and the knight who ran awaywith her." This seems to have been an attempt to free the prisoner, towhom, as the upholder of her husband's claim on the throne of Bretagne,the King of course accorded the title of Duchess. The testimony of therecords henceforward is at variance with that of the chroniclers, thelatter representing Marguerite as making sundry journeys to Bretagne incompany with her son and others, and as being to all intents at liberty.The Rolls, on the contrary, when she is named, invariably speak of heras a prisoner in Tickhill Castle, in keeping of Sir John Delves, andafter his death, of his widow Isabel. That the Rolls are the superiorauthority there can be no question.
The imprisonment of Charles de Blois was very severe. He offered aheavy ransom and his two elder sons as hostages; King Edward demanded400,000 deniers, and afterwards 100,000 gold florins. In 1356 Charleswas released, his sons Jean and Guyon taking his place. They wereconfined first in Nottingham Castle, and in 1377 were removed toDevizes, where Guyon died about Christmas 1384. In 1362 Edward andCharles agreed on a treaty, which Jeanne refused to ratify, allegingthat she would lose her life, or two if she had them, rather thanrelinquish her claims to young Montfort. Two years later Charles waskilled at the battle of Auray, and Jeanne thereon accepted a settlementwhich made Montfort Duke of Bretagne, reserving to herself the county ofPenthievre, the city of Limoges, and a sum of ten thousand _livresTournois_.
The only authority hitherto discovered giving any hint of the history ofMarguerite after this date, is a contemporary romance, _Le Roman de laComtesse de Montfort_, which states that she retired to the Castle ofLucinio, near Vannes, and passed the rest of her life in tranquillity.Even Mrs Everett Green, in her _Lives of the Princesses of England_,accepted this as a satisfactory conclusion. It was, indeed, the onlyone known. But two entries on the public records of England entirelydissipate this comfortable illusion. On 26th September 1369, the PatentRoll states that "we allowed 105 pounds per annum to John Delves for thekeeping of the noble lady, the Duchess of Bretagne; and we now grant toIsabel his widow, for so long a time as the said Duchess shall be in herkeeping, the custody of the manor of Walton-on-Trent, value 22 pounds,"and 52 pounds from other lands. (Patent Roll, 43 Edward the Third, Part2.) The allowance originally made had evidently been increased. Thehapless prisoner, however, was not left long in the custody of IsabelDelves.
She was transferred to that of Sir Godfrey Foljambe, whosewife, Avena Ireland, was daughter of Avena de Holand, aunt of JoanDuchess of Bretagne, the second wife of young Montfort. Lastly, a PostMortem Inquisition, taken in 1374, announces that "Margaret Duchess ofBretagne died at Haselwood, in the county of Derby, on the 18th ofMarch, 48 Edward the Third, being sometime in the custody of GodfreyFoljambe." (Inquisitions of Exchequer, 47-8 Edward the Third, countyDerbyshire).
It is therefore placed beyond question that the Countess of Montfortdied a prisoner in England, at a date when her son had been for tenyears an independent sovereign, and though on friendly terms with Edwardthe Third, was no longer a suppliant for his favour. Can it haveoccurred without his knowledge and sanction? He was in England when shedied, but there is no indication that he ever went to see her, and herfuneral, as is shown by the silence of the Wardrobe Rolls, was withoutany ceremony. Considering the character of the Duke--"violent in allhis feelings, loving to madness, hating to fury, and rarely overcoming aprejudice once entertained"--the suspicion is aroused that all the earlysacrifices made by his mother, all the gallant defence of his dominions,the utter self-abnegation and the tender love, were suffered to pass byhim as the idle wind, in order that he might revenge himself upon herfor the one occasion on which she prevented him from breaking hispledged word to King Edward's daughter, and committing a _mesalliance_with Alix de Ponteallen. For this, or at any rate for some thwarting ofhis will, he seems never to have forgiven her.
Marguerite left two children--Duke Jean the Fourth, born 1340, diedNovember 1, 1399: he married thrice,--Mary of England, Joan de Holand,and Juana of Navarre--but left no issue by any but the last, and by hera family of nine children, the eldest being only twelve years old whenhe died. Strange to say, he named one of his daughters after hisdiscarded mother. His sister Jeanne, who was probably his senior, wasoriginally affianced to Jean of Blois, the long-imprisoned son ofCharles and Jeanne: she married, however, Ralph, last Lord Basset ofDrayton, and died childless, November 8, 1403.
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