The White Lady of Hazelwood Part 33

The Duke's answer was in his haughtiest manner. "I a.s.sure you of my regret, holy Father. Necessity has no law."

"And no compa.s.sion?"

"Jean, my Jean! Only one minute more--one minute cannot be of importance. My little lad, my best-loved! lay thy lips to mine, and say thou lovest thine old mother, and let me bless thee, and then go, if it must be, and I will die."

Amphillis wondered that the piteous pa.s.sion of love in the tones of the poor mother did not break down entirely the haughty coldness of the royal son. The Duke did indeed bend his stately knee, and touch his mother's lips with his, but there was no shadow of response to her clinging clasp, no warmth, however faint, in the kiss into which she poured her whole heart.

"Jean, little Jean! say thou lovest me?"

"Madame, it is a son's duty. I pray your blessing."

"I bless thee with my whole heart!" she said. "I pray G.o.d bless thee in every hour of thy life, grant thee health, happiness, and victory, and crown thee at last with everlasting bliss. Now go, my dear heart! The old mother will not keep thee to thy hurt. G.o.d be with thee, and bless thee!"

Even then he did not linger; he did not even give her, unsolicited, one last kiss. She raised herself on one side, to look after him and listen to him to the latest moment, the light still beaming in her sunken eyes.

His parting words were not addressed to her, but she heard them.

"Now then, Du Chatel," said the Duke to his squire in the corridor, "let us waste no more time. This irksome duty done, I would be away immediately, lest I be called back."

The light died out of the eager eyes, and the old white head sank back upon the pillow, the face turned away from the watchers. Amphillis approached her, and tenderly smoothed the satin coverlet.

"Let be!" she said, in a low voice. "My heart is broken."

Amphillis, who could scarcely restrain her own sobs, glanced at the Archbishop for direction. He answered her by pressing a finger on his lips. Perrote came in, her lips set, and her brows drawn. She had evidently overheard those significant words. Then they heard the tramp of the horses in the courtyard, the sound of the trumpet, the cry of "Notre Dame de Gwengamp!" and they knew that the Duke was departing.

They did not know, however, that the parting guest was sped by a few exceedingly scathing words from his sister, who had heard his remark to the squire. She informed him, in conclusion, that he could strike off her head, if he had no compunction in staining his spotless ermine banner with his own kindly blood. It would make very little difference to her, and, judging by the way in which he used his dying mother, she was sure it could make none to him.

The Duke flung himself into his saddle, and dashed off down the slope from the gate without deigning either a response or a farewell.

As the Archbishop left the Countess's chamber, he beckoned Amphillis into the corridor.

"I tarry not," said he, "for I can work no good now. This is not the time. A stricken heart hath none ears. Leave her be, and leave her to G.o.d. I go to pray Him to speak to her that comfort which she may receive alone from Him. None other can do her any help. To-morrow, maybe--when the vexed brain hath slept, and gentle time hath somewhat dulled the first sharp edge of her cruel sorrow--then I may speak and be heard. But now she is in that valley of the shadow, where no voice can reach her save that which once said, 'Lazarus, come forth!' and which the dead shall hear in their graves at the last day."

"G.o.d comfort her, poor Lady!" said Amphillis. "Ay, G.o.d comfort her!"

And the Archbishop pa.s.sed on.

He made no further attempt to enter the invalid chamber until the evening of the next day, when he came in very softly, after a word with Perrote--no part of any house was ever closed against a priest--and sat down by the sufferer. She lay much as he had left her. He offered no greeting, but took out his Evangelistarium from the pocket of his ca.s.sock, and began to read in a low, calm voice.

"'The Spirit of the Lord is upon Me, for He hath anointed Me; He hath sent Me to evangelise the poor, to heal the contrite in heart, to preach liberty to the captives and sight to the blind, to set the bruised at liberty, to preach the acceptable year of the Lord, and the day of retribution.'" [Luke four, verses 18, 19, Vulgate version.]

There was no sound in answer. The Archbishop turned over a few leaves.

"'Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy-laden, and I will refresh you.' [Matthew nine, verse 28.] 'And G.o.d shall dry all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor clamour, nor shall there be any more pain.' [Revelations twenty-one, verse 4.] 'Trouble not your heart: believe in G.o.d, and believe in Me.'

'Peace I bequeath to you, My peace I give to you: not as the world giveth, give I to you. Trouble not your heart, neither be it afraid.'

[John fourteen, verses 1, 27.] 'Whom the Lord loveth, He chastiseth; and whippeth also every son whom He receiveth.'" [Hebrews twelve, verse 6.]

He read or quoted from memory, as pa.s.sages occurred to him. When he had reached this point he made a pause. A deep sigh answered him, but no words.

"'And he looked round about on them which sat about Him, and said, Behold My mother and My brethren! For whosoever shall do the will of G.o.d, the same is My brother, and My sister, and mother.'"

"I dare say He kissed His mother!" said the low plaintive voice. She evidently knew of whom the reader spoke. "The world giveth not much peace. 'Heavy-laden!' ay, heavy-laden! 'Thou hast removed from me friend and neighbour.' I have lost my liberty, and I am losing my life; and now--G.o.d have mercy on me!--I have lost my son."

"Dame, will you take for your son the Lord that died for you? He offers Himself to you. 'The same is My mother.' He will give you not love only, but a son's love, and that warm and undying. 'With perpetual charity I delighted in thee,' He saith; 'wherefore, pitying, I drew thee to Me.' Oh, my daughter, let Him draw thee!"

"What you will, Father," was the low answer. "I have no bodily strength; pray you, make not the penance heavier than I can do.

Elsewise, what you will. My will is broken; nothing matters any more now. I scarce thought it should have so been--at the end. Howbeit, G.o.d's will be done. It must be done."

"My daughter, 'this is the will of G.o.d, your sanctification.' The end and object of all penances, of all prayers, is that you may be joined to Christ. 'For He is our peace,' and we are 'in Him complete.' In Him-- not in your penances, nor in yourself. If so were that my Lord Ba.s.set had done you grievous wrong, it might be you forgave him fully, not for anything in him, but only because he is one with your own daughter, and you could not strike him without smiting her; his dishonour is her dishonour, his peace is her peace, to punish him were to punish her. So is it with the soul that is joined to Christ. If He be exalted, it must be exalted; if it be rejected, He is rejected also. And G.o.d cannot reject His own Son."

The Archbishop was not at all sure that the Countess was listening to him. She kept her face turned away. He rose and wished her good evening. The medicine must not be administered in an overdose, or it might work more harm than good.

He came again on the following evening, and gave her a little more. For three days after he pursued the same course, and, further than courtesy demanded, he was not answered a word. On the fourth night he found the face turned. A pitiful face, whose aspect went to his heart--wan, white, haggard, unutterably pathetic. That night he read the fourteenth chapter of Saint John's Gospel, and added few words of his own. On leaving her, he said--

"My daughter, G.o.d is more pitiful than men, and His love is better than theirs."

"It had need be so!" were the only words that replied. In the corridor he met Father Jordan. The Archbishop stopped.

"How fareth she in the body?"

"As ill as she may be, and live. Her life is counted by hours."

The Archbishop stood at the large oriel of stained gla.s.s at the end of the corridor, looking out on the spring evening--the buds just beginning to break, the softened gold of the western sky. His heart was very full.

"O Father of the everlasting age!" he said aloud, "all things are possible unto Thee, and Thou hast eternity to work in. Suffer not this burdened heart to depart ere Thou hast healed it with Thine eternal peace! Grant Thy rest to the heavy-laden, Thy mercy to her on whom man hath had so little mercy! Was it not for this Thou earnest, O Saviour of the world? Good Shepherd, wilt Thou not go after this lost sheep until Thou find it?"

The next night the silence was broken.

"Father," she said, "tell me if I err. It looks to me, from the words you read, as if our Lord lacketh not penances and prayers, and good works; He only wants _me_, and that by reason that He loveth me. And why all this weary life hath been mine, He knoweth, and I am content to leave it so, if only He will take me up in His arms as the shepherd doth the sheep, and will suffer me to rest my weariness there. Do I err, Father?"

"My daughter, you accept the gospel of G.o.d's peace. This it is to come to Him, and He shall give you rest."

The work was done. The proud spirit had stooped to the yoke. The bitter truth against which she had so long fought and struggled was accepted at the pierced hands which wounded her only for her healing.

That night she called Lady Ba.s.set to her.

"My little girl, my Jeanne!" she said, "I was too hard on thee. I loved thy brother the best, and I defrauded thee of the love which was thy due. And now thou hast come forty miles to close mine eyes, and he turneth away, and will have none of me. Jeanette, darling, take my dying blessing, and may G.o.d deal with thee as thou hast dealt by the old mother, and pay thee back an hundredfold the love thou hast given me!

Kiss me, sweet heart, and forgive me the past."

Two days later, the long journey by the way of the wilderness was over.

On the 18th of March, 1374, Perrote folded the aged, wasted hands upon the now quiet breast.

"All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow, All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing, All the dull, deep pain, and the constant anguish of patience!

And as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom, Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, 'Father, I thank Thee!'"

The fate which had hara.s.sed poor Marguerite in life pursued her to the very grave. There was no sumptuous funeral, no solemn hea.r.s.e, no regal banners of arms for her. Had there been any such thing, it would have left its trace on the Wardrobe Rolls of the year. There was not even a court mourning. It was usual then for the funerals of royal persons to be deferred for months after the death, in order to make the ceremony more magnificent. But now, in the twilight of the second evening, which was Monday, a quiet procession came silently across from the Manor House to the church, headed by Father Jordan; twelve poor men bore torches beside the bier; the Ma.s.s for the Dead was softly sung, and those beautiful, pathetic words which for ages rose beside the waiting coffin:--

"King of awful majesty, By Thy mercy full and free, Fount of mercy, pardon me!

"Think, O Saviour, in what way On Thine head my trespa.s.s lay; Let me not be lost that day!

"Thou wert weary seeking me; On Thy cross Thou mad'st me free; Lose not all Thine agony!"