The White Rose of Langley Part 44

"Read that again."

The words were repeated softly in the quiet chamber, by the dim light of the silver lamp. Maude paused when she had read them.

"When thou and I speak of such as we love, Maude, we make allowance for their short-comings. 'She did but little ill,' quoth we, or, 'She had sore provoking thereto,' and the like. But he saith, 'Manye synnes ben forgiuen to hir'--yet not too many to be forgiven!"

"Ah, dear my Lady," said Maude affectionately, "methinks our Lord can afford to take full measure of the sins of His chosen ones, sith He hath, to bless them, so full and free forgiveness."

"Yet that must needs cost somewhat."

"Cost!" repeated Maude with deep feeling. "Lady, the cost thereof to Him was the cross."

"But to us?" suggested Custance.

"Is there any cost to us, beyond the holding forth of empty hands to receive His great gift? I count, Madam, that as it is His best glory to give all, so it must be ours to receive all."

"O Maude!" she wailed with a weary sigh, "when can I make me clean enough in His sight to receive this His gift?"

"Methinks, Lady mine, this woman which came into the Pharisee's house was no cleaner ne fairer than other women. And, tarrying to make her clean, she might have come over late. Be not the emptiest meetest to receive gifts, and the uncleanest they that have most need of was.h.i.+ng?"

"The most need,--ay."

"And did ever an almoner 'plain that poor beggars came for his dole,--or a mother that her child were too much bemired to be cleansed?"

"Is there woman on middle earth this night, Maude, poorer beggar than I, or more bemired?"

"Sweet Lady!" said Maude very earnestly, "if you would but make trial of our Lord's heart toward you! 'Alle ye that traveilen and ben chargid, come to Me'--this is His bidding, dear my Lady! And His promise is, 'I will fulfille you'--'ye schal fynde reste to your soulis.'"

"I would come, if I knew how!" she moaned.

"Maybe," said Maude softly, "they which would come an' they knew how, do come after His reckoning. Howbeit, this wis I,--that an' your Ladys.h.i.+p have will to come unto Him, He hath full good will to show you the way."

There was no more said on either side at the time. But if ever a weary, heavy-laden sinner came to Christ, Custance Le Despenser came that night.

The next day she resumed her widow's garb. At that period the weeds of widowhood were pure white, the veil bound tightly round the face, a piece of embroidered linen crossing the forehead, and another the chin, so that the only portion of the face visible was from the eyebrows to the lips. Indeed, the head-dress of a widow and that of a nun were so similar that inexperienced eyes might easily mistake one for the other.

The costume was not by any means attractive.

The hour was yet early when the d.u.c.h.ess of York was announced; and when the door was opened, the little Richard, whose presence had been purchased at so heavy a cost, sprang into his mother's arms. His little sister, who followed, was shy and hung back, clinging close to the d.u.c.h.ess. The year which had elapsed since she had seen Custance and Maude seemed to have obliterated both from her recollection. With all her faults, Custance was an affectionate mother, with that sort of affection which develops itself in petting; and it pained her to see how Isabel shrank away from her. The only comfort lay in the hope that time would accustom her to her mother again; and beyond the mere affection of custom, Isabel's nature would never reach.

It soon became evident that King Henry meant to keep his word. Two months after her arrival at Westminster, Custance received a grant of all her late husband's goods forfeited to the Crown; and five days later was the marriage of Edmund of Kent and Lucia of Milan.

They were married in the Church of Saint Mary Overy, Southwark, the King himself giving the bride. The Queen and the whole Court were present; but Kent never knew who was present or absent; his eyes and thoughts were absorbed with Lucia. He never saw a white-draped figure which shrank behind the Queen, with eyes unlifted from the beginning of ma.s.s to the end. So, on that last occasion when the separated pair met, neither saw the face of the other.

But Custance was not left to pa.s.s through her terrible ordeal alone. As the Queen's procession filed into the church, Richard of Conisborough placed himself by the side of his sister, and clasped her hand in his: He left her again at the door of her own chamber. No words were spoken between the brother and sister; the hearts were too near each other to need them.

Maude was waiting for her mistress. The latter lay down on the trussing-bed--the medieval sofa--and turned her face away towards the wall. Maude quietly sat down with her work; and the slow hours pa.s.sed on. Custance was totally silent, beyond a simple "Nay" when asked if she wanted anything. With more consideration than might have been expected, the King did not require her presence at the wedding-banquet; he permitted her to be served in her own room. But the sufferer declined to eat.

The twilight came at last, and Maude folded her needlework, unable to see longer, and doubtful whether her mistress would wish the lamp to be lighted. She had sat idle only for a' few minutes when at last Custance spoke--her words having evidently a meaning deeper than the surface.

"The light has died out!" she said.

"In the City of G.o.d," answered Maude gently, "'night schal not be there,' for the lantern of it is the Lamb, and He is 'the schynyng morewe sterre.' And He is 'with us in alle daies, into the endyng of the world.'"

"Maude, is not somewhat spoken in the Evangel, touching the taking up on us of His cross?"

"Ay, dear my Lady:--'He that berith not his cross and cometh after Me, may not be My disciple.' And moreover:--'He that takith not his cross and sueth [followeth] Me is not worthi to Me.'"

"I can never be worthy to Him!" she said, with a new, strange lowliness which touched Maude deeply. "But hitherto I have but lain charing under the cross--I have not taken ne borne it, neither sued Him any whither.

I will essay now to take it on me, humbly submitting me, and endeavouring myself to come after Him."

"Methinks, Lady mine, that so doing, ye shall find that He beareth the heavier end. At the least, He shall bear _you_, and He must needs bear your burden with you. Yet in very sooth there is some gear we must needs get by rote ere we be witful enough to conceive the use thereof.

The littlemaster [a schoolmaster] witteth what he doth in setting the task to his scholar. How much rather the great Master of all things?"

"Me feareth I shall be slow scholar, Maude. And I have all to learn!"

"Nor loved any yet the learning of letters, Madam. Yet meseemeth, an' I speak not too boldly, that beside the lessons which be especial, that He only learneth [teaches], all this world is G.o.d's great picture-book to help His children at their tasks. Our Lord likeneth Him unto all manner of gear--easy, common matter at our very hands--for to aid our slow wits. He is Bread of Life, and Water for cleansing, and Raiment to put on, and Staff for leaning upon, and Shepherd, and Comforter."

"Enough, now," said Custance, with that strange gentleness which seemed so unlike her old bright, wilful self. "Leave me learn that lesson ere I crave a new one."

Note 1. The Earl of Northumberland, to induce King Richard to place himself in the power of his cousin Henry.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

FROST AND SNOW.

"Whan bells were rung, and ma.s.s was sung, And every lady went hame, Than ilka lady had her yong sonne, But Lady Helen had nane."

_Old Ballad_.

"I have come home, Mother!"

It was Constance who spoke, standing in the hall at Cardiff, wrapped in the arms of the Dowager Lady Le Despenser. And in every sense, from the lightest to the deepest, the words were true. The wanderer had come home. Home to the Castle of Cardiff, which she was never to leave any more; home to the warm motherly arms of Elizabeth Le Despenser, who cast all her worn-out theories to the winds, and took her dead son's hapless darling to her heart of hearts; home to the great heart of G.o.d. And the ear of the elder woman was open to a sound unheard by the younger. The voice of that dead son echoed in her heart, repeating his dying charge to her--"Have a care of my Lady!"

"My poor stricken dove!" sobbed the Lady Elizabeth. "Child, men's cruel handling hath robbed thee of much, yet it hath left thee G.o.d and thy mother!"

Constance looked up, with tears gleaming in her sapphire eyes, now so much calmer and sadder than of old.

"Ay," she said, the remembrance thrilling through her of the heavy price at which she had bought back her children; "and I have paid nought for G.o.d and thee."

"Nay, daughter dear, Christ paid that wyte [forfeit] for thee. We may trust Him to have a care of the quittance," [receipt].

The children now claimed their share of notice. Richard kissed the old lady in an energetic devouring style, and proclaimed himself "so glad, Grammer, so glad!" Isabel offered her cheek in her cold unchildlike way. The baby Alianora at once accepted the new element as a perfectly satisfactory grandmamma, and submitted to be dandled and talked nonsense to with pleased equanimity.

"O Bertram!" said Maude that night, "surely our Lady's troubles and travails be now over!"