Part 12

"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 Heloise 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 Heloise 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 Helene 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 Heloise. 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 benitier[#] 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!