The White Rose of Langley. Emily Sarah Holt

which followed—for both the little girls were meditating on the story, and Dame Agnes’s flax was just then entangled in a troublesome knot—was broken, suddenly and very thoroughly, by the unexpected entrance, quiet though it were, of the Countess herself. Dame Agnes gave no heed to her broken thread, but rose instantly, distaff in hand, with a low reverence; Constance rubbed her sleepy eyes and slowly descended from her great chair; while Maude, recalled to the present, dropped her lowest courtesy and stood waiting.

      There was a peculiar air about the Countess Isabel, which suggested to bystanders the idea of a tired, worn-out woman. It was not discontent, not irritability, not exactly even sadness; it was the tone of one who had never fitted rightly into the place assigned to her, and who never felt at home. Though it disappeared when she spoke, yet as soon as her features were at rest it came again. It was little wonder that her face wore such an expression, for she was the daughter of a murdered father and a slandered mother, and the wife of a man who valued her very highly as the Infanta of Castilla, but as Isabel his wife not at all. During her early years, she had sought rest and comfort in the world. She plunged wildly into every manner of dissipation and pleasure; like Solomon, she withheld not her heart from any good; and like Solomon’s, her verdict at the close was “Vanity and vexation of spirit.” And then—just when she had arrived at the conclusion that there was nothing upon earth worth living for—when she had “come to the end of everything, and cared for nothing,” she met with an old priest of venerable aspect, a trusted servant of King Edward, whose first words touched the deepest chord in her heart, while his second brought the healing balm. His name was John de Wycliffe. Was it any wonder that she accepted him as a very angel of God?

      For he showed her where rest was, not within, but without; not from beneath, nor from around, but from above. So the tired heart rested in Jesus here, looking forward to its perfected rest in the presence of Jesus hereafter.

      For so far as the world was concerned, there was no rest any longer. It was fearfully up-hill work for Isabel to aim at such a walk as should please God. Her husband did not oppose her; he was as profoundly indifferent to her new opinions and practices as he had been to her old ones, as he was to herself. So far as her life was concerned, of the two he considered that she had altered for the better. There had never been but one heart which had loved Isabel, and that heart she pierced as with a sword when she entered her new path on the narrow way.

      To Constança of Castilla, the sister who had shared with her their “heritage of woe,” this younger sister was inexpressibly dear. The two sisters had married two brothers, and they saw a good deal of each other until that time; but after Isabel cast in her lot with Wycliffe, very little. The Gospel parted these loving sisters as with a sword; the magnet was received by each at an opposite end. It attracted Isabel, and repelled Constança. The elder wanted nothing more than she had always had; the gorgeous ceremonies and absolving priests of the old Church satisfied her, and she demanded no further comfort. She was “a woman devout above all others” in the eyes of the monkish chroniclers. And that usually meant that in this world she never awoke to her soul’s uttermost need, and she was therefore content with the meagre supply she found. So the difference between the sisters was that Constança slept peacefully while Isabel had awoke.

      It was because Isabel had awoke, that she was unsatisfied with the round of ritual observances which were all in all to her sister. She could confess to man, and be absolved by man; but how could she wrestle against the conviction that she rose from the confessional with a soul none the cleaner, with a heart just as disinclined to go and sin no more? The branches might be lopped; but what mattered that while the root of bitterness remained? It is only when we hear God say, “Thy sins are forgiven thee,” that it is possible to go in peace. And Isabel never heard it until she came to Him. Then, when she came empty-handed, He filled her hands with gifts; He breathed into the harassed soul rest and hope.

      This was what God gave her. But men gave her something very different. They had nothing better for this woman that had been a sinner, than the old comment of Simon the Pharisee. They were not ready to cast the remembrance of her iniquities into the depths of the sea—far from it. What they gave her was a scorned and slandered name, a character sketched in words that dwelt gloatingly on her early devotion to the world, the flesh, and the Devil, and left unwritten the story of her subsequent devotion to God. The later portion of her life is passed over in silence. We see something of its probable character in the supreme contempt of the monkish chroniclers; in the heretical epithet of “pestilent” applied to her; in the Lollard terms of her last will; in her choice of eminent Lollards as executors; in her bosom friendship with the Lollard Queen.

      But at another Table from that of Simon the Pharisee, “many that are first shall be last, and the last first.”

      We have kept Maude standing for a long while, before her mistress, seated in the great chair in Dame Agnes de La Marche’s chamber.

      “And how lovest thy new fashion of life, my maid?” demanded the Countess, when she had taken her seat.

      “Right well, an’ it like your Grace.”

      “Thou art here welsomer (more comfortable) than in the kitchen?”

      “Surely so, Madam.”

      “Dame Joan speaketh well of thy cunning.” (Skill.)

      Maude smiled and courtesied. She was gradually learning Court manners.

      “And hast thou yet thy book-leaf, the which I read unto thee?”

      “Oh ay, Madam!”

      “ ‘Thy book-leaf!’ ” interjected Constance. “What book hast thou?”

      “A part of God’s Word, my daughter,” replied her mother gravely; “touching His great City, the holy Jerusalem, which shall come down from God out of Heaven, and is lightened with His glory.”

      “When will it come?” said Constance, with unwonted gravity.

      “God wot. To all seeming, not ere thou and I be either within the same, or without His gates for ever.”

      The Countess turned back to Maude.

      “My maid, thou wouldst fain know at that time whether I had any dwelling in that city. Wist thou that an’ thou wilt, there thou mayest dwell?”

      “I, Madam! In very sooth, should it like your Grace to take me?” And Maude’s eyes sparkled with delight.

      “I cannot take thee, my child!” was the reply, spoken in a tone so grave that it was almost sad. “If thou wouldst go, it is Another must bear thee thither.”

      “The Lady Custance?” inquired Maude, glancing at her.

      “The Lord Jesus Christ.”

      Agnes mechanically crossed herself. Maude’s memory ran far back.

      “Sister Christian, that was a nun at Pleshy,” she observed, dreamily, “was wont to say, long time agone, unto Mother and me, that holy Mary’s Son did love us and die for us; but I never wist nought beyond that. Would your Grace, of your goodness, tell me wherefore it were?”

      “Wherefore He died? It was in the stead of thee, my maid, if thou wilt have it so: He died that thou mightest never die withouten end.—Or wherefore He loved, wouldst know? Truly, I can but bid thee ask that of Himself, for none wist that mystery save His own great heart. There was nought in us that He should love us; but there was every cause in Himself wherefore He should love.”

      Maude was silent; but the thought which she was revolving in her mind was whether any great saint had ever asked such a question of Him who to her was only “holy Mary’s Son.” Of course it would have to be asked through Mary. No one, not even the greatest saint, considered Maude, had ever spoken direct to Him, except in a vision. The next remark of the Countess rather startled her.

      “My maid, dost ever pray?”

      “An’ it like your Grace, I do say every even the Hail Mary, and every morrow the Credo; and of Sundays and holy days likewise the Paternoster.”

      “And