“why for the dead, who are at rest?
pray for the living, in whose breast
the struggle between right and wrong
is raging terrible and strong.”
longfellow.
amphillis neville was a most unsuspicious person. it never occurred to her to expect any one to do what, in his place, she would not have done; and all that she would have done was so simple and straightforward, that scheming of every sort was an impossible idea, until suggested by some one else. she was consequently much surprised when perrote said one evening—
“phyllis, i could find in mine heart to wish thy cousin had tarried hence.”
the discovery of ricarda’s deception was the only solution of this remark which presented itself to amphillis, but her natural caution stood her in good stead, and she merely inquired her companion’s meaning.
“hast not seen that she laboureth to catch master hylton into her net?”
thoughts, which were not all pleasant, chased one another through the mind of amphillis. if ricarda were trying to win norman hylton, would she be so base as to leave him under the delusion that she was a neville, possibly of the noble stock of the lords of raby? mr hylton’s friends, if not himself, would regard with unutterable scorn the idea of marriage with a confectioner’s daughter. he would be held to have demeaned himself to the verge of social extinction. and somehow, somewhere, and for some reason—amphillis pushed the question no further than this—the thought of assisting, by her silence, in the ruin of norman hylton, seemed much harder to bear than the prospect of being hated by ricarda altham, even though it were for ever and ever. when these meditations had burned within her for a few seconds, amphillis spoke.
“mistress perrote, wit you how my cousin came hither?”
“why, by reason my lady foljambe sent to thine uncle, to ask at him if thou hadst any kin of the father’s side, young maids of good birth and breeding, and of discreet conditions, that he should be willing to put forth hither with thee.”
amphillis felt as if her mind were in a whirl. surely it was not possible that mr altham had known, far less shared, the dishonesty of his daughter? she could not have believed her uncle capable of such meanness.
“sent to mine uncle?” seemed all that she could utter.
“ay, but thine uncle, as i heard say, was away when the messenger came, and he saw certain women of his house only.”
“oh, then my uncle was not in the plot!” said amphillis to herself with great satisfaction.
“maybe i speak wrongly,” added perrote, reflectively; “i guess he saw but one woman, a wedded cousin of thine, one mistress winkfield, who said she wist of a kinswoman of thine on the father’s side that she was secure her father would gladly prefer, and she would have her up from hertfordshire to see him, if he would call again that day week.”
how the conspiracy had been managed flashed on amphillis at once. mr altham was always from home on a wednesday, when he attended a meeting of his professional guild in the city. that wicked alexandra had done the whole business, and presented her own sister to the messenger as the cousin of amphillis, on that side of her parentage which came of gentle blood.
“mistress, i pray you tell me, if man know of wrong done or lying, and utter it not, hath he then part in the wrong?”
“very like, dear heart. is there here some wrong-doing? i nigh guessed so much from thy ways. speak out, phyllis.”
“soothly, mistress, i would not by my good will do my kinswoman an ill turn; yet either must i do so, or else hold my peace at wrong done to my lady foljambe, and peradventure to master hylton. my cousin ricarda is not of my father’s kin. she is daughter unto mine uncle, the patty-maker in the strand. i know of no kin on my father’s side.”
“holy mary!” cried the scandalised perrote. “has thine uncle, then, had part in this wicked work?”
“i cry you mercy, mistress, but i humbly guess not so. mine uncle, as i have known him, hath been alway an honest and honourable man, that should think shame to do a mean deed. that he had holpen my cousins thus to act could i not believe without it were proven.”
“then thy cousin, mistress winkfield?”
“alexandra? i said not so much of her.”
“phyllis, my lady foljambe must know this.”
“i am afeard, mistress, she must. mistress, i must in mine honesty confess to you that these few days i have wist my cousin had called her by the name of neville; but in good sooth, i wist not if i ought to speak or no, till your word this even seemed to show me that i must. my cousins have been somewhat unfriends to me, and i held me back lest i should be reckoned to revenge myself.” perrote took in the situation at a glance. “poor child!” she said. “it is well thou hast spoken. i dare guess, thou sawest not that mischief might come thereof.”
“in good sooth, mistress, that did i not until this even. i never thought of no such a thing.”
“verily, i can scarce marvel, for such a thing was hardly heard of afore. to deceive a noble lady! to ’present herself as of gentle blood, when she came but of a trading stock! ’tis horrible! i can scarce think of worser deed, without she had striven to deceive the priest himself in confession.”
the act of ricarda altham was far more shocking in the eyes of a lady in the fourteenth century than in the nineteenth. the falsehood she had told was the same in both cases; or rather, it would weigh more heavily now than then. but the nature of the deception—that what they would have termed “a beggarly tradesman’s brat” should, by deceiving a lady of family, have forced herself on terms of comparative equality into the society of ladies—was horrible in the extreme to their eclectic souls. tradesmen, in those days, were barely supposed, by the upper classes, to have either morals or manners, except an awe of superior people, which was expected to act as a wholesome barrier against cheating their aristocratic customers. in point of fact, the aristocratic customers were cheated much oftener than they supposed, on the one side, and some of the “beggarly tradesfolk” were men of much higher intellect and principle than they imagined, on the other. brains were held to be a prerogative of gentle blood, extra intelligence in the lower classes being almost an impertinence. the only exception to this rule lay with the church. she was allowed to develop a brain in whom she would. the sacredness of her tonsure protected the man who wore it, permitting him to exhibit as much (or as little) of manners, intellect, and morals, as he might think proper.
perrote’s undressing on that evening was attended with numerous shakes of the head, and sudden ejaculations of mingled astonishment and horror.
“and that agatha!” was one of the ejaculations.
amphillis looked for enlightenment.
“why, she is full hand in glove with ricarda. the one can do nought that the other knows not of. i dare be bound she is helping her to draw poor master norman into her net—for agatha will have none of him; she’s after master matthew.”
“lack-a-day! i never thought nobody was after anybody!” said innocent amphillis.
“keep thy seliness (simplicity), child!” said perrote, smiling on her. “nor, in truth, should i say ‘poor master norman,’ for i think he is little like to be tangled either in ricarda’s web or agatha’s meshes. if i know him, his eyes be in another quarter—wherein, i would say, he should have better content. ah me, the folly of men! and women belike—i leave not them out; they be oft the more foolish of the twain. the good god assoil (forgive) us all! alack, my poor lady! it doth seem as if the lord shut all doors in my face. i thought i was about to win sir godfrey over—and hard work it had been—and then cometh this abbot of darley, and slams the door afore i may go through. well, the lord can open others, an’ he will. ‘he openeth, and none shutteth; he shutteth, and none openeth;’ and blessed be his holy name, he is easilier come at a deal than men. if i must tarry, it is to tarry his leisure; and he knows both the hearts of men, and the coming future; and he is secure not to be too late. he loves our poor lady better than i love her, and i love her well-nigh as mine own soul. lord, help me to wait thy time, and help mine unbelief!”
the ordeal of telling lady foljambe had to be gone through the next morning. she was even more angry than perrote had anticipated, and much more than amphillis expected. ricarda was a good-for-nought, a hussy, a wicked wretch, and a near relative of satan, while amphillis was only a shade lighter in the blackness of her guilt. in vain poor amphillis pleaded that she had never guessed lady foljambe’s intention of sending for her cousin, and had never heard of it until she saw her. then, said lady foljambe, unreasonable in her anger, she ought to have guessed it. but it was all nonsense! of course she knew, and had plotted it all with her cousins.
“nay, dame,” said perrote; “i myself heard you to say, the even afore ricarda came, that it should give phyllis a surprise to see her.”
if anything could have made lady foljambe more angry than she was, it was having it shown to her that she was in the wrong. she now turned her artillery upon perrote, whom she scolded in the intervals of heaping unsavoury epithets upon amphillis and ricarda, until amphillis thought that everything poor perrote had ever done in her life to lady foljambe’s annoyance, rightly or wrongly, must have been dragged out of an inexhaustible memory to lay before her. at last it came to an end. ricarda was dismissed in dire disgrace; all that lady foljambe would grant her was her expenses home, and the escort of one mounted servant to take her there. even this was given only at the earnest pleading of perrote and amphillis, who knew, as indeed did lady foljambe herself, that to turn a girl out of doors in this summary manner was to expose her to frightful dangers in the fourteenth century. poor ricarda was quite broken down, and so far forgot her threats as to come to amphillis for help and comfort. amphillis gave her every farthing in her purse, and desired the servant who was to act as escort to convey a conciliatory message to her uncle, begging forgiveness for ricarda for her sake. she sent also an affectionate and respectful message to her new aunt, entreating her to intercede with her husband for his daughter.
“indeed, rica, i would not have told if i could have helped it and bidden true to my trust!” was the farewell of amphillis.
“o phyllis, i wish i’d been as true as you, and then i should never have fallen in this trouble!” sobbed the humbled ricarda. “i shouldn’t have thought of it but for saundrina. but there, i’ve been bad enough! i’ll not lay blame to other folks. god be wi’ thee! if i may take god’s name into my lips; but, peradventure, he’ll be as angry as my lady.”
“i suppose he is alway angered at sin,” said amphillis. “but, rica, the worst sinner that ever lived may take god’s name into his lips to say, ‘god, forgive me!’ and we must all alike say that. and mistress perrote saith, if we hide our stained souls behind the white robes of our lord christ, god the father is never angered with him. all that anger was spent, every drop of it, upon the cross on calvary; so there is none left now, never a whit, for any sinner that taketh refuge in him. yea, it was spent on him for this cause, that all souls taking shelter under his wing unto all time might find there only love, and rest, and peace.”
“o phyllis, thou’rt a good maid. i would i were half as good as thou!”
“if i am good at all, dear rica, jesu christ hath done it; and he will do it for thee, for the asking.”
so the cousins parted in more peace than either of them would once have thought possible.
for some hours amphillis was in serious doubt whether she would not share the fate of her cousin. perrote pleaded for her, it seemed, in vain; even mrs margaret added her gentle entreaties, and was sharply bidden to hold her tongue. but when, on the afternoon of that eventful day, amphillis went, as was now usual, to mount guard in the countess’s chamber, she was desired, in that lady’s customary manner—
“bid avena foljambe come and speak with me.”
amphillis hesitated an instant, and her mistress saw it.
“well? hast an access (a fit of the gout), that thou canst not walk?”
“dame, i cry your grace mercy. i am at this present ill in favour of my lady foljambe, and i scarce know if she will come for my asking.”
the countess laughed the curt, bitter laugh which amphillis had so often heard from her lips.
“tell her she may please herself,” she said; “but that if she be not here ere the hour, i’ll come to her. i am not yet so sick that i cannot crawl to the further end of the house. she’ll not tarry to hear that twice, or i err.”
amphillis locked the door behind her, as she was strictly ordered to do whenever she left that room, unless perrote were there, and finding lady foljambe in her private boudoir, tremblingly delivered the more civil half of her message. lady foljambe paid no heed to her.
“dame,” said poor amphillis, “i pray you of mercy if i do ill; but her grace bade me say also that, if you came not to her afore the clock should point the hour, then would she seek you.”
lady foljambe allowed a word to escape her which could only be termed a mild form of swearing—a sin to which women no less than men, and of all classes, were fearfully addicted in the middle ages—and, without another look at amphillis, stalked upstairs, and let herself with her own key into the countess’s chamber.
the countess sat in her large chair of carved walnut, made easy by being lined with large, soft cushions. there were no easy chairs of any other kind. she was in her favourite place, near the window.
“well, avena, good morrow! didst have half my message, or the whole?”
“i am here, dame, to take your grace’s orders.”
“i see, it wanted the whole. ‘to take my grace’s orders!’ soothly, thou art pleasant. well, take them, then. my grace would like a couch prepared on yonder lawn, and were i but well enough, a ride on horseback; but i misdoubt rides be over for me. go to: what is this i hear touching the child amphillis?—as though thou wentest about to be rid of her.”
“dame, i have thought thereupon.”
“what for? now, avena, i will know. thou dost but lose thy pains to fence with me.”
in answer, lady foljambe told the story, with a good deal of angry comment. the countess was much amused, a fact which did not help to calm the narrator.
“ha, jolife!” said she, “but i would fain have been in thy bower when the matter came forth! howbeit, i lack further expounding thereanentis. whereof is phyllis guilty?”
lady foljambe, whose wrath was not up at the white heat which it had touched in the morning, found this question a little difficult to answer. she could not reasonably find fault with amphillis for being ricarda’s cousin, and this was the real cause of her annoyance. the only blame that could be laid to her was her silence for a few days as to the little she knew. of this crime lady foljambe made the most.
“now, avena,” said the countess, as peremptorily as her languor permitted, “hearken me, and be no more of a fool than thou canst help. if thou turn away a quiet, steady, decent maid, of good birth and conditions, for no more than a little lack of courage, or maybe of judgment—and thou art not a she-solomon thyself, as i give thee to wit, but thou art a fearsome thing to a young maid when thou art angered; and unjust anger is alway harder, and sharper, and fierier than the just, as if it borrowed a bit of satan, from whom it cometh—i say, if thou turn her away for this, thou shalt richly deserve what thou wilt very like get in exchange—to wit, a giddy-pate that shall blurt forth all thy privy matter (and i am a privy matter, as thou well wist), or one of some other ill conditions, that shall cost thee an heartbreak to rule. now beware, and be wise. and if it need more, then mind thou”—and the tone grew regal—“that amphillis neville is my servant, not thine, and that i choose not she be removed from me. i love the maid; she hath sense, and she is true to trust; and though that keeps me in prison, yet can i esteem it when known. ’tis a rare gift. now go, and think on what i have said to thee.”
lady foljambe found herself reluctantly constrained to do the countess’s bidding, so far, at least, as the meditation was concerned. and the calmer she grew, the more clearly she saw that the countess was right. she did not, however, show that she felt she had been in the wrong. amphillis was not informed that she was forgiven, nor that she was to retain her place, but matters were allowed to slide silently back into their old groove. so the winter came slowly on.
“the time drew near the birth of christ,” that season of peace and good-will to men which casts its soft sunshine even over the world, bringing absent relatives together, and suggesting general family amnesties. perrote determined to make one more effort with sir godfrey. about the middle of december, as that gentleman was mounting his staircase, he saw on the landing that “bothering old woman,” standing, lamp in hand, evidently meaning to waylay some one who was going up to bed. sir godfrey had little doubt that he was the destined victim, and he growled inwardly. however, it was of no use to turn back on some pretended errand; she was sure to wait till his return, as he knew. sir godfrey growled again inaudibly, and went on to meet his fate in the form of perrote.
“sir, i would speak with you.”
sir godfrey gave an irritable grunt.
“sir, the day of our lord’s birth is very nigh, when men be wont to make up old quarrels in peace. will you not yet once entreat of my lord duke, being in england, to pay one visit to his dying mother?”
“i wis not that she is dying. folks commonly take less time over their dying than thus.”
perrote, as it were, waved away the manner of the answer, and replied only to the matter.
“sir, she is dying, albeit very slowly. my lady may linger divers weeks yet. will you not send to my lord?”
“i did send to him,” snapped sir godfrey.
“and he cometh?” said perrote, eagerly for her.
“no.” sir godfrey tried to pass her with that monosyllable, but perrote was not to be thus baffled. she laid a detaining hand upon his arm.
“sir, i pray you, for our lord’s love, to tell me what word came back from my lord duke?”
our lord’s love was not a potent factor in sir godfrey’s soul. more powerful were those pleading human eyes—and yet more, the sentiment which swayed the unjust judge—“because this widow troubleth me, i will avenge her.” he turned back.
“must you needs wit? then take it: it shall do you little pleasure. my lord writ that he was busily concerned touching the troubles in brittany, and ill at ease anentis my lady duchess, that is besieged in the castle of auray, and he could not spare time to go a visiting; beside which, it might be taken ill of king edward, whose favour at this present is of high import unto him, sith without his help he is like to lose his duchy. so there ends the matter. no man can look for a prince to risk the loss of his dominions but to pleasure an old dame.”
“one only, sir, it may be, is like to look for it; and were i my lord duke, i should be a little concerned touching another matter—the account that he shall give in to that one at the last day. in the golden balances of heaven i count a dying mother’s yearning may weigh heavy, and the risk of loss of worldly dominion may be very light. i thank you, sir. good-night. may god not say one day to my lord duke, ‘thou fool!’”
perrote disappeared, but sir godfrey foljambe stood where she had left him. over his pleasure-chilled, gold-hardened conscience a breath from heaven was sweeping, such a breath as he had often felt in earlier years, but which very rarely came to him now. like the soft toll of a passing bell, the terrible words rang in his ears with their accent of hopeless pity—“thou fool! thou fool!” would god, some day, in that upper world, say that to him?
the sound was so vivid and close that he actually glanced round to see if any one was there to hear but himself. but he was alone. only god had heard them, and god forgets nothing—a thought as dreadful to his enemies as it is warmly comforting to his children. alas, for those to whom the knowledge that god has his eye upon them is only one of terror!
yet there is one thing that god does forget. he tells us that he forgets the forgiven sin. “as far as the sun-rising is from the sun-setting (note 1), so far hath he removed our transgressions from us”—“thou wilt cast all their sins into the depths of the sea.” but as it has been well said, “when god pardons sin, he drops it out of his memory into that of the pardoned sinner.” we cannot forget it, because he has done so.
for sir godfrey foljambe the thought of an omniscient eye and ear was full of horror. he turned round, went downstairs, and going to a private closet in his own study, where medicines were kept, drank off one of the largest doses of brandy which he had ever taken at once. it was not a usual thing to do, for brandy was not then looked on as a beverage, but a medicine. but sir godfrey wanted something potent, to still those soft chimes which kept saying, “thou fool!” anything to get away from god!
