CHAPTER NINE.
TOGETHER.
"Woe to the eye that sheds no tears - No tears for God to wipe away!"
"G.E.M."
"And is it so hard to forgive?" asked the soft voice of Isabel.
"I will try, but it seems impossible," responded Philippa. "How can anyforgive injuries that reach down to the very root of the heart andlife?"
"My child," said Isabel, "he that injureth followeth after Satan; but hethat forgiveth followeth after God. It is because our great debt to Godis too mighty for our bounded sight, and we cannot reach to the endsthereof, that we are so ready to require of our fellow-debtors the smalland sorry sum owed to ourselves. `He that loveth not his brother whomhe hath seen, how can he love God whom he hath not seen?' And can anylove and yet not forgive?"
"It is sometimes easier to love one ere he be seen than after," saidPhilippa, sarcastically.
Isabel smiled rather sadly, for the latent thought in her daughter'smind was only too apparent to her. Had Philippa known as little of herfather as of her mother, her feeling towards him would have been farless bitter. But there was no other answer. Even though twenty-sevenyears lay between that day and the June morning on which she had quittedArundel, Isabel could not trust herself to speak of Richard Fitzalan.She dared not run the risk of re-opening the wound, by looking to seewhether it had healed.
"Mother," said Philippa suddenly, "thou wilt come with me to Kilquyt?"
"For a time," answered Isabel, "if thine husband assent thereto."
"I shall not ask him," said Philippa, with a slight pout.
"Then I shall not go," replied Isabel quietly. "I will not enter hishouse without his permission."
Philippa's surprise and disappointment were legible in her face.
"But, mother, thou knowest not my lord," she interposed. "There is notin all the world a man more wearisome to dwell withal. Every thing Ido, he dislikes; and every thing I wish to do, he forbids. I amthankful for his absence, for when he is at home, from dawn to dusk hedoth nought save to find fault with me."
But, notwithstanding her remonstrance, Philippa had fathomed hermother's motive in thus answering. Sir Richard possessed little of hisown; he was almost wholly dependent on the Earl her father; and had itpleased that gentleman to revoke his grant of manors to herself and herhusband, they would have been almost ruined. And Philippa knew quiteenough of Earl Richard the Copped-Hat to be aware that few tidings wouldbe so unwelcome at Arundel as those which conveyed the fact of Isabel'spresence at Kilquyt. Her mother's uplifted hand stopped her from sayingmore.
"Hush, my daughter!" said the low voice. "Repay not thou by findingfault in return. `What glory is it, if, when ye be buffeted for yourfaults, ye shall take it patiently? but if, when ye do well and sufferfor it, ye take it patiently, this is acceptable with God.'"
"I am not so patient as you, mother," answered Philippa, shaking herhead. "Perhaps it were better for me if I were. But dost thou meanthat I must really ask my lord's leave ere thou wilt come with me?"
"I do mean it."
"And thou sayest, `for a time'--wilt thou not dwell with me?"
"The vows of the Lord are upon me," replied Isabel, gravely. "I cannotforsake the place wherein He hath set me, the work which He hath givenme to do. I will visit thee, and my sister also; but that done, I mustreturn hither."
"But dost thou mean to live and die in yonder cell?"
It was in the recreation-room of the Convent that they were conversing.
"Even so, my daughter." [See Note 1.]
Philippa's countenance fell. It seemed very hard to part again whenthey had but just found each other. If this were religion, it must bedifficult work to be religious. Yet she was more disappointed thansurprised, especially when the first momentary annoyance was past.
"My child," said Isabel softly, seeing her disappointment, "if I err inthus speaking, I pray God to pardon me. I can but follow what I seeright; and `to him that esteemeth anything to be unclean, to him it isunclean.' How can I forsake the hearts that look to me for helpthroughout this valley? And if thou have need of me, thou canst alwayscome, or send for me."
This gentle, apologetic explanation touched Philippa the more, becauseshe felt that in the like case, she could not herself have condescendedto make it.
The next thing to be done was to write to Sir Richard. This Philippawas unable to do personally, since the art of handling the pen hadformed no part of her education. Her mother did it for her; for Isabelhad been solidly and elaborately instructed by Giles de Edingdon, underthe superintendence of the King's Confessor, Luke de Wodeford, also aPredicant Friar. The letter had to be directed very much at random,--to"Sir Richard Sergeaux, of the Duke of Lancaster's following, atBordeaux, or wherever he may be found." Fortunately for Philippa, thePrior of the neighbouring monastery was just despatching his cellarer toLondon on conventual business: and he undertook to convey her letter tothe Savoy Palace, whence it would be forwarded with the next despatchessent to John of Gaunt. Philippa, in whose name the letter was written,requested her husband to reply to her at Shaftesbury, whither she andIsabel meant to proceed at once.
The spring was in its full beauty when they reached Shaftesbury.Philippa had not found an opportunity to let the Abbess know of hercoming, but she was very cordially welcomed by that good-natured dame.The recreation-bell sounded while they were conversing, and atPhilippa's desire the Abbess sent for Mother Joan to the guest-chamber.Sister Senicula led her in.
"How is it with you, Aunt?" said Philippa affectionately. "I havereturned hither, as you may hear."
"Ah! Is it thou, child?" said the blind nun in answer. "I farereasonably well, as a blind woman may. I am glad thou hast come hitheragain."
It evidently cost Isabel much to make herself known to the sister fromwhom she had parted in such painful circumstances, thirty-seven yearsbefore. For a few moments longer, she did not speak, and Philippawaited for her. At last Isabel said in a choked voice--"Sister Joan!"
"Holy Virgin!" exclaimed the blind woman; "who called me that?"
"One that thou knewest once," answered Isabel's quivering voice.
"From Heaven?" cried Joan almost wildly. "Can the dead come backagain?" And she stretched forth her hands in the direction from whichthe sound of her sister's voice had come.
"No, but the living may," said Isabel, kneeling down by her, andclasping her arms around her.
"Isabel!" And Joan's trembling hands were passed over her face, as ifto assure herself that her ears had not deceived her. "It can be novoice but thine. Holy Virgin, I thank thee!"
The Abbess broke in, in a manner which, though well-meant, wasexceedingly ill-timed and in bad taste. She was kindly-disposed, buthad not the faintest trace of that delicate perception of others'feelings, and consideration for them, which constitutes the realdifference between Nature's ladies and such as are not ladies.
"Verily, to think that this holy Mother and our Mother Joan be sisters!"cried she, "I remember somewhat of your history, my holy Sister: are younot she that was sometime Countess of Arundel?"
Philippa saw how Isabel trembled from head to foot; but she knew notwhat to say. Joan La Despenser was equal to the emergency.
"Holy Mother," she said quietly, "would it please you, of your greatgoodness, to permit me to remain here during the recreation-hour with mysister? I am assured we shall have much to say each to other, if we mayhave your blessed allowance to speak freely after this manner."
"Be it so, Sister," said the Abbess, smiling genially; "I will see toour sisters in the recreation-chamber."
A long conversation followed the departure of the Abbess. Joan took upthe history where she had parted from Isabel, and told what had been herown lot since then; and Isabel in her turn recounted her story--neithera long nor an eventful one; for it told only how she had been taken toSempringham by the page, and had there settled herself, in the hermit'scell which happened to be vacant.
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sp; When Philippa was lying awake that night, her thoughts were troublousones. Not only did she very much doubt Sir Richard's consent to hermother's visit to Kilquyt; but another question was puzzling herexceedingly. How far was it desirable to inform Isabel of the death ofAlianora? She had noticed how the unfortunate remark of the Abbess hadagitated her mother; and she also observed that when Joan came to speakto Isabel herself, she was totally silent concerning Earl Richard. Theuncomplimentary adjectives which she had not spared in speaking toPhilippa were utterly discarded now. Would it not do at least as muchharm as good to revive the old memories of pain by telling her this?Philippa decided to remain silent.
The summer was passing away, and the autumn hues were slowly creepingover the forest, when Sir Richard's answer arrived at Shaftesbury. Itwas not a pleasing missive; but it would have cost Philippa more tearsif it had made her less angry. That gentleman had not written in a goodtemper; but he was not without excuse, for he had suffered somethinghimself. He had not dared to reply to Philippa's entreaty, withoutseeking in his turn the permission of the Earl of Arundel, in whosehands his fortune lay to make or mar. And, by one of thoseuncomfortable coincidences which have led to the proverb that"Misfortunes never come single," it so happened that the news of theCountess's death had reached the Earl on the very morning whereon SirRichard laid Philippa's letter before him. The result was that therebroke on the devoted head of Sir Richard a tempest of ungovernable rage,so extremely unpleasant in character that he might be excused for hisanxiety to avoid provoking a second edition of it. The Earl wasgrieved--so far as a nature like his could entertain grief--to lose hissecond wife; but to find that the first wife had been discovered, and byher daughter, possessed the additional character of insult. That theoccurrence was accidental did not alter matters. Words would notcontent the aggrieved mourner: his hand sought the hilt of his sword,and Sir Richard, thinking discretion the better part of valour, made hisway, as quickly as the laws of matter and space allowed him, out of theterrible presence whereinto he had rashly ventured. Feeling himselfwholly innocent of any provocation, it was not surprising that he shouldproceed to dictate a letter to his wife, scarcely calculated to gratifyher feelings. Thus ran the offending document:--
"Dame,--Your epistle hath reached mine hands, [see Note 2] wherein it hath pleased you to give me to know of your finding of the Lady Isabel La Despenser, your fair mother, [see Note 3] and likewise of your desire that she should visit you at my Manor of Kilquyt. Know therefore, that I can in no wise assent to the same. For I am assured that it should provoke, and that in no small degree, the wrath of your fair father, my gracious Lord of Arundel: and I hereby charge you, on your obedience, so soon as you shall receive this my letter, that you return home, and tarry no longer at Shaftesbury nor Sempringham. Know that I fare reasonably well, and Eustace my squire; and your fair father likewise, saving that he hath showed much anger towards you and me. And thus, praying God and our blessed Lady, and Saint Peter and Saint Paul, to keep you. I rest.
"R. Sergeaux."
The entire epistle was written by a scribe, for Sir Richard was asinnocent of the art of calligraphy as Philippa herself; and theappending of his seal was the only part of the letter achieved by hisown hand.
Philippa read the note three times before she communicated its contentsto any one. The first time, it was with feelings of bitter angertowards both her father and her husband; the second, her view of herfather's conduct remained unchanged, but she began to see that SirRichard, from his own point of view, was not without reasonable excusefor his refusal, and that considering the annoyance he had himselfsuffered, his letter was moderate and even tolerably kind,--kind, thatis, for him. After the third perusal, Philippa carried the letter toJoan, and read it to her--not in Isabel's presence.
"What a fool wert thou, child," said Joan, with her usual bluntness, "tosend to thy lord concerning this matter! Well, what is done, is done.I had looked for no better had I known of it."
Philippa did not read the letter to her mother. She merely told her thesubstance; that Sir Richard would not permit her to receive her atKilquyt, and that he had ordered her home without delay. Isabel's lipquivered a moment, but the next instant she smiled.
"I am not surprised, my child," she said. "Take heed, and obey." Itwas hard work to obey. Hard, to part with Joan; harder yet, to leaveIsabel in her lonely cell at Sempringham, and to go forward on the aslonely journey to Kilquyt. Perhaps hardest of all was the last night inthe recreation-room at Sempringham. Isabel and Philippa sat bythemselves in a corner, the hand of the eremitess clasped in that of herdaughter.
"But how do you account for all the sorrow that is in the world?"Philippa had been saying. "Take my life, for instance, or your own,mother. God could have given us very pleasant lives, if it had pleasedHim; why did He not do so? How can it augur love, to take out of ourway all things loved or loving?"
"My daughter," answered Isabel, "I am assured--and the longer I live themore assured I am--that the way which God marketh out for each one ofHis chosen is the right way, the best way, and for that one the onlyway. Every pang given to us, if we be Christ's, is a pang that couldnot be spared. `As He was, so are we in this world;' and with us, aswith Him, `thus it _must_ be.' All our Lord's followers wear His crownof thorns; but theirs, under His loving hand, bud and flower; which Hisnever did, till He could cry upon the rood, `It is finished.'"
"But could not God," said Philippa, a little timidly, "have given usmore grace to avoid sinning, rather than have needed thus to burn oursins out of us with hot irons?"
"Thou art soaring up into the seventh Heaven of God's purposes, mychild," answered Isabel with a smile; "I have no wings to follow thee sofar."
"Thou thinkest, then, mother," replied Philippa with a sigh, "that wecannot understand the matter at all."
"We can understand only what is revealed to us," replied Isabel; "andthat, I grant, is but little; yet it is enough. `As many as I love, Irebuke and chasten.' `What son is he whom the father chasteneth not?'How could it be otherwise? He were no wise father nor loving, whoshould teach his son nothing, or should forbear to rebuke him for suchfolly as might hereafter be his ruin."
Isabel was silent, and Philippa's memory went back to those old lovelessdays at Arundel, when for her there had been no chastening, no rebuke,only cold, lifeless apathy. That was not love. And she thought also ofher half-sister Alesia, whom she had visited once since her marriage,and who brought up her children on the principle of no contradiction andunlimited indulgence; and remembering how discontented and hard toplease this discipline had made them, she began to see that was not loveeither.
"Thou hast wrought arras, my daughter," said Isabel again. "Thouknowest, therefore, that to turn the arras the backward way showeth notthe pattern. The colours are all mixed out of proportion, as thefastenings run in and out. So our life is in this world. The arrasshall only be turned the right way above, when the angels of God shallsee it, and marvel at the fair proportions and beauteous colours of thatwhich looked so rough and misshapen here below.
"Moreover, we are thus tried, methinks, not only for our own good. Weare sent into this world to serve: to serve God first, and after toserve man for God's sake. And every blow of the chisel on the stonedoth but dress it for its place. God's chisel never falleth on thewrong place, and never giveth a stroke too much. Every pang fitteth usfor more service; and I think thou shouldst find, in most instances,that the higher and greater the service to which the varlet is called,the deeper the previous suffering which fitteth him therefor. And God'sgreatnesses are not ours. In His eyes, a poor serving-maiden may have aloftier and more difficult task than a lord of the King's Council, or aMarshal of the army.
"And after all, every sorrow and perplexity, be it large or small, dothbut give God's child an errand to his Father. Nothing is too little tobear to His ear, if it be not too little to distress and perplex Hisservant. To Him all things pertaining to th
is life are small--the clothof estate no less than the blade of grass; and all things pertaining tothat other and better life in His blessed Home, are great and mighty.Yet we think the first great, and the last little. And therefore thingsbecome great that belong to the first life, just in proportion as theybear upon the second. Nothing is small that becomes to thee an occasionof sin; nothing, that can be made an incentive to holiness."
"O mother, mother!" said Philippa, with a sudden sharp shoot of pain,"to-morrow I shall be far away from you, and none will teach me anymore!"
"God will teach thee Himself, my child," said Isabel tenderly. "He canteach far better than I. Only be thou not weary of His lessons; norrefuse to learn them. Maybe thou canst not see the use of many of themtill they are learned; but `thou shalt know hereafter.' Thou shalt findmany a thorn in the way; but remember, it is not set there in anger, ifthou be Christ's; and many a flower shall spring up under thy feet, whenthou art not looking for it. Only do thou never loose thine hold onHim, who has promised never to loose His on thee. Not that thoushouldst be lost in so doing; He will have a care of that: but thoumightest find thyself in the dark, and so far as thou couldst see,alone. It is sin that hides God from man; but nothing can hide man fromGod."
And Philippa, drawing closer to her, whispered,--"Mother, pray for me."
A very loving smile broke over Isabel's lips, as she pressed them fondlyupon Philippa's cheek.
"Mine own Philippa," she said, in the softest accent of her soft voice,"dost thou think I have waited thirty years for that?"
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Note 1. I am aware that this resolution will appear inconsistent withIsabel's character; yet any other would have been inconsistent with hertimes. The vows of recluses were held very sacred; and the opinions ofthe Boni-Homines on the monastic question were little in advance ofthose of the Church of Rome.
Note 2. Had Sir Richard been a peer, he would have said "_our_ hands."This style, now exclusively royal, was in 1372 employed by all thenobles.
Note 3. This adjective also was peculiar to the peerage and the RoyalFamily. It was given to every relation except between husband and wife:and the French _beau-pirt_ for _father-in-law_ is doubtless derived fromit. Nay, it was conferred on the Deity; and "Fair Father Jesu Christ"was by no means an uncommon title used in prayer. In like manner, SaintLouis, when he prayed, said, "_Sire Dieu_," the title of knighthood.Quaint and almost profane as this usage sounds to modern ears, I thinktheir instinct was right: they addressed God in the highest and mostreverential terms they knew.