The White Lady of Hazelwood Part 26

"Not the greatest of saints, truly. There is no man alive that sinneth not. What is sin?"

"Breaking the commandments, I reckon."

"Ay, and in especial that first and greatest--'Thou shalt love the Lord thy G.o.d with all thine heart, and with all thy mind, and with all thy soul, and with all thy strength.' Daughter, hast thou so loved Him--so that neither ease nor pleasure, neither fame nor life, neither earth nor self, came between your love and Him, was set above Him, and served afore Him? Speak truly, like the true woman you are. I wait your answer."

It was several moments before the answer came.

"Father, is that sin?"

"My daughter, it is the sin of sins: the sin whence all other sins flow--this estrangement of the heart from G.o.d. For if we truly loved G.o.d, and perfectly, should we commit sin?--could we so do? Could we desire to worship any other than Him, or to set anything before Him?-- could we bear to profane His name, to neglect His commands, to go contrary to His will? Should we then bear ill-will to other men who love Him, and whom He loveth? Should we speak falsely in His ears who is the Truth? Should we suffer pride to defile our souls, knowing that He dwelleth with the lowly in heart? Answer me, Lady Marguerite."

"Father, you are sore hard. Think you G.o.d, that is up in Heaven, taketh note of a white lie or twain, or a few cross words by nows and thens?

not to name a mere wish that pa.s.seth athwart man's heart and is gone?"

"G.o.d taketh note of sin, daughter. And sin is _sin_--it is rebellion against the King of Heaven. What think you your son would say to a captain of his, which pleaded that he did but surrender one little postern gate to the enemy, and that there were four other strong portals that led into the town, all whereof he had well defended?"

"Why, the enemy might enter as well through the postern as any other.

To be in, is to be in, no matter how he find entrance."

"Truth. And the lightest desire can be sin, as well as the wickedest deed. Verily, if the desire never arose, the deed should be ill-set to follow."

"Then G.o.d is punishing me?" she said, wistfully.

"G.o.d is looking for you," was the quiet answer. "The sheep hath gone astray over moor and mora.s.s, and the night is dark and cold, and it bleateth piteously: and the Shepherd is come out of the warm fold, and is tracking it on the lonely hills, and calling to it. Lady, will the sheep answer His voice? will it bleat again and again, until He find it?

or will it refuse to hear, and run further into the mora.s.s, and be engulfed and fully lost in the dark waters, or s.n.a.t.c.hed and carried into the wolf's den? G.o.d is not punishing you now; He is loving you; He is waiting to see if you will take His way of escape from punishment. But the punishment of your sins must be laid upon some one, and it is for you to choose whether you will bear it yourself, or will lay it upon Him who came down from Heaven that He might bear it for you. It must be either upon you or Him."

The face lighted up suddenly, and the thin weak hands were stretched out.

"If G.o.d love me," she said, "let Him give me back my children! He would, if He did. Let them come back to me, and I shall believe it.

Without this I cannot. Father, I mean none ill; I would fain think as you say. But my heart is weak, and my life ebbs low, and I cannot bleat back again. O G.o.d, for my children!--for only one of them! I would be content with one. If Thou lovest me--if I have sinned, and Thou wouldst spare me, give me back my child! 'Thou madest far from me friend and neighbour'--give me back _one_, O G.o.d!"

"Daughter, we may not dictate to our King," said the Archbishop, gently.

"Yet I doubt not there be times when He stoops mercifully to weakness and misery, and helps our unbelief. May He grant your pet.i.tion! And now, I think you lack rest, and have had converse enough. I will see you again ere I depart. _Benedicite_!"

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

POSTING A LETTER.

"Whose fancy was his only oracle; Who could buy lands and pleasure at his will, Yet slighted that which silver could not win."

Rev Horatius Bonar, D.D.

The Archbishop rapped softly on the door of the chamber, and Amphillis sprang to let him out. She had to let herself in, so he pa.s.sed her with only a smile and a blessing, and going straight to his own chamber, spent the next hour in fervent prayer. At the end of that time he went down to the hall, and asked for writing materials.

This was a rather large request to make in a mediaeval manor house.

Father Jordan was appealed to, as the only person likely to know the whereabouts of such scarce articles.

"Well, of a surety!" exclaimed the old priest, much fluttered by the inquiry. "Methinks I may find the inkhorn,--and there _was_ some ink in it,--but as for writing-paper!--and I fear there shall be never a bit of parchment in the house. Wax, moreover--Richard, butler, took the last for his corks. Dear, dear! only to think his Grace should lack matter for writing! Yet, truly, 'tis not unnatural for a prelate. Now, whatever shall man do?"

"Give his Grace a tile and a paint-brush," said careless Matthew.

"Cut a leaf out of a book," suggested illiterate G.o.dfrey.

Father Jordan looked at the last speaker as if he had proposed to cook a child for dinner. Cut a leaf out of a book! Murder, theft, and arson combined, would scarcely have been more horrible in his eyes.

"Holy saints, deliver us!" was his shocked answer.

Norman Hylton came to the rescue.

"I have here a small strip of parchment," said he, "if his Grace were pleased to make use thereof. I had laid it by for a letter to my mother, but his Grace's need is more than mine."

The Archbishop took the offered gift with a smile.

"I thank thee, my son," said he. "In good sooth, at this moment my need is great, seeing death waiteth for no man."

He sat down, and had scarcely remembered the want of ink, when Father Jordan came up, carrying a very dilapidated old inkhorn.

"If your Grace were pleased to essay this, and could serve you withal,"

suggested he, dubiously; "soothly, there is somewhat black at the bottom."

"And there is alegar in the house, plenty," added Matthew.

The Archbishop looked about for the pen.

"Unlucky mortal that I am!" cried Father Jordan, smiting himself on the forehead. "Never a quill have I, by my troth!"

"Have you a goose? That might mend matters," said Matthew. "Had we but a goose, there should be quills enow."

"_Men culpa, mea culpa_!" cried poor Father Jordan, as though he were at confession, to the excessive amus.e.m.e.nt of the young men.

Norman, who had run upstairs on finding the pen lacking, now returned with one in his hand.

"Here is a quill, if your Grace be pleased withal. It is but an old one, yet I have no better," he said, modestly.

"It shall full well serve me, my son," was the answer; "and I thank thee for thy courtesy."

For his day the Archbishop was a skilful penman, which does not by any means convey the idea of covering sheet after sheet of paper with rapid writing. The strip of parchment was about fourteen inches by four. He laid it lengthwise before him, and the letters grew slowly on it, in the old black letter hand, which took some time to form. Thus ran his letter:--

"Alexander, by Divine sufferance elect of York, to the Lady Ba.s.set of Drayton wisheth peace, health, and the blessing of G.o.d Almighty.

"Very dear Lady,--

"Let it please you to know that the bearer hereof hath tidings to deliver of serious and instant import. We pray you full heartily to hear him without any delay, and to give full credence to such matter as he shall impart unto you: which having done, we bid you, as you value our apostolical blessing, to come hither with all speed, and we charge our very dear son, your lord, that he let not nor hinder you in obeying this our mandate. The matter presseth, and will brook no delay: and we affy ourself in you, Lady, as a woman obedient to the Church, that you will observe our bidding. And for so doing this shall be your warrant.

Given at Hazelwood Manor, in the county of Derby, this Wednesday after Candlemas."

The Archbishop laid down his pen, folded his letter, and asked for silk to tie it. Matthew Foljambe ran off, returning in a moment with a roll of blue silk braid, wherewith the letter was tied up. Then wax was needed.