Part 5 (1/2)

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 Ladys.h.i.+p 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.]