The Well in the Desert Part 5

MOTHER JOAN.

"She hears old footsteps wandering slow Through the lone chambers of her heart."

Lowell.

When Guy of Ashridge was fairly gone, Philippa felt at once relieved and vexed to lose him. She had called in a new physician to prescribe for her disease; and she was sure that he had administered a harmful medicine, if he had not also given a wrong diagnosis. Instead of being better, she felt worse; and she resolved to give herself the next dose, in the form of a "retreat" into a convent, to pray and fast, and make her peace with G.o.d. Various reasons induced her to select a convent at a distance from home. After a period of indecision, she fixed upon the Abbey of Shaftesbury, and obtained the necessary permission to reside there for a time.

Lady Sergeaux arrived at Shaftesbury towards the close of August. She found the Abbess and nuns kindly-disposed towards her; and her stay was not disagreeable, except for the restless, dissatisfied feelings of her own heart. But she found that her peace was not made, for all her fastings, scourgings, vigils, and prayers. Guy's words came back to her with every rite, "G.o.d strip you of your own goodness!" and she could not wrap herself in its mantle as complacently as before.

In the Abbey of Shaftesbury was one nun who drew Philippa's attention more than the others. This was a woman of about sixty years of age, whom all the convent called Mother Joan. An upright, white-haired woman, with some remnant of former comeliness; but Mother Joan was blind. Philippa pitied her affliction, and liked her simple, straightforward manner. She had many old memories and tales of forgotten times, which she was ready enough to tell; and these Philippa, as well as the nuns, always liked to hear.

"How old were you, Mother Joan, when you became a nun?" she asked her one day during the recreation-hour.

"Younger than you, Lady," said Mother Joan. "I was but an hilding [see Note 1] of twenty."

"And wherefore was it, Mother?" inquired a giddy young nun, whose name was Laura. "Wert thou disappointed in love, or--"

The scorn exhibited on the blind woman's face stopped her.

"I never was such a fool," said Mother Joan, bluntly. "I became a nun because my father had decreed it from my cradle, and my mother willed it also. There were but two of us maids, and--ah, well! she would not have more than one to suffer."

"Had thy sister, then, a woeful story?" asked Sister Laura, settling her wimple, [see note 2], as she thought, becomingly.

"Never woman woefuller," sadly replied Mother Joan.

The next opportunity she had, Lady Sergeaux asked one of the more discreet nuns who Mother Joan was.

"Eldest daughter of the great house of Le Despenser," replied Sister Senicula; "of most excellent blood and lineage; daughter unto my n.o.ble Lord of Gloucester that was, and the royal Lady Alianora de Clare, his wife, the daughter of a daughter of King Edward. By Mary, Mother and Maiden, she is the n.o.blest nun in all these walls."

"And what hath been her history?" inquired Philippa.

"Her history, I think, was but little," replied Senicula; "your Ladyship heard her say that she had been professed at twenty years. But I have known her to speak of a sister of hers, who had a very sorrowful story.

I have often wished to know what it were, but she will never tell it."

The next recreation-time found Philippa, as usual, seated by Mother Joan. The blind nun pa.s.sed her hand softly over Philippa's dress.

"That is a damask," [the figured silk made at Damascus] she said. "I used to like damask and baudekyn."

[Note: Baudekyn or baldekyn was the richest silk stuff then known, and also of oriental manufacture.]

"I never wear baudekyn," answered Philippa. "I am but a knight's wife."

"What is the colour?" the blind woman wished to know.

"Red and black, in stripes," said Philippa.

"I remember," said Mother Joan, dreamily, "many years ago, seeing mine aunt, the Lady of Gloucester, at the court of King Edward of Caernarvon, arrayed in a fair baudekyn of rose colour and silver. It was the loveliest stuff I ever saw. And I could see then."

Her voice fell so mournfully that Philippa tried to turn her attention by asking her,--"Knew you King Edward of Westminster?" [See note 3.]

"Nay, Lady de Sergeaux, with what years do you credit me?" rejoined the nun, laughing a little. "Edward of Westminster was dead ere I was born.

But I have heard of him from them that did remember him well. He was a goodly man, of lofty stature, and royal presence: a wise man, and a cunning [clever]--saving only that he opposed our holy Father the Pope."

"Did he so?" responded Philippa.

"Did he so!" ironically repeated Mother Joan. "Did he not command that no Bull should ever be brought into England? and hanged he not the Prior of Saint John of Jerusalem for reading one to his monks? I can tell you, to brave Edward of Westminster was no laughing matter. He never cared what his anger cost. His own children had need to think twice ere they aroused his ire. Why, on the day of his daughter the Lady Elizabeth's marriage with my n.o.ble Lord of Hereford, he, being angered by some word of the bride, s.n.a.t.c.hed her coronet from off her head, and flung it behind the fire. Ay, and a jewel or twain was lost therefrom ere the Lady's Grace had it back."

"And his son, King Edward of Caernarvon--what like was he?" asked Philippa, smiling.

Mother Joan did not answer immediately. At last she said,--"The blessed Virgin grant that they which have reviled him be no worse than he! He had some strange notions--so had other men, whom I at least am bound to hold in honour. G.o.d grant all peace!"

Philippa wondered who the other men were, and whether Mother Joan alluded to her own ancestors. She knew nothing of the Despensers, except the remembrance that she had never heard them alluded to at Arundel but in a tone of bitter scorn and loathing.

"Maybe," continued the blind woman, in a softer voice, "he was no worse for his strange opinions. Some were not. 'Tis a marvellous matter, surely, that there be that can lead lives of angels, and yet hold views that holy Church condemneth as utterly to be abhorred."

"Whom mean you, Mother?"

"I mean, child," replied the nun, speaking slowly and painfully, "one whom I hope is gone to G.o.d. One to whom, and for whom, this world was an ill place; and, therefore, I trust she hath found her rest in a better. G.o.d knoweth how and when she died--if she be dead. We never knew."

Mother Joan made the sign of the cross, and a very mournful expression came over her face.

"Ah, holy Virgin!" she said, lifting her sightless eyes, "why is it that such things are permitted? The wicked dwell in peace, and increase their goods; the holy dwell hardly and die poor. Couldst not thou change the lots? There is at this moment one man in the world, clad in cloth of gold, dwelling gloriously, than whom the foul fiend himself is scarcely worse; and there was one woman, like the angels, whose Queen thou art, and only G.o.d and thou know what became of her. Blessed Mary must such things always be? I cannot understand it. I suppose thou canst."

It was the old perplexity--as old as Asaph; but he understood it when he went into the sanctuary of G.o.d, and Mother Joan had never followed him there.

"Lady de Sergeaux," resumed the blind nun, "there is at times a tone in your voice, which mindeth me strangely of hers--hers, of whom I spake but now. If I offend not in asking it, I pray you tell me who were your elders?"

Philippa gave her such information as she had to give. "I am a daughter of my Lord of Arundel."

"Which Lord?" exclaimed Mother Joan, in a voice as of deep interest suddenly awakened.

"They call him," answered Philippa, "Earl Richard the Copped-Hat." [See Note 4.]

"Ah!" answered Mother Joan, in that deep ba.s.s tone which sounds almost like an execration. "That was the man. Like Dives, clad in purple and fine linen, and faring sumptuously every day; and his portion shall be with Dives at the last. Your pardon, Dame; I forgat for the nonce that I spake to his daughter. Yet I said but truth."

"That may be," responded Philippa under her breath.

"Then you have not found him a saint?" replied the blind nun, with a bitter little laugh. "Well, I might have guessed that. And you, then, are a daughter of that proud jade Alianora of Lancaster, for whose indwelling the fiend swept the Castle of Arundel clean of G.o.d's angels?

I do not think she made up for it."

Philippa's own interest was painfully aroused now. Surely Mother Joan knows something of that mysterious history which hitherto she had failed so sadly to discover.

"I cry you mercy, Mother," she said. "But I am not the daughter of the Lady Alianora."

"Whose, then? Quick!" cried Mother Joan, in accents of pa.s.sionate earnestness.

"Who was my mother," answered Philippa, "I cannot tell you, for I was never told myself. All that I know of her I had but from a poor lavender, that spake well of her, and she called her the Lady Isabel."