“i am not eager, bold,
nor strong—all that is past:
i’m ready not to do,
at last—at last.
“my half-day’s work is done,
and this is all my part;
i give a patient god
my patient heart.
“and grasp his banner still,
though all its blue be dim:
these stripes, no less than stars,
lead after him.”
“fair lord,” said perrote de carhaix, in the native tongue of both herself and the duke, “i am your old nurse, who held you in her arms as a babe, and who taught your infant lips to speak. i taught you the ten commandments of god; have you forgotten them? or do you call such words as you have spoken honouring your mother? is this the reward you pay her for her mother-love, for her thousand anxieties, for her risked life? if it be so, god pardon you as he may! but when you too reach that point which is the common lot of all humanity—when you too lie awaiting the dread summons of the inevitable angel who shall lead you either into the eternal darkness or the everlasting light, beware lest your dearest turn away from you, and act by you as you have done by her!”
the duke’s black eyes shot forth fire. he was an exceedingly passionate man.
“mademoiselle de carhaix, do you know that you are my subject?”
“i am aware of it, my lord.”
“and that i could order your head struck off in yonder court?”
“you could, if yonder court were in bretagne. in the realm of another sovereign, i scarcely think so, under your gracious pleasure. but do you suppose i should be silent for that? when god puts his words into the lips of his messengers, they must speak them out, whatever the result may be.”
“mademoiselle considers herself, then, an inspired prophetess?” was the contemptuous response.
“the lord put his words once into the mouth of an ass,” replied perrote, meekly. “i think i may claim to be an ass’s equal. i have spoken, fair lord, and i shall add no more. the responsibility lies now with you. my message is delivered, and i pray god to give you ears to hear.”
“sir godfrey foljambe, is this the manner in which you think it meet that one of your household should address a prince?”
“most gracious lord, i am deeply distressed that this gentlewoman should so far have forgotten herself. but i humbly pray your grace to remember that she is but a woman; and women have small wit and much spitefulness.”
“in good sooth, i have need to remember it!” answered the duke, wrathfully. “i never thought, when i put myself to the pains to journey over half england to satisfy the fancies of a sick woman, that i was to be received with insult and contumely after this fashion. i pray you to send this creature out of my sight, as the least reparation that can be offered for such an injury.”
“you need not, sir,” was the immediate reply of perrote. “i go, for mine errand is done. and for the rest, may god judge between us, and he will.”
the duke sat down to the collation hastily spread before him, with the air of an exceedingly injured man. he would not have been quite so angry, if his own conscience had not been so provoking as to second every word of perrote’s reprimand. and as it is never of the least use for a man to quarrel with his conscience, he could do nothing but make perrote the scape-goat, unless, indeed, he had possessed sufficient grace and humility to accept and profit by the rebuke:—which in his eyes, was completely out of the question. had the archbishop of york been the speaker, he might possibly have condescended so far. but the whims of an old nurse—a subject—a woman—he told himself, must needs be utterly beneath the notice of any one so exalted. the excellence of the medicine offered him could not even be considered, if it were presented in a vessel of common pottery, chipped at the edges.
notwithstanding his wrath, the duke did sufficient justice to the collation; and he then demanded, if it must be, to be taken to his mother at once. the sooner the ordeal was over, the better, and he did not mean to remain at hazelwood an hour longer than could be helped.
lady foljambe went up to prepare the countess for the interview. in her chamber she found not only amphillis, who was on duty, but the archbishop also. he sat by the bed with the book of the gospels in his hands—a latin version, of course—from which he had been translating a passage to the invalid.
“well, what now, avena?” faintly asked the countess, who read news in lady foljambe’s face.
there was no time to break it very gradually, for lady foljambe knew that the duke’s impatience would not brook delay.
“dame,” she said, shortly, “my lord your son—”
“bring him in!” cried the countess, in a voice of ecstasy, without allowing lady foljambe to finish her sentence. how it was to end she seemed to have no doubt, and the sudden joy lent a fictitious strength to her enfeebled frame. “bring him in! my jean, my darling, my little lad! said i not the lad should never forsake his old mother? bring him in!”
lady foljambe drew back to allow the duke to enter, for his step was already audible. he came in, and stood by the bed—tall, upright, silent.
“my jean!” cried the dying mother.
“madame!” was the answer, decorous and icy.
“kiss me, my jean! why dost thou not kiss me? lad, i have not seen thee all these weary years!”
the duke, in a very proper manner, kissed the weak old hand which was stretched out towards him. his lips were warm, but his kiss was as cold as a kiss well could be.
“madame,” said the duke, mindful of the proprieties, “it gives me indescribable grief to find you thus. i am also deeply distressed that it should be impossible for me to remain with you. i expect news from bretagne every day—almost every hour—which i hope will summon me back thither to triumph over my rebellious subjects, and to resume my throne in victory. you will, therefore, grant me excuse if it be impossible for me to do more than kiss your hand and entreat your blessing.”
“not stay, my jean!” she said, in piteous accents. “not stay, when thou hast come so far to see me! dost thou know that i am dying?”
“madame, i am infinitely grieved to perceive it. but reasons of state are imperative and paramount.”
“my lord will pardon me for observing,” said the archbishop’s voice, “with a royal kinsman of his own, that god may grant him many kingdoms, but he can never have but one mother.”
the duke’s answer was in his haughtiest manner. “i assure you of my regret, holy father. necessity has no law.”
“and no compassion?”
“jean, my jean! only one minute more—one minute cannot be of importance. my little lad, my best-loved! lay thy lips to mine, and say thou lovest thine old mother, and let me bless thee, and then go, if it must be, and i will die.”
amphillis wondered that the piteous passion of love in the tones of the poor mother did not break down entirely the haughty coldness of the royal son. the duke did indeed bend his stately knee, and touch his mother’s lips with his, but there was no shadow of response to her clinging clasp, no warmth, however faint, in the kiss into which she poured her whole heart.
“jean, little jean! say thou lovest me?”
“madame, it is a son’s duty. i pray your blessing.”
“i bless thee with my whole heart!” she said. “i pray god bless thee in every hour of thy life, grant thee health, happiness, and victory, and crown thee at last with everlasting bliss. now go, my dear heart! the old mother will not keep thee to thy hurt. god be with thee, and bless thee!”
even then he did not linger; he did not even give her, unsolicited, one last kiss. she raised herself on one side, to look after him and listen to him to the latest moment, the light still beaming in her sunken eyes. his parting words were not addressed to her, but she heard them.
“now then, du chatel,” said the duke to his squire in the corridor, “let us waste no more time. this irksome duty done, i would be away immediately, lest i be called back.”
the light died out of the eager eyes, and the old white head sank back upon the pillow, the face turned away from the watchers. amphillis approached her, and tenderly smoothed the satin coverlet.
“let be!” she said, in a low voice. “my heart is broken.”
amphillis, who could scarcely restrain her own sobs, glanced at the archbishop for direction. he answered her by pressing a finger on his lips. perrote came in, her lips set, and her brows drawn. she had evidently overheard those significant words. then they heard the tramp of the horses in the courtyard, the sound of the trumpet, the cry of “notre dame de gwengamp!” and they knew that the duke was departing. they did not know, however, that the parting guest was sped by a few exceedingly scathing words from his sister, who had heard his remark to the squire. she informed him, in conclusion, that he could strike off her head, if he had no compunction in staining his spotless ermine banner with his own kindly blood. it would make very little difference to her, and, judging by the way in which he used his dying mother, she was sure it could make none to him.
the duke flung himself into his saddle, and dashed off down the slope from the gate without deigning either a response or a farewell.
as the archbishop left the countess’s chamber, he beckoned amphillis into the corridor.
“i tarry not,” said he, “for i can work no good now. this is not the time. a stricken heart hath none ears. leave her be, and leave her to god. i go to pray him to speak to her that comfort which she may receive alone from him. none other can do her any help. to-morrow, maybe—when the vexed brain hath slept, and gentle time hath somewhat dulled the first sharp edge of her cruel sorrow—then i may speak and be heard. but now she is in that valley of the shadow, where no voice can reach her save that which once said, ‘lazarus, come forth!’ and which the dead shall hear in their graves at the last day.”
“god comfort her, poor lady!” said amphillis. “ay, god comfort her!” and the archbishop passed on.
he made no further attempt to enter the invalid chamber until the evening of the next day, when he came in very softly, after a word with perrote—no part of any house was ever closed against a priest—and sat down by the sufferer. she lay much as he had left her. he offered no greeting, but took out his evangelistarium from the pocket of his cassock, and began to read in a low, calm voice.
“‘the spirit of the lord is upon me, for he hath anointed me; he hath sent me to evangelise the poor, to heal the contrite in heart, to preach liberty to the captives and sight to the blind, to set the bruised at liberty, to preach the acceptable year of the lord, and the day of retribution.’” (luke four, verses 18, 19, vulgate version.)
there was no sound in answer. the archbishop turned over a few leaves.
“‘come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy-laden, and i will refresh you.’ (matthew nine, verse 28.) ‘and god shall dry all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor clamour, nor shall there be any more pain.’ (revelations twenty-one, verse 4.) ‘trouble not your heart: believe in god, and believe in me.’ ‘peace i bequeath to you, my peace i give to you: not as the world giveth, give i to you. trouble not your heart, neither be it afraid.’ (john fourteen, verses 1, 27.) ‘whom the lord loveth, he chastiseth; and whippeth also every son whom he receiveth.’” (hebrews twelve, verse 6.)
he read or quoted from memory, as passages occurred to him. when he had reached this point he made a pause. a deep sigh answered him, but no words.
“‘and he looked round about on them which sat about him, and said, behold my mother and my brethren! for whosoever shall do the will of god, the same is my brother, and my sister, and mother.’”
“i dare say he kissed his mother!” said the low plaintive voice. she evidently knew of whom the reader spoke. “the world giveth not much peace. ‘heavy-laden!’ ay, heavy-laden! ‘thou hast removed from me friend and neighbour.’ i have lost my liberty, and i am losing my life; and now—god have mercy on me!—i have lost my son.”
“dame, will you take for your son the lord that died for you? he offers himself to you. ‘the same is my mother.’ he will give you not love only, but a son’s love, and that warm and undying. ‘with perpetual charity i delighted in thee,’ he saith; ‘wherefore, pitying, i drew thee to me.’ oh, my daughter, let him draw thee!”
“what you will, father,” was the low answer. “i have no bodily strength; pray you, make not the penance heavier than i can do. elsewise, what you will. my will is broken; nothing matters any more now. i scarce thought it should have so been—at the end. howbeit, god’s will be done. it must be done.”
“my daughter, ‘this is the will of god, your sanctification.’ the end and object of all penances, of all prayers, is that you may be joined to christ. ‘for he is our peace,’ and we are ‘in him complete.’ in him—not in your penances, nor in yourself. if so were that my lord basset had done you grievous wrong, it might be you forgave him fully, not for anything in him, but only because he is one with your own daughter, and you could not strike him without smiting her; his dishonour is her dishonour, his peace is her peace, to punish him were to punish her. so is it with the soul that is joined to christ. if he be exalted, it must be exalted; if it be rejected, he is rejected also. and god cannot reject his own son.”
the archbishop was not at all sure that the countess was listening to him. she kept her face turned away. he rose and wished her good evening. the medicine must not be administered in an overdose, or it might work more harm than good.
he came again on the following evening, and gave her a little more. for three days after he pursued the same course, and, further than courtesy demanded, he was not answered a word. on the fourth night he found the face turned. a pitiful face, whose aspect went to his heart—wan, white, haggard, unutterably pathetic. that night he read the fourteenth chapter of saint john’s gospel, and added few words of his own. on leaving her, he said—
“my daughter, god is more pitiful than men, and his love is better than theirs.”
“it had need be so!” were the only words that replied. in the corridor he met father jordan. the archbishop stopped.
“how fareth she in the body?”
“as ill as she may be, and live. her life is counted by hours.”
the archbishop stood at the large oriel of stained glass at the end of the corridor, looking out on the spring evening—the buds just beginning to break, the softened gold of the western sky. his heart was very full.
“o father of the everlasting age!” he said aloud, “all things are possible unto thee, and thou hast eternity to work in. suffer not this burdened heart to depart ere thou hast healed it with thine eternal peace! grant thy rest to the heavy-laden, thy mercy to her on whom man hath had so little mercy! was it not for this thou earnest, o saviour of the world? good shepherd, wilt thou not go after this lost sheep until thou find it?”
the next night the silence was broken.
“father,” she said, “tell me if i err. it looks to me, from the words you read, as if our lord lacketh not penances and prayers, and good works; he only wants me, and that by reason that he loveth me. and why all this weary life hath been mine, he knoweth, and i am content to leave it so, if only he will take me up in his arms as the shepherd doth the sheep, and will suffer me to rest my weariness there. do i err, father?”
“my daughter, you accept the gospel of god’s peace. this it is to come to him, and he shall give you rest.”
the work was done. the proud spirit had stooped to the yoke. the bitter truth against which she had so long fought and struggled was accepted at the pierced hands which wounded her only for her healing. that night she called lady basset to her.
“my little girl, my jeanne!” she said, “i was too hard on thee. i loved thy brother the best, and i defrauded thee of the love which was thy due. and now thou hast come forty miles to close mine eyes, and he turneth away, and will have none of me. jeanette, darling, take my dying blessing, and may god deal with thee as thou hast dealt by the old mother, and pay thee back an hundredfold the love thou hast given me! kiss me, sweet heart, and forgive me the past.”
two days later, the long journey by the way of the wilderness was over. on the 18th of march, 1374, perrote folded the aged, wasted hands upon the now quiet breast.
“all was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow,
all the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing,
all the dull, deep pain, and the constant anguish of patience!
and as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom,
meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, ‘father, i thank thee!’”
the fate which had harassed poor marguerite in life pursued her to the very grave. there was no sumptuous funeral, no solemn hearse, no regal banners of arms for her. had there been any such thing, it would have left its trace on the wardrobe rolls of the year. there was not even a court mourning. it was usual then for the funerals of royal persons to be deferred for months after the death, in order to make the ceremony more magnificent. but now, in the twilight of the second evening, which was monday, a quiet procession came silently across from the manor house to the church, headed by father jordan; twelve poor men bore torches beside the bier; the mass for the dead was softly sung, and those beautiful, pathetic words which for ages rose beside the waiting coffin:—
“king of awful majesty,
by thy mercy full and free,
fount of mercy, pardon me!
“think, o saviour, in what way
on thine head my trespass lay;
let me not be lost that day!
“thou wert weary seeking me;
on thy cross thou mad’st me free;
lose not all thine agony!”
then they prayed for her everlasting rest—not joy. the thought of active bliss could hardly be associated with that weary soul. “jesus, grant her thine eternal rest!” and the villagers crept round with bared heads, and whispered to one another that they were burying the white lady—that mysterious prisoner whom no one ever saw, who never came to church, nor set foot outside the walls of her prison; and they dimly guessed some thousandth part of the past pathos of that shadowed life, and they joined in the amen. and over her grave were set up no sculptured figure and table tomb, only one slab of pure white marble, carved with a cross, and beneath it, the sole epitaph of marguerite of flanders, the heroine of hennebon,—“mercy, jesu!” so they left her to her rest.
ten years later, in a quiet manor house near furness abbey, a knight’s wife was telling a story to her three little girls.
“and you called me after her, mother!” said little fair-haired margaret.
“but what became of the naughty man who didn’t want to come and see his poor mother when she was so sick and unhappy, mother?” asked compassionate little regina.
“naughty man!” echoed baby perrotine.
lady hylton stroked her little margaret’s hair.
“he led not a happy life, my darlings; but we will not talk about him. ay, little meg, i called thee after the poor white lady. i pray god thou mayest give thine heart to him earlier than she did, and not have to walk with weary feet along her wilderness way. let us thank god for our happy life, and love each other as much as we can.”
a hand which she had not known was there was laid upon her head.
“thinkest thou we can do that, my phyllis, any better than now?” asked sir norman hylton.
“we can all try,” said amphillis, softly. “and god, our god, shall bless us.”
