LADY SYBIL'S CHOICE (continued 4)

"Likely enough," said I. "Surely any christened man could easily be better than heathen Jews."

"But He said more, Helena. 'Be ye then perfect, even as your Father, He in the heavens, is perfect.'"

"Perfect as the good God is perfect!" I exclaimed.

"That is our standard," she responded. "We are not to rest short of that."

"But we cannot! You yourself said it, holy Mother, when we were talking of Sister Eudoxia."

"I did, my child. Let us take two more passages from Holy Writ, and see if they cast any light upon it. 'The end of the law is Christ, unto righteousness, to every believer.' 'And ye are in Him complete.'"

"I do not understand them, holy Mother."

"I have heard thee speak, Helena, of thy favourite legend of the two good knights of Greece. What was it that Sir Pythias agreed to do for Sir Damon?"

"To suffer death in his stead, if he did not return home at the appointed time."

"Suppose that Sir Pythias had suffered death before Sir Damon's return, and that when Sir Damon came back, the Lord King had put him to death also: what wouldst thou call that?"

"Oh, that would never have been just!" said I.

"But why? Sir Damon had been sentenced to die."

"Yes, but when another had died for him—Oh, it would be cruelly unfair!"

"In other words, Sir Damon would be reckoned to have died, so far as the law was concerned, in the person of his friend?"

"Exactly," said I.

"And this friend, remember, had voluntarily given his life. Now, this is the point to which I want to bring thee. The death of Sir Pythias would have been reckoned to Sir Damon; and this last would have been accounted to have paid the full penalty to which he was sentenced, and to be thenceforward a free and blameless man."

"Of course," said I. "There could have been no other result."

"Now, Helena dear, this is what Christ has done for all believers. His death is reckoned to them, and they are thenceforward free and blameless—perfect as He is perfect, 'complete in Him.' Not in themselves, mind: never! In themselves they are sinners to the last hour of life. But in Him, on account of His atoning death and holy obedience, God's holy law reckons them perfect as Himself. So that, in one sense, they are perfect for ever: in another sense, they are utterly imperfect so long as they live. 'For by one offering He hath perfected in perpetuity the hallowed ones.'"

"But, holy Mother," I asked, "what do you mean by 'in Him'?"

"My child," she answered, "I doubt if any but God knows all that is meant by that deep word. And what man knows cannot be told to another,—it can only be felt. But it means light, and life, and joy, Helena: the very light that God is, the life of all the ages, the joy with which no stranger intermeddleth. Only taste it, and see. No draught of sin can be truly sweet to thee again, after one drop of that wine of Heaven."

I am quite delighted to find that Messire Tristan de Montluc, who has exasperated me for nearly two years past by playing the broken-hearted lover, has got his heart mended again. I was beginning to entertain a desperate wish that he would take the cowl, for it made me feel a perfect wretch whenever I looked at him: and yet what could I have said to Guy but what I did? I feel indescribably relieved to hear that he is going after his brother to Byzantium, and intensely delighted to find that he is privately engaged to Melisende de Courtenay. I believe she will make him a good wife (which I never could have done): and it is such a comfort to know that he has given over caring about me.

It does seem not unlikely that we may have war. There are flying rumours of Saladin's drawing nearer. May the good God avert it! I believe Amaury would tell me that I was a simpleton, if he heard me say so.

The holy Patriarch Heraclius, and the Lord Roger, Master of the Temple, have set forth on a pilgrimage to the shrines of the West. They intend to visit Compostella and Canterbury, amongst others.

Count Raymond has been behaving rather better lately—that is, we have not seen quite so much of him.

A letter from Alix came to hand last week; but there is nothing of interest in it, except that every one is well. She says her child begins to walk, and can already prattle fluently: which called forth a growl from Amaury, who wants to know why every body's children thrive but his. It is not true, for little Héloïse is really an engaging child, and has excellent health.

"Ah!—but then," says Guy, aside to me, with arched eyebrows, "she is only a girl, poor little good-for-nothing!"

I know Guy does not think so, for he is devoted to his little Agnes; and Héloïse is certainly the prettier child. But neither of them is equal to the little King, who is a most beautiful boy, and has the quaintest sayings ever heard from a child.

There, now! Did any body ever see any thing like these men?

Messire Tristan set forth yesterday morning; and what should he say to Guy (who told me, with his eyes full of fun) but—

"Damoiselle Elaine will find out that it does not do to trifle with a man's heart. She will doubtless be angry at my defection; but I have borne long enough with her caprice, and have now transferred my affections to one who can be truer!"

Was ever mortal creature so misrepresented? Why, the man must have thought I did not mean what I said! My caprice, indeed! Trifle with a man's heart! And as if affection could be transferred at will from one person to another!

Guy seemed excessively amused with my exclamations.

"What a conceited set of people you men must be!" said I.

"Well, we are rather a bad set," answered Guy, laughing. "O little Elaine, thou art so funny!"

"Pray, what is there funny about me?" said I. "And please to tell me, Guy, why men always seem to fancy that women do not know their own minds?"

"Well, they don't," said Guy.

"Only the silly ones, who have no minds to know," I replied.

"Just so," answered he. "But those, thou seest, are the generality of women. Rubies are scarce; pebbles are common."

"Only among women?" said I.

"Possibly not," responded Guy, looking very much amused. "Poor De Montluc appears to be a ruby in his own eyes, and I presume he is only a pebble in thine. Let us hope that Damoiselle Melisende will consider him a gem of priceless value."

Well, I am sure I have no objection to that.

But another idea occurs to me, which is by no means so pleasant. Since other people are always misunderstanding me, can it be possible that I am constantly misunderstanding other people? I do think I have misunderstood Eschine, and I am sorry for it. I like her a great deal better now than I ever expected to do, and I almost admire that quiet endurance of hers—partly because I feel Amaury so trying, and partly, I suspect, because I have so little of the quality myself. But is it—can it be—possible that I am misunderstanding Count Raymond?

I do not think so. Why should I think of a beautiful serpent whenever I look at him? Why should I feel a sensation, of which I cannot get rid, as if that dark handsome face of his covered something repugnant and perilous? It is not reason that tells me this: it is something more like instinct. Is it a true warning to beware of the man, or only a foolish, baseless fancy, of which I ought to be ashamed?

And—I cannot tell why—it has lately assumed a more definite and dreadful form. A terror besets me that he has some design on Lady Sybil. He knows that she is the rightful heir of the crown: and that—I do believe, through his machinations—she has been set aside for her own son. If his wife were to die—the holy saints defend it!—I believe him capable of poisoning Guy, in order to marry Sybil, and to make himself King of Jerusalem.

Am I very wicked, that such ideas come into my head? Yet I do not know how to keep them out. I do not invite them, yet they come. And in the Count's manner to Lady Sybil there is a sort of admiring, flattering deference, which I do not like to see,—something quite different from his manner towards her sister. I do not think she is conscious of it, and I fancy Guy sees nothing.

Oh dear, dear! There is something very wrong in this world altogether. And I cannot see how it is to be set right.

I asked Lady Judith this evening if she believed in presentiments.

She answered, "Yes, when they come from God."

"Ah!—but how is one to know?"

"Ask Him to remove the feeling, if it be not true."

I will try the plan. But if it should not answer?

The heats of summer are so great, and the Holy City is considered so very unhealthy, that the Regent proposes to remove the Lord King to the city of Acre, until the hot weather is over. Guy and Lady Sybil are going to stay at Ascalon, a city which is Guy's own, and close to the coast, though not actually a sea-port like Acre. I cannot help being glad to hear that there will be something like a week's journey between Guy and Count Raymond. I may be unjust, but—I do not know. I have offered seven Paters every evening, that the good God might take the thought out of my heart if it be wicked: but it seems to me that it only grows stronger. I told Lady Judith that her plan did not answer; that is, that the presentiment did not go.

"What is this thought which troubles thee, little one?" said she.

"Holy Mother," said I, "do you ever utterly mistrust and feel afraid of some particular person, without precisely having a reason for doing so?"

Lady Judith laid down her work, and looked earnestly at me.

"I generally have a reason, Helena. But I can quite imagine—Who is it, my child? Do not fear my repeating what thou mayest tell me."

"It is the Lord Regent," said I. "I feel afraid of him, as I might of a tamed tiger, lest the subdued nature should break out. I do not believe in his professions of friendship for Guy. And I do not at all like his manner to Lady Sybil."

Lady Judith's eyes were fixed on me.

"I did not know, Helena, how sharp thine eyes were. Thou wert a child when thou camest here; but I see thou art one no longer. So thou hast seen that? I thought I was the only one."

It struck me with a sensation as of sickening fear, to find that my suspicions were shared, and by Lady Judith.

"What is to be done?" I said in a whisper. "Shall I speak to Guy?—or Lady Sybil?"

Lady Judith's uplifted hand said unmistakably, "No!"

"Watch," she said. "Watch and pray, and wait. Oh, no speaking!—at least, not yet."

"But till when?" I asked.

"I should say, till you all return here—unless something happen in the interim. But if thou dost speak, little one—do not be surprised if nobody believe thee. Very impulsive men, like thy brother, rarely indulge suspicion or mistrust: and Sybil is most unsuspicious. They are likely enough to think thee fanciful and unjust."

"It would be too bad!" said I.

"It would be very probable," she responded.

"Holy Mother," said I, "what do you think he aims at doing?"

I wanted to know, yet scarcely dared to ask, if the same dread had occurred to her as to me.

"I think," she said unhesitatingly, "he aims at making himself King, by marriage, either with Sybil or with Isabel."

"But he would have to murder his own wife and the lady's husband!" cried I.

"No need, in the first case. The Lady Countess suffers under some internal and incurable disorder, which must be fatal sooner or later; it is only a question of time. Her physicians think she may live about two years, but not longer. And so long as she lives, thy brother's life is safe."

"But if she were to die—?"

"Then it might be well to warn him. But we know not, Helena, what may happen ere then. The Lord reigneth, my child. It is best to put what we love into His hands, and leave it there."

"But how do I know what He would do with it?" said I, fearfully.

"He knows. And that is enough for one who knows Him."

"It is not enough for me," said I sadly.

"Because thou dost not know Him. Helena, art thou as much afraid of the good God as of the Lord Regent?"

"Not in the same way, of course, holy Mother," I replied; "because I think the Lord Regent a wicked man."

"No, but to the same extent?"

"I don't know. I think so," said I, in a low voice.

"Of Christ that died, and that intercedeth for us? Afraid of Him, Helena?"

"O holy Mother, I don't know!" I said, bursting into tears. "I am afraid it is so. And I cannot help it. I cannot tell how to alter it. I want to be more like you and old Marguerite; but I don't know how to begin."

"Wilt thou not ask the Lord to show thee how to begin?"

"I have done: but He has not done it."

Lady Judith laid her hand on my bowed head, as if to bless me.

"Dear Helena," she said, "do not get the idea into thine head that thou wilt have to persuade God to save thee. He wishes it a great deal more than thou. But He sometimes keeps his penitents waiting in the dark basilica outside, to teach them some lesson which they could not learn if they were admitted at once into the lighted church. Trust Him to let thee in as soon as the right time comes. Only be sure not to get weary of knocking, and go away."

"But what does He want to teach me, holy Mother?"

"I do not know, my child. He knows. He will see to it that thou art taught the right lesson, if only thou wilt have the patience to wait and learn."

"Does God teach every body patience?" said I, sighing.

"Indeed He does: and perhaps there is scarcely a lesson which we are more slow to learn."

"I shall be slow enough to learn that lesson, I am sure!" said I.

Lady Judith smiled.

"Inattentive children are generally those that complain most of the hardness of their tasks," said she.

We were both silent for a while, when Lady Judith said quietly—

"Helena, what is Christ our Lord to thee?"

"I am not sure that I understand you, holy Mother," said I. "Christ our Lord is God."

"Good; but what is He to thee?"

I felt puzzled. I did not know that He was any thing more to me than to every body else.

"Dost thou not understand? Then tell me, what is Monseigneur the Count of Ascalon to thee?"

"Guy?" asked I in a little surprise. "He is my own dear brother—the dearest being to me in all the world."

"Then that is something different from what he is to others?"

"Of course!" I said rather indignantly. "Guy could never be to strangers what he is to me! Why, holy Mother, with all deference, you yourself know that. He is not that to you."

"Thou hast spoken the very truth," said she. "But, Helena, that which he is to thee, and not to me,—that dearest in all the world, ay, in all the universe,—my child, Christ is that to me."

I looked at her, and I saw the soft, radiant light in the grey eyes: and I could not understand it. Again that strange, mortified feeling took possession of me. Lady Judith knew something I did not; she had something I had not; and it was something which made her happier than any thing had yet made me. There was a gulf between us; and I was on the rocky, barren side of it, and she on the one waving with corn and verdant with pasture.

It was not at all a pleasant feeling. And I could see no bridge across the gulf.

"You are a religious person, holy Mother," said I. "I suppose that makes the difference."

Yet I did not believe that, though I said so. Old Marguerite was no nun; and she was on the flowery side of that great gulf, as well as Lady Judith. And if Lady Sybil were there also, she was no nun. That was not the difference.

"No, maiden," was Lady Judith's quiet answer. "Nor dost thou think so."

I hung my head, and felt more mortified than ever.

"Dost thou want to know it, Helena?"

"Holy Mother, so much!" I said, bursting into tears. "You and Marguerite seem to me in a safe walled garden, guarded with men and towers; and I am outside in the open champaign, where the wolves are and the robbers, and I do not know how to get in to you. I have been round and round the walls, and I can see no gate."

"Dear child;" said Lady Judith, "Jesus Christ is the gate of the Garden of God. And He is not a God afar off, but close by. Hast thou asked Him, and doth it seem as though He would not hear? Before thou say so much, make very sure that nothing is stopping the way on thy side. There is nothing but love, and wisdom, and faithfulness, on His."

"What can stop the way?" I said.

"Some form of self-love," she replied. "It has as many heads as the hydra. Pride, indolence, covetousness, passion—but above all, unbelief: some sort of indulged sin. Thou must empty thine heart, Helena, if Christ is to come in: or else He will have to empty it for thee. And I advise thee not to wait for that, for the process is very painful. Yet I sometimes fear it will have to be the case with thee."

"Well!" said I, "there is nobody in there but Guy and Lady Sybil, and a few more a good deal nearer the gate. Does our Lord want me to empty my heart of them?"

I thought that, of course, being religious, she would say yes; and then I should respond that I could not do it. But she said—

"Dear, the one whom our Lord wants deposed from the throne of thy heart is Hélène de Lusignan."

"What, myself?"

"Thyself," said Lady Judith, in the same quiet way.

I made an excuse to fetch some gold thread, for I did not like that one bit. And when I came back, things were even better than I hoped, for Lady Isabel was in the room; and though Lady Judith will talk of religious matters freely enough when Lady Sybil is present, yet she never does so before her sister.

Lady Judith is entirely mistaken. I am quite sure of that. I don't love me better than any one else! I should think myself perfectly despicable. Amaury does, I believe; but I don't. No, indeed! She is quite mistaken. I scarcely think I shall be quite so glad as I expected that Lady Judith is going to stay in the Holy City. I do like her, but I don't like her to say things of that kind.

"Marguerite," I said, an hour or two later, "dost thou think I love myself?"

"My Damoiselle does not think herself a fool," quietly answered the old woman.

"No, of course not," said I; "I know I have brains. How can I help it? But dost thou think I love myself,—better than I love other people?"

"We all love either ourselves or the good God."

"But we can love both."

Marguerite shook her head. "Ha!—no. That would be serving two masters. And the good God Himself says no one can do that."

I did not like this much better. So, after I finished my beads, I kissed the crucifix, and I said,—"Sir God, show me whether I love myself." Because,—though I do not like it,—yet, perhaps, if I do, it is best to know it.

We reached Ascalon a week ago, making three short days' journey of it, so as not to over-fatigue the little ones. Those of us who have come are Guy and Lady Sybil, myself, Amaury and Eschine, and the little girls, Agnes and Héloïse. I brought Marguerite and Bertrade only to wait on me. Lady Isabel prefers to stay at Hebron, which is only one day's journey from the Holy City. She and Messire Homfroy quarrelled violently about it, for he wished to go to Acre, and wanted her to accompany him; but in the end, as usual, she had her own way, and he will go to Acre, and she to Hebron.

The night before we set forth, as I was passing Lady Judith's door, her low voice said—

"Helena, my child, wilt thou come in here? I want a word with thee."

So I went into her cell, which is perfectly plain, having no hangings of any sort, either to the walls or the bed, only a bénitier[#] of red pottery, and a bare wooden cross, affixed to the wall. She invited me to sit on her bed, and then she said—

[#] Holy water vessel.

"Helena, unless thou seest some very strong reason, do not speak to the Count touching the Count of Tripoli until we meet again."

"Well, I thought I should not," said I. "But, holy Mother, will you tell me why?"

"We may be mistaken," she answered. "And, if not, I am very doubtful whether it would not do more harm than good. After all, dear maiden, the shortest cut is round by Heaven. Whenever I feel doubtful how far it is wise to speak, I like to lay the matter before the Lord, and ask Him to speak for me, if He sees good. He will make no mistake, as I might: and He can tell secrets without doing harm, as probably I should. It is the safest way, Helena, and the surest."

"I should be afraid!" said I. "But of course, holy Mother, for you"——

"Yes," she said, answering my half-expressed thought. "It is a hard matter to ask a favour of a stranger, especially if he be a king. But where he is thy father——Dost thou understand me, maiden?"

Ay, only too well. Well enough to make me feel sick at heart, as if the gulf between grew wider than ever. Should I never find the bridge across?

We lead such a quiet, peaceful life here! Some time ago, I should have called it dull; but I am tired of pageants, and skirmishes, and quarrels, and so it is rather a relief—for a little while. Lady Sybil, I can see, enjoys it: she likes quiet. Amaury fumes and frets. I believe Eschine likes it, but won't say so, because she knows Amaury does not. I never saw the equal of Eschine for calm contentedness. "All right"—"never mind it"—"it does not signify"—are the style of her stock phrases when any thing goes wrong. And "Won't it be all the same a hundred years hence?" That is a favourite reflection with her.

"Oh dear, Eschine!" I could not help saying one day, "I do hate that pet phrase of thine. A hundred years hence! That will be the year of our Lord 1285. Why, thou and I will be nowhere then."

"Nay, I suppose we shall be somewhere," was Eschine's grave answer.

"Oh, well, don't moralise!" said I. "But thou knowest, if we were always to look at things in that style, nothing would ever signify any thing. It makes me feel as queer as Messire Renaud's notions—as if all the world, and I in it, had gone into a jelly, and nothing was any thing."

Eschine laughed. But Eschine's laughter is always quiet.

"I think thou dost not quite understand me, Elaine," said she. "I do not use such phrases of things that do matter, but of those that do not. I should not say such words respecting real troubles, however small. But are there not a great many events in life, of which you can make troubles or not, as you choose? An ill-dressed dish,—a disappointment about the colour of a tunic,—a misunderstanding about the pattern of a trimming,—a cut in one's finger,—and such as these,—is it not very foolish to make one's self miserable about them? What can be more silly than to spend half an hour in fretting over an inconvenience which did not last a quarter?"

"My dear Eschine, it sounds very grand!" said I. "Why dost thou not teach Amaury to look at things in that charming way? He frets over mistakes and inconveniences far more than Guy and I do."

Eschine's smile had more patience than amusement in it.

"For the same reason, Elaine, that I do not teach yonder crane to sing like a nightingale."

I can guess that parable. It would be mere waste of time and labour.

Guy did not forget my birthday yesterday; he gave me a beautiful coral necklace, which one knows is good against poison. (I will take care to wear it whenever Count Raymond is present.) Lady Sybil gave me a lovely ring, set with an opal; and if I were at Acre, and had a bay-leaf to wrap round it, I would go into the Count's chamber invisible, and listen to him. Eschine's gift was a silver pomander, with a chain to hang it by. Amaury (just like him!) forgot all about it till this morning, and then gave me a very pretty gold filagree case, containing the holy Evangel of Saint Luke, to hang round my neck for an amulet.

Am I really nineteen years of age? I begin to feel so old!—and yet I am the youngest of us.

I do think that nothing really nice ever lasts in this world. The Baron de Montluc arrived here last night from Byzantium with all sorts of bad news. In the first place, Saladin, with his Paynim army, has re-entered the Holy Land, and is marching, as men fear, upon Neapolis. If he do this, he will cut off Acre from the Holy City, and the young Lord King cannot reach his capital. The Baron sent a trusty messenger back to Acre, to Count Raymond, urging him to hasten to the Holy City with the King, and lose not an hour in doing it. The coast road is still clear; or he could come by sea to Jaffa. Messire de Montluc sent his own signet as a token to Count Raymond—which ring the Count knows well. Guy has ordered us all to pack up, and return without loss of time to the Holy City, where he will take the command till Count Raymond arrives.

"Now, Elaine!—how wouldst thou like a siege?" triumphantly asks Amaury.

May all the holy saints avert such a calamity!

But there is, if possible, even worse behind: inasmuch as a foe without the gates is less formidable than a traitor within them. The Patriarch (I will not call him holy this time) and the Lord Roger had returned as far as Byzantium a few days before Messire de Montluc left that city, and it comes out now, what all their fine talk of pilgrimage meant. They have been at the Court of England on purpose to offer the crown of Jerusalem to King Henry the father, seeing (say they) the distracted state of the kingdom, the peril of Paynim war, and the fact that King Henry is the nearest heir of King Foulques of Anjou. Well, upon my word! As if the crown of Jerusalem were theirs to offer!

It seems to me, too—but every body, even Guy, says that is only one of my queer, unaccountable notions—that, since King Foulques of Anjou had no right to the crown except as the husband of Queen Melisende, so long as her heirs remain in existence, they should be preferred to his heirs by another wife. But Amaury laughs at me for saying this. He says, of course, when Count Foulques married Queen Melisende, and became King, all her right passed to him, and she was thenceforth simply his consort, his children having as much right as hers. It does not seem just and fair to me; but every one only laughs, and says I have such absurd fancies.

"Why, what would be the good of marrying an heiress at all," says Amaury, "if you had to give up her property when she died before you?"

Still I do not see that it is just. And I wonder if, sometimes, the queer ideas of one century do not become the common ideas of the next. But Amaury seems to think that notion exquisitely ridiculous.

"Nonsense, Elaine!" says he. "It was a simple matter of family arrangement. Don't go and fancy thyself the wisest woman in the world! Thou hast the silliest ideas I ever heard."

"Well, I don't, Amaury," said I, "any more than I fancy thee the wisest man."

Guy laughed, and told Amaury he had a Roland for his Oliver.

CHAPTER XI.

THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM.

"It was but unity of place

Which made me dream I ranked with him."

—TENNYSON.

Here we are, safe in the Holy City, after a hurried and most uncomfortable journey. All the quiet is assuredly gone now. For the Holy City is full of tumult—cries, and marchings, and musters, and clashing of arms—from morning till night. Lady Judith, looking as calm as ever, received us with a blessing, and a soft, glad light in her eyes, which told that she was pleased to have us back. The Patriarch and the Master of the Temple have not yet arrived. Guy thinks they may tarry at Acre with Count Raymond, and come on in his train.

The Lord de Clifford has come from England, by way of Jaffa, with the answer of King Henry the father. It seems that the Patriarch actually took with him the keys of the Holy City and the blessed Sepulchre. I am astonished that Count Raymond should have entrusted them to him. More than this, they travelled by way of Rome, and through their wicked misrepresentations obtained letters from the Holy Father, urging King Henry to take on himself this charge. King Henry was holding Court at Reading when they came to him, and the Patriarch says he was moved to tears at their account of the miserable state of the Holy Land. (Well, I am not going to deny the misery; but I do say it is Count Raymond's fault, and that if matters had been left in Guy's hands, they would never have come to this pass.) King Henry, however, would not give his answer at once; but bade them wait till he had convoked his great council, which sat at Clerkenwell on the eighteenth of March in last year. The decision of the Parliament was that in the interests of England the offer ought to be refused.

"Well!" said Guy, "as a mere question of political wisdom, that is doubtless right; for, apart from the pleasure of God, it would be the ruin of England to have the Holy Land clinging round her neck like a mill-stone. Yet remember, Lord Robert the Courthose never prospered after he had refused this crown of the world. He impiously blew out the taper which had been lighted by miracle; and think what his end was!"

"But dost thou think, my Lord," asked Lady Sybil, looking up, "that he meant it impiously? I have always thought his words so beautiful—that he was not worthy to wear a crown of gold in the place where our Lord had worn for us the crown of thorns."

"Very beautiful, Lady," said Guy a little drily, "if he had not heard just before the conference of the death of his brother, King William the Red."

Well!—when King Henry gave his answer, what did the Patriarch, but ask that one of his sons might be substituted,—and Guy thinks he specially indicated the Count of Poitou.[#] Guy says there are great possibilities in our young Count; but Amaury sneers at the idea. However, the King and the Parliament alike declined to accept in the name of any of the Princes, seeing none of themselves were present: and the Patriarch had to content himself with a promise of aid alone. King Henry took him in his train to Normandy, and after celebrating the holy Easter at Rouen, they had an interview with the French King at Vaudreuil. Both the Kings promised help, swearing on the souls of each other;[#] and many nobles, both French and English, took the holy cross. It is hoped that the King of France and the Count of Poitou may lead an army hither in a few months.

[#] Richard Cœur-de-Lion, whose reputation was yet to be made.

[#] The usual oath of monarchs in solemn form.

"If we can manage to conclude a truce meanwhile, and they do not come here to find us all slaughtered or prisoners to the Paynim," says Guy. "Great bodies move slowly; and kings and armies are of that description."

Saladin has taken Neapolis! Our scouts bring us word that he is ravaging and burning all the land as he marches, and he has turned towards the Holy City. Almost any morning, we may be awoke from sleep with his dreadful magic engine sounding in our ears. Holy Mary and all the saints, pray to the good God for His poor servants!

And not a word comes from the Regent. Four several messengers Guy has sent, by as many different routes, in the hope that at least one of them may reach Acre, earnestly urging him to send instructions. We do not even know the condition of matters at Acre. The King and the Regent may themselves be prisoners. Oh, what is to be done?

Guy says that whatever may become of him, the kingdom must not be lost: and if ten days more pass without news of the Regent, he will parley with Saladin, and if possible conclude a truce on his own responsibility. I feel so afraid for Guy! I believe if Count Raymond could find a handle, he would destroy him without mercy. Guy himself seems to perceive that the responsibility he is ready to assume involves serious peril.

"Nevertheless, my Lady's inheritance must not be lost," he says.

I asked Lady Judith this morning if she were not dreadfully frightened of Saladin. They say he eats Christian children, and sometimes maidens, when the children run short.

"If I felt no alarm, I should scarcely be a woman, Helena," said she. "But I took my fear to the Lord, as King David did. 'What time I am afraid,' he says, 'I will trust in Thee.' And I had my answer last night."

"Oh!" said I. "What was it, if it please you, holy Mother?"

She lifted her head with a light in the grey eyes.

"'I am, I am thy Comforter. Know whom thou art, afraid of a dying man, and of a son of men who wither like grass: and thou forgettest God thy Maker, the Maker of the heaven and Foundation-Layer of the earth, and fearest ever, every day, the face of the fury of thine oppressor.... And now, where is the fury of thine oppressor?'"

"Did the good God speak to you in vision, holy Mother?"

"No, Helena. He spake to me as He does to thee—in His Word."

I thought it would have been a great deal more satisfactory if she had been told in vision.

"But how do you know, holy Mother," I ventured to say, "that words written in holy Scripture, ever so long ago, have something to do with you now?"

"God's Word is living, my child," she said; "it is not, like all other books, a dead book. His Word who is alive for evermore, endureth for ever. Moreover, there is a special promise that the Holy Spirit shall bring God's words to the remembrance of His servants, as they need. And when they come from Him, they come living and with power."

"Then you think, holy Mother, that the Paynim will be driven back?"

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

"But we might be killed, holy Mother!"

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

"Holy Mother!" I exclaimed.

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

"Indeed I do not," said I bluntly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eschine looked up with an expression of utter amazement.

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

Lady Judith's smile was very expressive.

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

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

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

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

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

I stared at her in astonishment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Better than Lady Sybil!" I cried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But what dost thou think?" said I.

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

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

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

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

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

"Which is the worse, Margot?"

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

"O Margot!—who could think that?"

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

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

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

The answer was unhesitating.

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

How very odd!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was rather surprised. "And Count Guy?"

"Quite as wide open as my Damoiselle."

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

I was still more astonished at the answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At last, a letter has come from the Regent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So the matter passed off in a good laugh.

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XII.

WILL SHE GIVE HIM UP?

Elmina.—We can bear all things!

Gonsalez.—Can ye bear disgrace?

Ximena.—We were not born for this.

—FELICIA HEMANS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then what can we do?" I asked.

"Wait and pray," responded she.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"O holy Mother!" cried I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What thinkest thou, Helena?" answered she.

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

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

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

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

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

"No, holy Mother, I did not."

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

My heart fell,—fell.

"What sort of mischief?" I asked fearfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What—?" I gasped.

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

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

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

"And—the condition?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well!—and then?"

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

"Advantages!" I cried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Holy Mother, you must have gone mad!"

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

"Who proposed it?" I demanded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Help me, Jesu Christ!"

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

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

"Help me, Jesu Christ!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XIII.

WAITING FOR THE INEVITABLE.

"Oh, hard to watch the shore-lights,

And yet no signal make!

Hardest, to him the back on Love,

For Love's own blessed sake!

For me the darkness riseth,

But not for me the light;

I breast the waters' heaving foam

For love of Love, to-night."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ah,—Helena!"

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

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

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

"What hast thou heard, Helena?"

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

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

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

"Thou hast heard the truth."

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

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

"The Lord knoweth!" was her cool answer.

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

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

Perhaps I was half mad. I do not know.

When I stopped, at last, she only said—

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

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

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

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

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

It was thus that Marguerite found me.

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

"Damoiselle!"

I turned just enough to let her see my face.

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

What made her ask that question?

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

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

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

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

"Dost thou know what has happened, Margot?"

"I? Ha!—no."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I think," said Guy quietly, "that it is either in a great sorrow or a serious illness that a man really sees himself as he is, if it please God to give him leave. I have thought, until to-day, in a vague way, that I loved God. I begin to wonder this morning whether I ever did at all."

His words struck cold on me. Guy no true Christian!—my brave, generous, noble, unselfish Guy! Then what was I likely to be?

"Guy," I said,—"will she?" I could bear the torture no longer. And I knew he would need no more.

"I think so, Elaine," was his quiet answer. "I hope so."

"'Hope so'!"

"It is her only chance for the kingdom. The nobles are quite right, dear. I am a foreigner; I am an adventurer; I am not a scion of any royal house. It would very much consolidate her position to get rid of me."

"And canst thou speak so calmly? I want to curse them all round, if I cannot consume them!"

"I am past that, Elaine," said Guy in a low voice, not quite so firmly as before. "Once, I did—— May the good Lord pardon me! His thunders are not for mortal hands. And I am thankful that it is so."

"I suppose nobody is wicked, except me," I said bitterly. "Every body else seems to be so terribly resigned, and so shockingly good, and so every thing else that he ought to be: and—I will go, if thou hast no objection, Guy. I shall be saying something naughty, if I don't."

Guy put his arm round me, and kissed my forehead.

"My poor little Lynette!" he said. "We can go home to Poitou, dear, and be once more all in all to each other, as we used to be long ago. Monseigneur will be glad to see us."

But I could not stand that. Partly Guy's dreadful calm, and partly that allusion to the long ago when we were so much to each other, broke me down, and laying my head down upon Guy's arm, I burst into a passionate flood of tears.

Oh, what good they did me! I could scarcely have believed how much quieted and lightened I should feel for them. Though there was no real change, yet the most distressing part of the weight seemed gone. I actually caught myself fancying what Monseigneur would say to us when we came home.

Guy said he would go with me to my chamber. I was glad that we met no one below. But as we entered the corridor at the head of the stairs, little Agnes came running to us, holding up for admiration a string of small blue beads.

"See, Baba!—See, Tan'!—Good!"

These are her names for Guy and me. Every thing satisfactory is "good" with Agnes—it is her expressive word, which includes beautiful, amiable, precious, and all other varieties. I felt as if my heart were too sore to notice her, and I saw a spasm of pain cross Guy's face. But he lifted the child in his arms, kissed her, and admired her treasure to her baby heart's content. If I were but half as selfless as he!

"And who gave thee this, little one?"

"Amma. Good!"

It was the child's name for her mother. Ah, little Agnes, I cannot agree with thee! "Amma" and "good" must no longer go into one sentence. How could she play, to-day, with Guy's children?

Yet I suppose children must be fed, and cared for, and trained, and amused,—even though their elders' hearts are breaking.

Oh, if I might lie down somewhere, and sleep, and awake eighteen years ago, when I was a little sorrowless child like Agnes!

The coronation is fixed for Holy Cross Day. And Lady Sybil has undertaken, as soon as she is crowned, to select her future husband. One condition she has insisted on herself. Every noble, on the coronation day, is to take a solemn oath that he will be satisfied with and abide by her decision, and will serve the King of her choice for ever. This seems to me a very wise and politic move, as it will prevent any future disputes. Every body appears to have no doubt on whom her choice will fall. All expect the Count of Tripoli.

Guy has requested permission to retire to Ascalon; and she has accorded it, but with the express stipulation that he is to be in his place, with the rest of her peers, at the coronation. It does seem to me a piece of needless cruelty. Surely she might have spared him this!

I also have asked permission to retire from Court. Of course I go with Guy. Whoever forsakes him, the little sister shall be true.

For about the first time in my life, I am thoroughly pleased with Amaury. He is nearly as angry as I am—which is saying a great deal. And he is the only person in whose presence I dare relieve my feelings by saying what I think of Sybil, for Guy will not hear a word.