Part 14 (1/2)

”For a time,” answered Isabel, ”if thine husband a.s.sent thereto.”

”I shall not ask him,” said Philippa, with a slight pout.

”Then I shall not go,” replied Isabel quietly. ”I will not enter his house without his permission.”

Philippa's surprise and disappointment were legible in her face.

”But, mother, thou knowest not my lord,” she interposed. ”There is not in all the world a man more wearisome to dwell withal. Every thing I do, he dislikes; and every thing I wish to do, he forbids. I am thankful for his absence, for when he is at home, from dawn to dusk he doth nought save to find fault with me.”

But, notwithstanding her remonstrance, Philippa had fathomed her mother's motive in thus answering. Sir Richard possessed little of his own; he was almost wholly dependent on the Earl her father; and had it pleased that gentleman to revoke his grant of manors to herself and her husband, they would have been almost ruined. And Philippa knew quite enough of Earl Richard the Copped-Hat to be aware that few tidings would be so unwelcome at Arundel as those which conveyed the fact of Isabel's presence at Kilquyt. Her mother's uplifted hand stopped her from saying more.

”Hush, my daughter!” said the low voice. ”Repay not thou by finding fault in return. 'What glory is it, if, when ye be buffeted for your faults, ye shall take it patiently? but if, when ye do well and suffer for it, ye take it patiently, this is acceptable with G.o.d.'”

”I am not so patient as you, mother,” answered Philippa, shaking her head. ”Perhaps it were better for me if I were. But dost thou mean that I must really ask my lord's leave ere thou wilt come with me?”

”I do mean it.”

”And thou sayest, 'for a time'--wilt thou not dwell with me?”

”The vows of the Lord are upon me,” replied Isabel, gravely. ”I cannot forsake the place wherein He hath set me, the work which He hath given me to do. I will visit thee, and my sister also; but that done, I must return hither.”

”But dost thou mean to live and die in yonder cell?”

It was in the recreation-room of the Convent that they were conversing.

”Even so, my daughter.” [See Note 1.]

Philippa's countenance fell. It seemed very hard to part again when they had but just found each other. If this were religion, it must be difficult work to be religious. Yet she was more disappointed than surprised, especially when the first momentary annoyance was past.

”My child,” said Isabel softly, seeing her disappointment, ”if I err in thus speaking, I pray G.o.d to pardon me. I can but follow what I see right; and 'to him that esteemeth anything to be unclean, to him it is unclean.' How can I forsake the hearts that look to me for help throughout this valley? And if thou have need of me, thou canst always come, or send for me.”

This gentle, apologetic explanation touched Philippa the more, because she felt that in the like case, she could not herself have condescended to make it.

The next thing to be done was to write to Sir Richard. This Philippa was unable to do personally, since the art of handling the pen had formed no part of her education. Her mother did it for her; for Isabel had been solidly and elaborately instructed by Giles de Edingdon, under the superintendence of the King's Confessor, Luke de Wodeford, also a Predicant Friar. The letter had to be directed very much at random,--to ”Sir Richard Sergeaux, of the Duke of Lancaster's following, at Bordeaux, or wherever he may be found.” Fortunately for Philippa, the Prior of the neighbouring monastery was just despatching his cellarer to London on conventual business: and he undertook to convey her letter to the Savoy Palace, whence it would be forwarded with the next despatches sent to John of Gaunt. Philippa, in whose name the letter was written, requested her husband to reply to her at Shaftesbury, whither she and Isabel meant to proceed at once.

The spring was in its full beauty when they reached Shaftesbury.

Philippa had not found an opportunity to let the Abbess know of her coming, but she was very cordially welcomed by that good-natured dame.

The recreation-bell sounded while they were conversing, and at Philippa's desire the Abbess sent for Mother Joan to the guest-chamber.

Sister Senicula led her in.

”How is it with you, Aunt?” said Philippa affectionately. ”I have returned hither, as you may hear.”

”Ah! Is it thou, child?” said the blind nun in answer. ”I fare reasonably well, as a blind woman may. I am glad thou hast come hither again.”

It evidently cost Isabel much to make herself known to the sister from whom she had parted in such painful circ.u.mstances, thirty-seven years before. For a few moments longer, she did not speak, and Philippa waited for her. At last Isabel said in a choked voice--”Sister Joan!”

”Holy Virgin!” exclaimed the blind woman; ”who called me that?”

”One that thou knewest once,” answered Isabel's quivering voice.

”From Heaven?” cried Joan almost wildly. ”Can the dead come back again?” And she stretched forth her hands in the direction from which the sound of her sister's voice had come.