“no has visto un niño, que viene
a dar un doblon que tiene,
porque le den una flor?”
lope de vega.
philippa determined to return home by way of sempringham. she could not have given any very cogent reason, except that she wished to see the place where the only peaceful days of her mother’s life had been passed. perhaps peace might there come to her also; and she was far enough from it now. it would have been strange indeed if peace had dwelt in a heart where was neither “glory to god” nor “good-will to men.” and while her veneration for her mother’s memory was heightened by her aunt’s narrative, her feeling towards her father, originally a shrinking timidity, had changed now into active hatred. had she at that moment been summoned to his deathbed, she would either have refused to go near him at all, or have gone with positive pleasure.
but beside all this, philippa could not avoid the conclusion that her salvation was as far from being accomplished as it had been when she reached shaftesbury. she felt further off it than ever; it appeared to recede from her at every approach. very uneasily she remembered guy’s farewell words,—“god strip you of your own goodness!” the living water seemed as distant as before; but the thirst grew more intense. and yet, like hagar in the wilderness, the well was beside her all the time; but until the angel of the lord should open her eyes, she could not see it.
she reached sempringham, and took up her abode for the night in the convent, uncertain how long she would remain there. an apparently trivial incident decided that question for her.
as philippa stood at the convent gate, in a mild winter morning, she heard a soft, sweet voice singing, and set herself to discover whence the sound proceeded. the vocalist was readily found,—a little girl of ten years old, who was sitting on a bank a few yards from the gate, with a quantity of snowdrops in her lap, which she was trying with partial success to weave into a wreath. philippa—weary of idleness, books of hours, and embroidery—drew near to talk with her.
“what is thy name?” she asked, by way of opening negotiations.
“elaine,” said the child, lifting a pair of timid blue eyes to her questioner’s face.
“and where dwellest thou?”
“down yonder glade, lady: my father is wilfred the convent woodcutter.”
“and who taught thee to speak french?”
“the holy sisters, lady.”
“what wert thou singing a minute since?”
the child drooped her head shyly.
“do not be afraid,” said philippa gently. “i like to hear singing. wilt thou sing it again to me?”
elaine hesitated a moment; but another glance at philippa’s smiling face seemed to reassure her, and she sang, in a low voice, to a sweet, weird tune:—
“‘quy de cette eaw boyra
ancor soyf aura;
mays quy de l’eaw boyra
que moy luy donneray,
jamays soyf n’aura
a l’éternité.’”
“this must be very widely known,” thought philippa.—“who taught thee that—the holy sisters?” she asked of the child.
“no,” answered elaine, shaking her head. “the grey lady.”
“and who is the grey lady?”
the look with which elaine replied, showed philippa that not to know the grey lady was to augur herself unknown, at least in the vale of sempringham.
“know you not the grey lady? all in the vale know her.”
“where dwelleth she?”
“up yonder”—but to philippa’s eyes, elaine merely pointed to a cluster of leafless trees on the hill-side.
“and is she one of the holy sisters?”
on this point elaine was evidently doubtful. the grey lady did not dwell in the convent, nor in any convent; she lived all alone, therefore it was plain that she was not a sister. but she was always habited in grey wherefore men called her the grey lady. no—she had no other name.
“a recluse, manifestly,” said philippa to herself; “the child does not understand. but is she an anchoritess or an eremitess?—does she ever leave her cell?” (see note 1.)
“lady, she tendeth all the sick hereabout. she is a friend of every woman in the vale. my mother saith, an’ it like you, that where there is any wound to heal, or heart to comfort, there is the grey lady. and she saith she hath a wonderful power of healing, as well for mind as body. when edeline our neighbour lost all her four children by fever between the two saint agneses, (see note 2), nobody could comfort her till the grey lady came. and when ida my playmate lay dying, and very fearful of death, she said even the holy priest did her not so much good as the grey lady. i think,” ended elaine softly, “she must be an angel in disguise.”
the child evidently spoke her thought literally.
“i will wait and see this grey lady,” thought philippa. “let me see if she can teach and comfort me. ever since guy of ashridge visited kilquyt, i seem to have been going further from comfort every day.—canst thou lead me to the grey lady’s cell?”
“i could; but she is not now there, lady.”
“when will she be there?”
“to-morrow, when the shadow beginneth to lengthen,” replied elaine, who was evidently well acquainted with the grey lady’s proceedings.
“then to-morrow, when the shadow beginneth to lengthen, thou shalt come to the convent gate, and i will meet with thee. will thy mother give thee leave?”
“ay. she alway giveth me leave to visit the grey lady.”
the appointment was made, and philippa turned back to the convent.
“i was searching you, lady de sergeaux,” said the portress, when philippa re-entered the gate. “during your absence, there came to the priory close by a messenger from arundel on his road toward hereford; and hearing that the lady de sergeaux was with us, he sent word through a lay-brother that he would gladly have speech of you.”
“a messenger from arundel! what can he want with me?”
philippa felt that all messengers from arundel would be very unwelcome to her. she added, rather ungraciously, that “perhaps she had better see him.” she passed into the guest-chamber, whither in a few minutes the messenger came to her. he was a page, habited in deep mourning; and philippa recognised him at once as the personal “varlet” attendant on the countess. the thought rose to her mind that the earl might have fallen in gascony.
“god keep thee, good hubert!” she said. “be thy tidings evil?”
“as evil as they might be, lady,” answered the page sadly. “two days before the feast of saint hilary, our lady the countess alianora was commanded to god.”
a tumult of conflicting feelings went surging through philippa’s heart and brain.
“was thy lord at home?”
she inwardly hoped that he was not. it was only fitting, said the vindictive hatred which had usurped the place of her conscience, that alianora of lancaster should feel something of that to which she had helped to doom isabel la despenser.
“lady, no. our lord abideth in gascony, with the duke of lancaster.”
philippa was not sorry to hear it; for her heart was full of “envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness.”
when the shadow began to lengthen on the following day, philippa wrapped her mantle around her, and called to her damsel to follow. her varlet followed also, at a little distance behind. she found elaine and a younger child waiting for her outside the gate. elaine introduced her companion as her sister annora. annora proved much less shy than elaine, and far more ready with her communications. but she was not asked many questions; for as they turned away from the convent gate, they were met by a monk in the dominican habit, and philippa knew directly the face of guy of ashridge.
“christ save you, father,” said she.
“and you, daughter,” he answered. “are you yet seeking comfort, or have you found it?”
“i am further from it than ever,” she replied, rather petulantly.
“no wonder,” said guy. “for comfort hath another name, which is—christ. who is a stranger to the one shall needs be a stranger to the other.”
“i have tried hard to make my salvation,” responded philippa more sadly; “but as yet i cannot do it.”
“nor will you, though you could try a thousand years,” answered guy. “that is a manufacture beyond saints and angels, and how then shall you do it?”
“who then can do it?”
“god,” said guy, solemnly.
“god hates me,” replied philippa, under her breath. “he hateth all mine house. for nigh fifty years, he hath sent us sorrow upon sorrow, and hath crushed us down into the dust of death.”
“poor blindling! is that a proof that he hateth you?” answered guy more gently. “well, it is true at times, when the father sendeth a varlet in haste to save the child from falling over a precipice, the child—whose heart is set on some fair flower on the rock below—doth think it cruel. you are that child; and your trouble is the varlet god hath sent after you.”
“he hath sent his whole meynie, then,” said philippa bitterly.
“then the child will not come to the father?” said guy, softly.
philippa was silent.
“is the flower so fair, that you will risk life for it?” pursued the monk. “nay, not risk—that is a word implying doubt, and here is none. so fair, then, that you will throw life away for it? and is the father not fair and precious in your eyes, that you are in so little haste to come to him? daughter, what shall it profit you, if you gain the whole world—and lose your own soul?”
“father, you are too hard upon me!” cried philippa in a pained tone, and resisting with some difficulty a strong inclination to shed tears. “i would come to god, but i know not how, nor do you tell me. god is afar off, and hath no leisure nor will to think on me; nor can i presume to approach him without the holy saints to intercede for me. i have sought their intercession hundreds of times. it is not i that am unwilling to be saved; and you speak to me as if you thought it so. it is god that will not save me. i have done all i can.”
“o fool, and slow of heart to believe!” earnestly answered guy. “can it be god, when he cared so much for you that he sent his blessed son down from heaven to die for your salvation? beware how you accuse the lord. i tell you again, it is not his will that opposeth itself to your happiness, but your own. you have built up a wall of your own excellencies that you cannot see god; and then you cry, ‘he hath hidden himself from me.’ pull down your miserable mud walls, and let the light of heaven shine in upon you. christ will save you with no half nor quarter salvation. he will not let you lay the foundation whereon he shall build. he will not tear his fair shining robe of righteousness to patch your worthless rags. with him, either not at all, or all in all.”
“but what would you have me do?” said philippa, in a vexed tone.
“believe,” replied guy.
“believe what?” said she.
“‘believe in the lord jesus christ, and thou shalt be saved.’”
“the easiest thing in the world,” answered philippa, a little contemptuously.
“is it so?” responded the monk, with a pitying smile. “it seems to me that you have found it since last june the hardest thing in the world. whither go you now?” he asked, suddenly changing his tone.
“i go,” she rejoined, “with this child, to the cell of an eremitess of whom she hath told me, ‘that hath,’ quoth she, ‘great power of comforting the sorrowful.’ all about here seem to know her. they call her the grey lady.”
guy looked on her long and earnestly, an expression creeping over his face which philippa could not understand.
“be it so,” he said at last. “‘i will lead the blind by a way that they know not.’ let my voice be silent when he speaketh. verily”—and his voice fell to a softer tone—“i never passed through the deep waters wherein she has waded; nor, perchance, where you have. let god speak to you through her. go your way.”
“but who is she—this grey lady?”
philippa asked in vain. guy either did not hear her, or would not answer. he walked rapidly down the hill, with only “farewell!” as he passed her; and she went her way, to meet her fate—rather, to meet god’s providence—in the cell of the grey lady.
