Part 13

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 Coeur-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 Heloise, 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.