Part 25 (1/2)
”Why, then, Cousin Amphillis, I think thy cousin may ask thee for a kiss,” said he, softly touching the girl's cheek with his lips. ”My Lady Foljambe, I am full glad to meet here so near a kinswoman, and I do heartily entreat you that my word may weigh with you to deal well with this my cousin.”
Lady Foljambe, with a low reverence, a.s.sured his Grace that she had been entirely unaware, like Amphillis herself, that her bower-woman could claim even remote kindred with so exalted a house and so dignified a person; and that in future she should a.s.sume the position proper to her birth. And to her astonishment, Amphillis was pa.s.sed by her Ladys.h.i.+p up the table, above Agatha, above even Perrote--nay, above Mistress Margaret--and seated, not by any means to her comfort, next to Lady Foljambe herself. From that day she was no more addressed with the familiar _thou_, but always with the _you_, which denoted equality or respect. When Lady Foljambe styled her Mistress Amphillis, she endured it with a blush. But when Perrote subst.i.tuted it for the affectionate ”Phyllis” usual on her lips, she was tearfully entreated not to make a change.
The Archbishop was on his way south for the ceremony of consecration, which required a dispensation if performed anywhere outside the Cathedral of Canterbury, unless bestowed by the Pope himself. His visit set Sir G.o.dfrey thinking. Here was a man who might safely be allowed to visit the dying Countess--being, of course, told the need for secrecy-- and if he requested it of him, Perrote must cease to worry him after that. No poor priest, nor all the poor priests put together, could be the equivalent of a live Archbishop.
He consulted Lady Foljambe, and found her of the same mind as himself.
It would be awkward, she admitted, if the Countess died, to find themselves censured for not having supplied her with spiritual ministrations proper for her rank. Here was a perfect opportunity. It would be a sin to lose it.
It was, indeed, in a different sense to that in which she used the words, a perfect opportunity. The name of Alexander Neville has come down to us as that of the gentlest man of his day, one of the most lovable that ever lived. Beside this quality, which rendered him a peculiarly fit ministrant to the sick and dying, he was among the most prominent Lollards; he had drunk deep into the Scriptures, and, therefore, while not free from superst.i.tion--no man then was--he was very much more free than the majority. Charms and incantations, texts tied round the neck, and threads or hairs swallowed in holy water, had little value to the masculine intellect of Alexander Neville. And along with this masculine intellect was a heart of feminine tenderness, which would enable him to enter, so far as it was possible for a celibate priest to enter, into the sad yearnings of the dying mother, whose children did not care to come to her, and held aloof even in the last hour of her weary life. In those times, when worldliness had eaten like a canker into the heart of the Church, almost as much as in our own-- when preferment was set higher than truth, and Court favour was held of more worth than faithfulness, one of the most unworldly men living was this elect Archbishop. The rank of his penitent would weigh nothing with him. She would be to him only a pa.s.sing soul, a wronged woman, a lonely widow, a neglected mother.
After supper, Sir G.o.dfrey drew the Archbishop aside into his private room, and told him, with fervent injunctions to secrecy, the sorrowful tale of his secluded prisoner. As much sternness as was in Archbishop Neville's heart contracted his brows and drew his lips into a frown.
”Does my Lord Duke of Brittany know his mother's condition?”
”Ay, if it please your Grace.” Sir G.o.dfrey repeated the substance of the answer already imparted to Perrote.
”Holy saints!” exclaimed the Archbishop. ”And my Lady Ba.s.set, what saith she?”
”An' it like your Grace, I sent not unto her.”
”But wherefore, my son? An' the son will not come, then should the daughter. I pray you, send off a messenger to my Lady Ba.s.set at once; and suffer me to see your prisoner. Is she verily nigh death, or may she linger yet a season?”
”Father Jordan reckoneth she may yet abide divers weeks, your Grace; in especial if the spring be mild, as it biddeth fair. She fadeth but full slow.”
Sir G.o.dfrey's tone was that of an injured man, who was not properly treated, either by the Countess or Providence, through this very gradual demise of the former. The Archbishop's reply--”Poor lady!” was in accents of unmitigated compa.s.sion.
Lady Foljambe was summoned by her husband, and she conducted the prelate to the turret-chamber, where the Countess sat in her chair by the window, and Amphillis was in attendance. He entered with uplifted hand, and the benediction of ”Christ, save all here!”
Amphillis rose, hastily gathering her work upon one arm. The Countess, who had heard nothing, for she had been sleeping since her bower-maiden returned from supper, looked up with more interest than she usually showed. The entrance of a complete stranger was something very unexpected and unaccountable.
”Christ save you, holy Father! I pray you, pardon me that I arise not, being ill at ease, to entreat your blessing. Well, Avena, what has moved thee to bring a fresh face into this my dungeon, prithee? It should be somewhat of import.”
”Madame, this is my Lord's Grace elect of York, who, coming hither on his way southwards, mine husband counted it good for your Grace's soul to shrive you of his Grace's hand. My Lord, if your Grace have need of a crucifix, or of holy water, both be behind this curtain. Come, Mistress Amphillis. His Grace will be pleased to rap on the door, when it list him to come forth; and I pray you, abide in your chamber, and hearken for the same.”
”I thank thee, Avena,” said the Countess, with her curt laugh. ”Sooth to say, I wist not my soul was of such worth in thine eyes, and still less in thine husband's. I would my body weighed a little more with the pair of you. So I am to confess my sins, forsooth? That shall be a light matter, methinks; I have but little chance to sin, shut up in this cage. Truly, I should find myself hard put to it to do damage to any of the Ten Commandments, hereaway. A dungeon's all out praisable for keeping folks good--nigh as well as a sick bed. And when man has both together, he should be marvellous innocent. There, go thy ways; I'll send for thee when I lack thee.”
Lady Foljambe almost slammed the door behind her, and, locking it, charged Amphillis to listen carefully for the Archbishop's knock, and to unlock the door the moment she should hear it.
The Archbishop, meanwhile, had seated himself in the only chair in the room corresponding to that of the Countess. A chair was an object of consequence in the eyes of a mediaeval gentleman, for none but persons of high rank might sit on a chair; all others were relegated to a form, styled a bench when it had a back to it. Stools, however, were allowed to all. That certain formalities or styles of magnificence should have been restricted to persons of rank may be reasonable; but it does seem absurd that no others should have been allowed to be comfortable. ”The good old times” were decidedly inconvenient for such as had no handles to their names.
”I speak, as I have been told, to the Lady Marguerite, d.u.c.h.ess of Brittany, and mother to my Lord Duke?” inquired the Archbishop.
”And Countess of Montfort,” was the answer. ”Pray your Grace, give me all my names, for nought else is left me to pleasure me withal--saving a two-three ounces of slea-silk and an ell of gold fringe.”
”And what else would you?”
”What else?” The question was asked in pa.s.sionate tones, and the dark flas.h.i.+ng eyes went longingly across the valley to the Alport heights.
”I would have my life back again,” she said. ”I have not had a fair chance. I have done with my life not that I willed, but only that which others gave leave for me to do. Six and twenty years have I been tethered, and fretted, and limited, granted only the semblance of power, the picture of life, and thrust and pulled back whensoever I strained in the least at the leash wherein I was held. No dog has been more penned up and chained than I! And now, for eight years have I been cabined in one chamber, shut up from the very air of heaven whereunto G.o.d made all men free--shut up from every face that I knew and loved, saving one of mine ancient waiting-maids--verily, if they would use me worser than so, they shall be hard put to it, save to thrust me into my coffin and fasten down the lid on me. I want my life back again! I want the bright harvest of my youth, which these slugs and maggots have devoured, which I never had. I want the bloom of my dead happiness which men tare away from me. I want my dead lord, and mine estranged children, and my lost life! Tell me, has G.o.d no treasury whence He pays compensation for such wrongs as mine? Must I never see my little child again, the baby lad that clung to me and would not see me weep? My pillow is wet now, and no man careth for it--nay, nor G.o.d Himself. I was alway true woman; I never wronged human soul, that I know. I paid my dues, and shrived me clean, and lived honestly. Wherefore is all this come upon me?”