A Forgotten Hero Part 8

"And if there were in it a little child, alone, too young to have either skill or strength to steer it, what would become of him when the barge shot the bridge?"

"Poor soul!--destruction, without question."

"And what if my Lord be that little child, safe as yet in the barge which the Master has tied fast to the sh.o.r.e? The rope is his trouble.

What if it be his safety also? He would like far better to go drifting down, amusing himself with the strange sights while daylight lasted; but when night came, and the bridge to be pa.s.sed, how then? Is it not better to be safe moored, though there be no beauty or variety in the scene?"

"Nay, Father, but is there no third way? Might the bridge not be pa.s.sed in safety, and the child take his pleasure, and yet reach home well and sound?"

"Some children," said the Predicant Friar, with a tender intonation.

"But not that child."

The Earl was silent. The Prior softly repeated a text of Scripture.

"Endure chastis.e.m.e.nt. As sons G.o.d dealeth with you; what son then is he, whom the Father chasteneth not?" [Hebrews 12, verse 7, Vulgate version.]

A low, half-repressed sigh from his companion reminded the Prior that he was touching a sore place. One of the Prince's bitterest griefs was his childlessness. [He has told us so himself.] The Prior tacked about, and came into deeper water.

"'Nor have we a High Priest who cannot sympathise with our infirmities, for He was tempted in all things like us, except in sinning.'" [Hebrews 4, verse 15, Vulgate version.]

"If one could see!" said the Earl, almost in a whisper.

"It would be easier, without doubt. Yet 'blessed are they who see not, and believe.' G.o.d can see. I would rather He saw and not I, than--if such a thing were possible--that I saw and not He. Whether is better, my Lord, that the father see the danger and guard the child without his knowing anything, or that the child see it too, and have all the pain and apprehension consequent upon the seeing? The blind has the advantage, sometimes."

"Yet who would wish to be blind on that account?" answered the Earl, quickly.

"No man could wish it, nor need he. Only, the blind man may take the comfort of it."

"But you have not answered one point, Father. Why does G.o.d rouse longings in our hearts which He never means to fulfil?"

"Does G.o.d rouse them?"

"Are they sin, then?"

"No," answered the Prior, slowly, as if he were thinking out the question, and had barely reached the answer. "I dare not say that.

They are nature. Some, I know, would have all that is nature to be sin; but I doubt if G.o.d treats it thus in His Word. Still, I question if He raises those longings. He allows them. Man raises them."

"Does He never guide them?"

"Yes, that I think He does."

"Then the question comes to the same thing. Why does G.o.d not guide us to long for the thing that He means to give us?"

"He very often does."

"Then," pursued the Earl, a little impatiently, "why does He not turn us away from that which He does not intend us to have?"

"My Lord," said the Predicant, gravely, "from the day of his fall, man has always been asking G.o.d _why_. He will probably go on doing it to the day of the dissolution of all things. But I do not observe that G.o.d has ever yet answered the question."

"It is wrong to ask it, then, I suppose," said the Earl, with a weary sigh.

"It is not faith that wants to know why. 'He that believeth hasteneth not.' [Isaiah 28, verse 16, Vulgate version.] 'What I do, thou knowest not now; but thou shalt know hereafter.' [John 13 verse 7.] We can afford to wait, my Lord."

"Easily enough," replied the Earl, with feeling, "if we knew it would come right in the end."

"It will come as He would have it who laid down His life that you should live for ever. Is that not enough for my Lord?"

Perhaps the Prince felt it enough. At all events, he gave no answer.

"Well, that is not my notion of going comfortably through life!"

observed Miss Elaine Criketot, in a decided tone. "My idea is to pull all the plums out of the cake, and leave the hard crusts for those that like them."

"Does anybody like them?" laughingly asked Clarice.

"Well, for those who need them, then. Plenty of folks in this world are glad of hard crusts or anything else."

"Thy metaphor is becoming rather confused," observed Diana.

"Dost thou not think, Elaine Criketot, that it might be only fair to leave a few plums for those whose usual fare is crusts? A crust now and then would scarcely hurt the dainty damsels who commonly regale themselves on plums."

It was a fourth voice which said this--a voice which n.o.body expected, and the sound of which brought all the girls to their feet in an instant.

"Most certainly, Lord Earl," replied Elaine, courtesying low; "but I hope they would be somebody else's plums than mine."

"I see," said the Earl, with that sparkle of fun in his eyes, which they all knew. "Self-denial is a holy and virtuous quality, to be cultivated by all men--except me. Well, we might all subscribe that creed with little sacrifice. But then where would be the self-denial?"

"Please it the Lord Earl, it might be practised by those who liked it."

"I should be happy to hear of any one who liked self-denial," responded the Earl, laughing. "Is that not a contradiction in terms?"

Elaine was about to make a half-saucy answer, mixed sufficiently with reverence to take away any appearance of offence, when a sight met her eyes which struck her into silent horror. In the doorway, looking a shade more acetous than usual, stood Lady Margaret. It was well known to all the bower-maidens of the Countess of Cornwall that there were two crimes on her code which were treated as capital offences. Laughing was the less, and being caught in conversation with a man was the greater.

But beneath both these depths was a deeper depth yet, and this was talking to the Earl. Never was a more perfect exemplification of the dog in the manger than the Lady Margaret of Cornwall. She did not want the Earl for herself, but she was absolutely determined that no one else should so much as speak to him. Here was Elaine, caught red-handed in the commission of all three of these stupendous crimes. And if the offence could be made worse, it was so by the Earl saying, as he walked away, "I pray you, my Lady, visit not my sins on this young maid."

Had one compa.s.sionate sensation remained in the mind of the Countess towards Elaine, that unlucky speech would have extinguished it at once.

She did not, as usual, condescend to answer her lord; but she turned to Elaine, and in a voice of concentrated anger, demanded the repet.i.tion of every word which had pa.s.sed. Diana gave it, for Elaine seemed almost paralysed with terror. Clarice, on the demand of her mistress, confirmed Diana's report as exact. The Countess turned back to Elaine.

Her words were scarcely to be reported, for she lost alike her temper and her gentlewomanly manners. "And out of my house thou goest this day," was the conclusion, "thou shameful, giglot hussey! And I will not give thee an husband; thou shalt go back to thy father and thy mother, with the best whipping that ever I gave maid. And she that shall be in thy stead shall be the ugliest maid I can find, and still of tongue, and sober of behaviour. Now, get thee gone!"

And calling for Agatha as she went, the irate lady stalked away.

Of no use was poor Elaine's flood of tears, nor the united entreaties of her four companions. Clarice and Diana soon found that they were not to come off scatheless. Neither had spoken to the Earl, as Elaine readily confessed; but for the offence of listening to such treachery, both were sent to bed by daylight, with bread and water for supper. The offences of grown-up girls in those days were punished like those of little children now. All took tearful farewells of poor Elaine, who dolefully expressed her fear of another whipping when she reached home; and so she pa.s.sed out of their life.

It was several weeks before the new bower-maiden appeared. Diana suggested that the Countess found some difficulty in meeting with a girl ugly enough to please her. But, at last, one evening in November, Mistress Underdone introduced the new-comer, in the person of a girl of eighteen, or thereabouts, as Felicia de Fay, daughter of Sir Stephen de Fay and Dame Sabina Watefeud, of the county of Suss.e.x. All the rest looked with much curiosity at her.

Felicia, while not absolutely ugly, was undeniably plain. Diana remarked afterwards to Clarice that there were no ugly girls to be had, as plainly appeared. But the one thing about her which really was ugly was her expression. She looked no one in the face, while she diligently studied every one who was not looking at her. Let any one attempt to meet her eyes, and they dropped in a moment. Some do this from mere bashfulness, but Felicia showed no bashfulness in any other way.

Clarice's feeling towards her was fear.

"I'm not afraid!" said Diana. "I am sure I could be her match in fair fight!"

"It is the fair fight I doubt," said Clarice. "I am afraid there is treachery in her eyes."