“though briars and thorns obstruct the way,
oh, what are thorns and briars to me,
if thy sweet words console and stay,
if thou but let me go with thee?”
“g.e.m.”
in the house of henry the mason, six doors from the walnut tree, three of the germans had been received—old berthold, his wife luitgarde, and their daughter adelheid. two years after their coming, luitgarde had died, and berthold and his daughter were left alone adelheid, though ten years the elder, was a great friend of ermine, and she seemed about as much averse to matrimony as the latter, though being less well-favoured, she had received fewer incentives to adopt it. raven soclin, however, did not allow his disappointment in love to affect his spirits, nor to have much time for existence. ermine’s refusal was barely six weeks old when he transferred his very transferable affections to flemild, and romund, the family dictator, did not allow any refusal of the offer. in fact, flemild was fairly well satisfied with the turn matters had taken. she knew she must be either wife or nun—there was no third course open for a woman in england at that day—and she certainly had no proclivity for the cloister. derette, on the other hand, had expressed herself in terms of great contempt for matrimony, and of decided intention to adopt single life, in the only form in which it was then possible. it was therefore arranged by romund, and obediently sanctioned by isel—for that was an age of obedient mothers, so far as sons were concerned—that flemild should marry raven soclin, and derette should become a novice at godstowe, in the month of september shortly about to open.
nothing had yet been heard of manning, the absent husband and father. isel still cherished an unspoken hope of his return; but romund and flemild had given him up for dead, while the younger children had almost forgotten him.
another person who had passed out of their life was the jewish maiden, countess. she had been married the year after the arrival of the germans, and had gone to live at reading: married to an old jew whom she only knew by name, then no unusual fate for girls of her nation. from little rudolph, who was just beginning to talk, she had parted most unwillingly.
“ah! if you would give him to me!” she had said in german to agnes, with a smile on her lips, yet with tears in the dark eyes. “i know it could not be. yet if time should come that trouble befel you, and you sought refuge for the child, my heart and my arms would be open. ah, you think, what could a poor jewess do for you? well, maybe so. yet you know the fable of the mouse that gnawed the net in which the lion was caught. it might be, some day, that even poor countess—”
gerhardt laid his hand on the arm of the young jewess, and isel, who saw the action, trembled for the consequences of his temerity.
“friend,” he said, “i would, if so were, confide my child to you sooner than to any other outside this house, if your word were given that he should not be taught to deride and reject the lord that died for him.”
“you would take my word?” the dark eyes flashed fire.
“i would take it, if you would give it.”
“and you know that no court in this land would receive the witness of a jew! you know it?” she repeated fierily.
“i know it,” he answered, rather sadly.
“yet you would take mine?”
“god would know if you spoke truth. he is the avenger of all that have none other.”
“he has work to do, then!” replied countess bitterly.
“he would not be too busy, if need were, to see to my little rudolph. but i do not believe in the need: i think you true.”
“gerhardt, you are the strangest christian that i ever knew! do you mean what you say?”
“i mean every word of it, countess.”
“then—you shall not repent it.” and she turned away.
little rudolph fretted for a time after his nurse and playfellow. but as the months passed on, her image grew fainter in his memory, and now, at seven years old, he scarcely remembered her except by name, ermine having spoken of her to him on several occasions.
“i wonder you talk of the girl to that child!” isel remonstrated. “it were better that he should forget her.”
“pardon me, mother isel, but i think not so. the good lord brought her in our way, and how do i know for what purpose? it may be for rudolph’s good, no less than hers; and she promised, if need arose, to have a care of him. i cannot tell what need may arise, wherein it would be most desirable that he should at least recall her name.”
“but don’t you see, ermine, even on your own showing, our lord has taken her out of your way again?”
“yes, now. but how do i know that it is for always?”
“why, child, how can countess, a married woman, living away at reading, do anything to help a child at oxford?”
“i don’t know, mother isel. the lord knows. if our paths never cross again, it will not hurt rudolph to remember that a young jewess named countess was his loving friend in childhood: if they should meet hereafter, it may be very needful. and—” that dreamy look came into ermine’s eyes—“something seems to whisper to me that it may be needed. do not blame me if i act upon it.”
“well, with all your soft, gentle ways, you have a will of your own, i know,” said isel; “so you must e’en go your own way. and after september, ermine, you’ll be the only daughter left to me. ah me! well, it’s the way of the world, and what is to be must be. i am sure it was a good wind blew you in at my door, for i should have been dreadful lonely without you when both my girls were gone.”
“but, dear mother isel, flemild is not going far.”
“not by the measuring-line, very like; but she’s going far enough to be raven’s wife, and not my daughter. it makes a deal of difference, that does. and derette’s going further, after the same fashion. i sha’n’t see her, maybe, again, above a dozen times in my life. eh dear! this is a hard world for a woman to live in. it’s all work, and worry, and losing, and giving up, and such like.”
“there is a better world,” said ermine softly.
“there had need be. i’m sure i deserve a bit of rest and comfort, if ever a hard-working woman did. i’ll say nought about pleasure; more by reason that i’m pretty nigh too much worn out and beat down to care about it.”
“nay, friend,” said gerhardt; “we sinners deserve the under-world. the road to the upper lieth only through the blood and righteousness of our lord christ.”
“i don’t know why you need say that,” returned isel with mild resentment. “i’ve been as decent a woman, and as good a wife and mother, as any woman betwixt grandpont and saint maudlin, let the other be who she may,—ay, i have so, though i say it that hadn’t ought. but you over-sea folks seem to have such a notion of everybody being bad, as i never heard before—not even from the priest.”
the church to which gerhardt belonged held firmly, as one of her most vital dogmas, that strong view of human depravity which human depravity always opposes and resents. therefore gerhardt did but enunciate a foundation-article of his faith when he made answer—
“‘all the evil which i do proceeds from my own depravity.’”
“come, you’re laying it on a bit too thick,” said isel, with a shake of her head.
“he only speaks for himself, don’t you hear, mother?” suggested haimet humorously.
gerhardt smiled, and shook his head in turn.
“well, but if all the ill we do comes of ourselves, i don’t see how you leave any room for satan. he’s busy about us, isn’t he?”
“he’s ‘a roaring lion, that goeth about, seeking whom he may devour’; but he can devour no man without his own participation.”
“why, then, you make us all out to be witches, for it’s they who enter into league with satan.”
“do you know, gerard,” said haimet suddenly, “some folks in the town are saying that you belong to those over-sea heretics whose children are born with black throats and four rows of teeth, and are all over hair?”
“i don’t see that rudolph resembles that description,” was the calm reply of gerhardt. “do you?”
“oh, of course we know better. but there are some folks that say so, and are ready to swear it too. it would be quite as well if you stayed quiet at home for a while, and didn’t go out preaching in the villages so much. if the bishop comes to hear of some things you’ve said—”
isel and her daughters looked up in surprise. they had never imagined that their friend’s frequent journeys were missionary tours. haimet, who mixed far more with the outer world, was a good deal wiser on many points.
“what have i said?” quietly replied gerhardt, stopping his carving—which he still pursued in an evening—to sweep up and throw into the corner the chips which he had made.
“well, i was told only last week, that you had said when you spoke at abingdon, that ‘antichrist means all that is in contrast to christ,’ and that there was no such thing as a consecrated priest in the world.”
“the first i did say: can you disprove it? but the second i did not say. god forbid that i ever should!”
“oh, well, i am glad to hear it: but i can tell you, halenath the sacristan said he heard you.”
“i wish that old chattering magpie would hold his tongue!” exclaimed isel, going to the door to empty the bowl in which she had been washing the cabbages for supper. “he makes more mischief than any man within ten miles of the four-ways.”
“haimet,” said gerhardt, looking up from the lovely wreath of strawberry-blossom which he was carving on a box, “i must not leave you to misapprehend me as halenath has done. i never said there was no such thing as a consecrated priest: for christ our priest is one, of the order of melchizedek, and by his one offering he hath perfected his saints for ever. but i did say that the priests of rome were not rightly consecrated, and that the pope’s temporal power had deprived the church of true consecration. i will stand as firmly to that which i have said, as i will deny the words i have not spoken.”
isel stood aghast, looking at him, while the spoon in her hand went down clattering on the brick floor.
“dear blessed saints!” seemed to be all she could say.
“why, whatever do you call that?” cried haimet. “it sounds to me just as bad as the other, if it isn’t worse. i should think, if anything, it were a less heresy to say there were no consecrated priests, than to say that holy church herself had lost true consecration. not that there’s very much to choose between them, after all; only that you cunning fellows can split straws into twenty bits as soon as we can look at them.”
“do you mean to say that the church of england has lost true consecration?” gasped isel.
“if he means one, he means the other,” said haimet, “because our church is subject to the holy father.”
“there is one church, and there are many churches,” answered gerhardt. “one—holy, unerring, indivisible, not seen of men. this is the bride, the lamb’s wife; and they that are in her are called, and chosen, and faithful. this is she that shall persevere, and shall overcome, and shall receive the crown of life. but on earth there are many churches; and these may err, and may utterly fall away. yea, there be that have done it—that are doing it now.”
“i don’t understand you a bit!” exclaimed isel. “i always heard of the catholic church, that she was one and could not err; that our lord the pope was her head, and the church of england was a branch of her. isn’t that your doctrine?”
“you mean the same thing, don’t you, now?” suggested flemild, trying to make peace. “i dare be bound, it’s only words that differ. they are so queer sometimes. turn ’em about, and you can make them mean almost anything.”
gerhardt smiled rather sadly, as he rose and put away his carving on one of the broad shelves that ran round the house-place, and served the uses of tables and cupboards.
“words can easily be twisted,” he said, “either by ignorance or malice. but he is a coward that will deny his words as he truly meant them. god help me to stand to mine!”
“well, you’d better mind what i tell you about your preaching,” responded haimet. “leave preaching to the priests, can’t you? it is their business, not a weaver’s. you keep to your craft.”
“had you not once a preacher here named pullus?” asked gerhardt, without replying to the question.
“i think i have heard of him,” said haimet, “but he was before my time.”
“i have been told that he preached the word of god in this city years ago,” said gerhardt.
“whom did you say? cardinal pullus?” asked isel, standing up from her cooking. “ay, he did so! you say well, haimet, it was before your day; you were only beginning to toddle about when he died. but i’ve listened to him many a time at saint martin’s, and on presthey, too. he used to preach in english, so that the common folks could understand him. many professed his doctrines. i used to like to hear him, i did—when i was younger. he said nice words, though i couldn’t call ’em back now. no, i couldn’t.”
“i am sorry to hear it; i rather hoped you could,” replied gerhardt.
“bless you! i never heard aught of that sort yet, that i could tell you again, a paternoster after i’d gone forth of the door. words never stay with me; they run in at one ear and out at the other. seem to do me good, by times; but i never can get ’em back again, no more than you can the rain when it has soaked into the ground.”
“if the rain and the words bring forth good fruit, you get them back in the best way of all,” said gerhardt. “to remember the words in your head only, were as fruitless as to gather up rain-drops from the stone or metal into which they cannot penetrate.”
“well, i never had nought of a head-piece,” returned isel. “i’ve heard my mother tell that i had twenty wallopings ere she could make me say the paternoster; and i never could learn nought else save the joy and the aggerum.”
“what do you mean by the ‘aggerum,’ mother?” inquired haimet.
“well, isn’t that what you call it? aggerum or adjerum, or some such outlandish name. it’s them little words that prayers begin with.”
“‘deus, in adjutorium,’” said gerhardt quietly.
haimet seemed exceedingly amused. he had attended the schools long enough to learn latin sufficient to interpret the common prayers and psalms which formed the private devotions of most educated people. this was because his mother had wished him to be a priest. but having now, in his own estimation, arrived at years of discretion, he declined the calling chosen for him, preferring as he said to go into business, and he had accordingly been bound apprentice to a moneter, or money-changer. poor isel had mourned bitterly over this desertion. to her mind, as to that of most people in her day, the priesthood was the highest calling that could be attained by any middle-class man, while trade was a very mean and despicable occupation, far below domestic service. she recognised, however, that haimet was an exception to most rules, and was likely to take his own way despite of her.
isel’s own lack of education was almost as unusual as haimet’s possession of it. at that time all learning was in the hands of the clergy, the monastic orders, and the women. by the joy, she meant the doxology, the english version of which substituted “joy” for “glory;” while the adjutorium denoted the two responses which follow the lord’s prayer in the morning service, “o god, make speed to save us,” “o lord, make haste to help us.”
“can’t you say adjutorium, mother?” asked the irreverent youth.
“no, lad, i don’t think i can. i’ll leave that for thee. one’s as good as t’other, for aught i see.”
haimet exploded a second time.
“good evening!” said romund’s voice, and a cloaked figure, on whose shoulders drops of rain lay glittering, came in at the door. “i thought you were not gone up yet, for i saw the light under the door. derette, i have news for you. i have just heard that saint john’s anchoritess died yesterday, and i think, if you would wish it, that i could get the anchorhold for you. you may choose between that and godstowe.”
derette scarcely stood irresolute for a moment.
“i should like the anchorhold best, brother. then mother could come to me whenever she wanted me.”
“is that the only reason?” asked haimet, half laughing.
“no, not quite,” said derette, with a smile; “but it is a good one.”
“then you make up your mind to that?” questioned romund.
“yes, i have made up my mind,” replied derette.
“very good: then i will make application for it. good night! no time to stay. mabel? oh, she’s all right. farewell!”
and romund shut the door and disappeared.
“deary me, that seems done all of a hurry like!” said isel. “i don’t half like such sudden, hasty sort of work. derette, child, are you sure you’ll not be sorry?”
“no, i don’t think i shall, mother. i shall have more liberty in the anchorhold than in the nunnery.”
“more liberty, quotha!” cried isel in amazement. “whatever can the child mean? more liberty, penned up in two little chambers, and never to leave them all your life, than in a fine large place like godstowe, with a big garden and cloisters to walk in?”
“ah, mother, i don’t want liberty for my feet, but for my soul. there will be no abbess nor sisters to tease one in the anchorhold.”
“well, and what does that mean, but never a bit of company? just your one maid, and tied up to her. and the child calls it ‘liberty’!”
“you forget, mother,” said haimet mischievously. “there will be the lady derette. in the cloister they are only plain sister.”
every recluse had by courtesy the title of a baron.
“as if i cared for that rubbish!” said derette with sublime scorn.
“dear! i thought you were going on purpose,” retorted her brother.
“whom will you have for your maid, derette?” asked her sister.
“ermine, if i might have her,” answered derette with a smile.
gerhardt suddenly stopped the reply which ermine was about to make.
“no,” he said, “leave it alone to-night, dear. lay it before the lord, and ask of him whether that is the road he hath prepared for thee to walk in. it might be for the best, ermine.”
there was a rather sorrowful intonation in his voice.
“i will wait till the morning, and do as you desire,” was ermine’s reply. “but i could give the answer to-night, for i know what it will be. the best way, and the prepared way, is that which leads the straightest home.”
it was very evident, when the morning arrived, that gerhardt would much have liked ermine to accept the lowly but safe and sheltered position of companion to derette in the anchorhold. while the hermit lived alone, but wandered about at will, the anchorite, who was never allowed to leave his cell, always had with him a companion of his own sex, through whom he communicated with the outer world. visitors of the same sex, or children, could enter the cell freely, or the anchorite might speak through his window to any person. derette, therefore, would really be less cut off from the society of her friends in the anchorhold, than she would have been as a cloistered sister at godstowe, where they would only have been permitted to see her, at most, once in a year. but outside the threshold of her cell she might never step, save for imminent peril of life, as in the case of fire. she must live there, and die there, her sole occupation found in devotional exercises, her sole pleasure in her friends’ visits, the few sights she could see from her window, and through a tiny slit into the chancel of the church of saint john the baptist, which we know as the chapel of merton college. every anchorhold was built close to a church, so as to allow its occupant the privilege of seeing the performance of mass, and of receiving the consecrated wafer, by the protrusion of his tongue through the narrow slit.
in those early days, and before the corruptions of rome reached their full development, this cloistered life was not without some advantages for the securing of which it is not required now. in rough, wild times, when insult or cruelty to a woman was among the commonest events, it was something for a woman to know that by wearing a certain uniform, her person would be regarded as so sacred that he who dared to molest her would be a man of rare and exceptional wickedness. it was something, also, to be sure, even moderately sure, of provision for her bodily needs during life: something to know that if any sudden accident should deprive her of the services of her only companion, the world deemed it so good a deed to serve her, that any woman whom she might summon through her little window would consider herself honoured and benefited by being allowed to minister to her even in the meanest manner. the loss of liberty was much assuaged and compensated, by being set against such advantages as these. the recluse was considered the holiest of nuns, not to say of women, and the countess of oxford herself would have held it no degradation to serve her in her need.
derette would dearly have liked to secure the companionship of ermine, but she saw plainly that it was not to be. when the morning came, therefore, she was much less surprised than sorry that ermine declined the offer. gerhardt pressed it on her in vain.
“if you command me, my brother,” said ermine, “i will obey, for you have a right to dispose of me; but if the matter is left to my own choice, i stay with you, and your lot shall be mine.”
“but if our lot be hardship and persecution, my ermine—cold and hunger, nakedness, and peril and sword! this might be a somewhat dull and dreary life for thee, but were it not a safe one?”
“had the master a safe and easy life, brother, that his servants should seek it? is the world so safe, and the way to paradise so hard? is it not written, ‘blessed are ye, when they shall persecute you’? methinks i see arising, even now, that little cloud which shall ere long cover all the sky with darkness. shall i choose my place with the ‘fearful’ that are left without the holy city, rather than with them that shall follow the lamb whithersoever he goeth?”
“it is written again, ‘when they persecute you in one city, flee ye into another,’” replied gerhardt.
“‘when they persecute you,’” repeated ermine. “it has not come yet.”
“it may be too late, when it has come.”
“then the way will be plain before me.”
“well, dear, i will urge you no further,” said gerhardt at last, drawing a heavy sigh. “i had hoped that for thee at least—the will of the lord be done.”
“if it were his will to preserve my life, even the persecutors themselves might be made the occasion of doing so.”
“true, my ermine. it may be thou hast more faith than i. be it as thou wilt.”
so derette had to seek another maid.
“i’m sure i don’t know who you’ll get,” said isel. “there’s franna’s hawise, but she’s a bit of a temper,”—which her hearers knew to be a very mild representation of facts: “and there’s turguia’s grand-daughter, canda, but you’ll have to throw a bucket of water over her of a morrow, or she’ll never be out of bed before sunrise on the shortest day of the year. then there’s henry’s niece, joan—” then pronounced as a dissyllable, joan—“but i wouldn’t have such a sloven about me. i never see her but her shoes are down at heel, and if her gown isn’t rent for a couple of hand-breadths, it’s as much as you can look for. deary me, these girls! they’re a sorry lot, the whole heap of ’em! i don’t know where you’re going to find one, derette.”
“put it in the lord’s hands, and he will find you one.”
“i’ll tell you what, gerard, i never heard the like of you,” answered isel, setting her pan swinging by its chain on the hook over the fire. “you begin and end every mortal thing with our lord, and you’re saying your prayers pretty nigh all day long. are you certain sure you’ve never been a monk?”
“very certain, friend,” said gerhardt, smiling. “is not the existence of agnes answer enough to that?”
“oh, but you might have run away,” said isel, whose convictions on most subjects were of rather a hazy order. “there are monks that do, and priests too: or if they don’t forsake their order, they don’t behave like it. why, just look at reinbald the chaplain—who’d ever take him for a priest, with his long curls and his silken robes, and ruffling up his hair to hide the tonsure?”
“ay, there are men who are ashamed of nothing so much as of the cross which their master bore for them,” admitted gerhardt sorrowfully. “and at times it looks as if the lighter the cross be, the less ready they are to carry it. there be who would face a drawn sword more willingly than a scornful laugh.”
“well, we none of us like to be laughed at.”
“true. but he who denies his faith through the mockery of herod’s soldiers, how shall he bear the scourging in pilate’s hall?”
“well, i’m none so fond of neither of ’em,” said isel, taking down a ham.
“it is only women who can’t stand being touched,” commented haimet rather disdainfully. “but you are out there, gerard: it is a disgrace to be laughed at, and disgrace is ever worse to a true man than pain.”
“why should it be disgrace, if i am in the right?” answered gerhardt. “if i do evil, and refuse to own it, that is disgrace, if you will; but if i do well, or speak truth, and stand by it, what cause have i to be ashamed?”
“but if men believe that you have done ill, is that no disgrace?”
“if they believe it on false witness, the disgrace is equally false. ‘blessed are ye, when men shall persecute you, and shall say all evil against you, lying, for my sake.’ those are his words who bore all shame for us.”
“they sha’n’t say it of me, unless they smart for it!” cried haimet hotly.
“then wilt thou not be a true follower of the lamb of god, who, when he was reviled, reviled not again, but committed himself unto him that judgeth righteously.”
“saints be with you!” said anania, lifting the latch, and intercepting a response from haimet which might have been somewhat incisive. “i declare, i’m just killed with the heat!”
“i should have guessed you were alive, from the look of you,” returned derette calmly.
“so you’re going into the anchorhold, i hear?” said anania, fanning herself with her handkerchief.
“if romund can obtain it for me.”
“oh, he has; it’s all settled. didn’t you know? i met mabel in saint frideswide’s street (which ran close to the north of the cathedral), and she told me so.—aunt isel, i do wonder you don’t look better after that young woman! she’ll bring romund to his last penny before she’s done. that chape (a cape or mantle) she had on must have cost as pretty a sum as would have bought a flock of sheep. i never saw such extravagance.”
“the money’s her own,” responded isel shortly.
“it’s his too. and you’re his mother. you never ought to let her go on as she does.”
“deary me, anania, as if i hadn’t enough to do!”
“other folks can slice ham and boil cabbage. you’ve got no call to neglect your duty. i can tell you, franna’s that shocked you don’t speak to the girl; and turguia was saying only the other day, she didn’t believe in folks that pretended to care so much for their children, and let other folks run ’em into all sorts of troubles for want of looking after a bit. i’ll tell you, aunt isel—”
“anania, i’ll tell you,” cried isel, thoroughly put out, for she was hot and tired and not feeling strong, “i’ll tell you this once, you’re a regular plague and a mischief-maker. you’d make me quarrel with all the friends i have in the world, if i listened to you. sit you down and rest, if you like to be peaceable; and if you don’t, just go home and give other folks a bit of rest for once in your life. i’m just worn out with you, and that’s the honest truth.”
“well, to be sure!” gasped the porter’s wife, in high dudgeon and much amazement. “i never did—! dear, dear, to think of it—how ungrateful folks can be! you give them the best advice, and try to help them all you can, and they turn on you like a dog for it! very well, aunt isel; i’ll let you alone!—and if you don’t rue it one of these days, when your fine lady daughter-in-law has brought you down to beggary for want of a proper word, my name isn’t anania—that’s all!”
“oh, deary weary me!” moaned poor isel, dropping herself on the form as if she could not stand for another minute. “if this ain’t a queer world, i just don’t know! folks never let you have a shred of peace, and come and worrit you that bad till you scarce can tell whether you’re on your head or your heels, and you could almost find in your heart to wish ’em safe in heaven, and then if they don’t set to work and abuse you like noah’s wife (note 1) if you don’t thank ’em for it! that girl anania ’ll be the death of me one of these days, if she doesn’t mend her ways. woe worth the day that osbert brought her here to plague us!”
“i fancy he’d say amen to that,” remarked haimet.
“i heard him getting it pretty hot last night. but he takes it easier than you, mother; however she goes on at him, he only whistles a tune. he has three tunes for her, and i always know how she’s getting on by the one i hear. so long as it’s only the agnus, i dare lift the latch; but when it come to salve regina, things are going awkward.”
“i wish she wasn’t my niece, i do!” said poor isel. “well, folks, come and get your supper.”
supper was over, and the trenchers scraped—for isel lived in great gentility, seeing that she ate from wooden trenchers, and not on plates made of thick slices of bread—when a rap on the door heralded the visit of a very superior person. long ago, when a young girl, isel had been chamberer, or bower-woman, of a lady named mildred de hameldun; and she still received occasional visits from mildred’s daughter, whose name was aliz or elise de norton. next to the countess of oxford and her two daughters, aliz de norton was the chief lady in the city. her father, sir robert de hameldun, had been seneschal of the castle, and her husband, sir ording de norton, was now filling a similar position. yet the lofty title of lady was barely accorded to aliz de norton. at that time it was of extreme rarity; less used than in saxon days, far less than at a subsequent date under the later plantagenets. the only women who enjoyed it as of right were queens, wives of the king’s sons, countesses, and baronesses: for at this period, the sole titles known to the peerage were those of baron and earl. duke was still a sovereign title, and entirely a foreign one. the epithet of dame or lady was also the prerogative of a few abbesses, who held the rank of baroness. very commonly, however, it was applied to the daughters of the sovereign, to all abbesses, prioresses, and recluses, and to earls’ daughters; but this was a matter rather of courtesy than of right. beyond the general epithet of “my lord,” there was no definite title of address even for the monarch. the appropriation of such terms as grace, highness, excellence, majesty, or serenity, belongs to a much later date. sir, however, was always restricted to knights; and dame was the most respectful form of address that could be offered to any woman, however exalted might be her rank. the knight was above the peer, even kings receiving additional honour from knighthood; but the equivalent title of dame does not seem to have been regularly conferred on their wives till about 1230, though it might be given in some cases, as a matter of courtesy, at a rather earlier period.
perceiving her exalted friend, isel went forward as quickly as was in her, to receive her with all possible cordiality, and to usher her to the best place in the chimney-corner. aliz greeted the family pleasantly, but with a shade of constraint towards their german guests. for a few minutes they talked conventional nothings, as is the custom of those who meet only occasionally. then aliz said—
“i came to-day, isel, for two reasons. have here the first: do you know of any vacant situation for a young woman?”
isel could do nothing in a hurry,—more especially if any mental process was involved.
“well, maybe i might,” she said slowly. “who is it, i pray you, and what are her qualifications?”
“it is the daughter of my waiting-woman, and grand-daughter of my old nurse. she is a good girl—rather shy and inexperienced, but she learns quickly. i would have taken her into my own household, but i have no room for her. i wish to find her a good place, not a poor one. do you know of any?”
as isel hesitated, haimet took up the word.
“would it please you to have her an anchorhold maid?”
“oh, if she could obtain such a situation as that,” said aliz eagerly, “there would be no more to wish for.”
the holiness of an anchoritess was deemed to run over upon her maid, and a young woman who wore the semi-conventual garb of those persons was safe from insult, and sure of help in time of need.
“my youngest sister goes into saint john’s anchorhold next month,” said haimet, “and we have not yet procured a maid for her.”
“so that is your destiny?” said aliz, with a smile to derette. “well, it is a blessed calling.”
her manner, however, added that she had no particular desire to be blessed in that fashion.
“that would be the very thing for leuesa,” she pursued. “i will send her down to talk with you. truly, we should be very thankful to those choice souls to whom is given the rare virtue of such holy self-sacrifice.”
aliz spoke the feeling of her day, which could see no bliss for a woman except in marriage, and set single life on a pinnacle of holiness and misery not to be reached by ordinary men and women. the virtues of those self-denying people who sacrificed themselves by adopting it were supposed to be paid into an ecclesiastical treasury, and to form a kind of set-off against the every-day shortcomings of inferior married folks. therefore aliz expressed her gratitude for the prospect, as affording her an extra opportunity of doing her duty by proxy.
derette was in advance of her age.
“but i am not sacrificing myself,” she said. “i am pleasing myself. i should not like to be a wife.”
“oh, what a saintly creature you must be!” cried aliz, clasping her hands in admiration. “that you can prefer a holy life! it is given to few indeed to attain that height.”
“but the holy life does not consist in dwelling in one chamber,” suggested gerhardt, “nor in refraining from matrimony. he that dwelleth in god, in the secret place of the most high—this is the man that is holy.”
“it would be well for you, gerard, and your friends,” observed aliz freezingly, “not to be quite so ready in offering your strange fancies on religious topics. are you aware that the priests of the city have sent up a memorial concerning you to my lord the bishop, and that it has been laid before king henry?”
the strawberry which gerhardt’s tool was just then rounding was not quite so perfect a round as its neighbours. he laid the tool down, and the hand which held the carving trembled slightly.
“no, i did not know it,” he said in a low voice. “i thank you for the warning.”
“i fear there may be some penance inflicted on you,” resumed aliz, not unkindly. “the wisest course for you would be at once to submit, and not even to attempt any excuse.”
gerhardt looked up—a look which struck all who saw it. there was in it a little surface trouble, but under that a look of such perfect peace and sweet acceptance of the divine will, as they had never before beheld.
“there will be no penance laid on me,” he said, “that my father will not help me to bear. i have only to take the next step, whether it lead into the home at bethany or the judgment-hall of pilate. the garden of god lies beyond them both.”
aliz looked at him as if he were speaking a foreign tongue.
“gerard,” she said, “i do hope you have no foolish ideas of braving out the censure of the bishop. such action would not only be sin, but it would be the worst policy imaginable. holy church is always merciful to those who abase themselves before her,—who own their folly, and humbly bow to her rebuke. but she has no mercy on rebels who persist in their rebellion,—stubborn self-opinionated men, who in their incredible folly and presumption imagine themselves capable of correcting her.”
“no,” answered gerhardt in that same low voice. “she has no mercy.”
“then i hope you see how very foolish and impossible it would be for you to adopt any other course than that of instant and complete submission?” urged aliz in a kinder tone.
gerhardt rose from his seat and faced her.
“your meaning is kind,” he said, “and conscientious also. you desire the glory of your church, but you also feel pity for the suffering of the human creatures who dissent from her, and are crushed under the wheels of her triumphal car. i thank you for that pity. in the land where one cup of cold water goeth not without its reward, it may be that even a passing impulse of compassion is not forgotten before god. it may at least call down some earthly blessing. but for me—my way is clear before me, and i have but to go straight forward. i thank god that i know my duty. doubt is worse than pain.”
“indeed, i am thankful too,” said aliz, as she rose to take leave. “that you should do your duty is the thing i desire.—well, isel, our lady keep you! i will send leuesa down to-morrow or the next day.”
aliz departed, and the rest began to think of bedtime. isel sent the girls upstairs, then haimet followed, and agnes went at last. but gerhardt sat on, his eyes fixed on the cold hearth. it was evident that he regarded the news which he had heard as of no slight import. he rose at length, and walked to the window. it was only a wooden shutter, fastened by a button, and now closed for the night. looking round to make sure that all had left the lower room, he threw the casement open. but he did not see isel, who at the moment was concealed by the red curtain drawn half-way across the house-place, at the other end where the ladder went up.
“father!” he said, his eyes fixed on the darkened sky, “is the way to thy holy hill through this thorny path? wheresoever thou shalt guide, i go with thee. but ‘these are in the world!’ keep them through thy name, and let us meet in the garden of god, if we may not go together. o blessed jesu christ! the forget-me-nots which bloom around thy cross are fairer than all the flowers of the world’s gardens.”
note 1. in the medieval mystery plays, noah’s wife was always represented as a scolding vixen.
