“For merit lives from man to man,
And not from man, O Lord, to Thee.”
Tennyson.
Not until the evening before her marriage did Philippa learn the name of her new master. The Earl’s choice, she was then informed, had fallen on Sir Richard Sergeaux, a knight1 of Cornwall, who would receive divers2 manors3 with the hand of the eldest5 daughter of Arundel. Philippa was, however, not told that Sir Richard was expected to pay for the grants and the alliance in extremely hard cash.
For to the lofty position of eldest daughter of Arundel (for that morning only) Philippa, to her intense surprise, found herself suddenly lifted. She was robed in cloth of silver; her hair flowed from beneath a jewelled golden fillet; her neck was encircled by rubies6, and a ruby7 and pearl girdle clasped her waist. She felt all the time as though she were dreaming, especially when the Lady Alianora herself superintended her arraying, and even condescended8 to remark that “the Lady Philippa did not look so very unseemly after all.”
Not least among the points which astonished her was the resumption of her title. She did not know that this had formed a part of the bargain with Sir Richard, who had proved impracticable on harder terms. He did not mind purchasing the eldest daughter of Arundel at the high price set upon her; but he gave the Earl distinctly to understand that if he were merely selling a Mistress Philippa, there must be a considerable discount.
When the ceremony and the wedding festivities were over, and her palfrey was standing9 ready at the door, Philippa timidly entered the banqueting-hall, to ask—for the first and last time—her father’s blessing10. He was conversing11 with the Earl of Kent, the bridegroom of Alesia, concerning the merits of certain hawks12 recently purchased; and near him, at her embroidery-frame, sat the Countess Alianora.
Philippa knelt first to her.
“Farewell, Philippa!” said the Countess, in a rather kinder tone than usual. “The saints be with thee.”
Then she turned to the only relative she had.
Earl Richard just permitted his jewelled fingers to touch Philippa’s velvet13 hood14, saying carelessly,—“Our Lady keep thee!—I cry you mercy, fair son; the lesser15 tercel is far stronger on the wing.”
As Philippa rose, Sir Richard Sergeaux took her hand and led her away. So she mounted her palfrey, and rode away from Arundel Castle. There were only two things she was sorry to leave—Agnes, because she might have told her more about her mother,—and the grave, in the Priory churchyard below, of the baby Lady Alianora—the little sister who never grew up to tyrannise over her.
It was a long journey ere they reached Kilquyt Manor4, and Philippa had time to make the acquaintance of her new owner. He was about her own age, and so far as she could at first judge, a reasonably good-tempered man. The first discovery she made was that he was rather proud of her. Of Philippa the daughter of Arundel, of course, not of Philippa the woman: but it was so new to be reckoned anything or anybody—so strange to think that somebody was proud of her—that Philippa enjoyed the knowledge. As to his loving her, or her loving him, these were ideas that never entered the minds of either.
So at first Philippa found her married life a pleasant change. She was now at the head, instead of being under the feet of every one else; and her experience of Sir Richard gave her the impression at the outset that he would not prove a hard master. Nor did he, strictly16 speaking; but on further acquaintance he proved a very trying one. His temper was not of the stormy kind that reigned17 at Arundel, which had hitherto been Philippa’s only idea of a bad temper: but he was a perpetual grumbler18, and the slightest temporary discomfort19 or vexation would overcast21 her sky with conjugal22 clouds for the rest of the day. The least stone in his path was treated as a gigantic mountain; the narrowest brooklet23 as an unfathomable sea. And gradually—she scarcely knew how or when—the old weary discomfort crept back over Philippa’s heart, the old unsatisfied longing24 for the love that no one gave. Her bower25 at Kilquyt was no more strewn with roses than her turret-chamber26 at Arundel. She found that “On change du ciel—l’on ne change point de soi.” The damask robes and caparisoned palfreys, which her husband did not grudge27 to her as her father had done, proved utterly28 unsatisfying to the misunderstood cravings of her immortal29 soul. She did not herself comprehend why she was not happier. She knew not the nature of the thirst which was upon her, which she was trying in vain to quench30 at the broken cisterns31 within her reach. Drinking of this water, she thirsted again; and she had not yet found the way to the Well of the Living Water.
About seven years after her marriage, Philippa stood one day at the gate of her manor. It was a beautiful June morning—just such another as that one which “had failed her hope” at the gate of Arundel Castle, thirty years before. Sir Richard had ridden away on his road to London, whence he was summoned to join his feudal32 lord, the Earl, and Lady Sergeaux stood looking after him in her old dreamy fashion, though half-an-hour had almost passed since she had caught sight of the last waving of his nodding plume33 through the trees. He had left her a legacy34 of discomfort, for his spurs had been regilded, not at all to his mind, and he had been growling35 over them ever since the occurrence, “Dame, have you a draught36 of cold water to bestow37 on a weary brother?”
Philippa started suddenly when the question reached her ear.
He who asked it was a monk38 in the habit of the Dominican Order, and very worn and weary he looked. Lady Sergeaux called for one of her women, and supplied him with the water which he sorely needed, as was manifest from the eager avidity with which he drank. When he had given back the goblet39, and the woman was gone, the monk turned towards Philippa, and uttered words which astonished her no little.
“‘Quy de cette eaw boyra
Ancor soyf aura;
Mays quy de l’eaw boyra
Que moy luy donneray,
Jamays soyf n’aura
A l’éternité.’”
“You know that, brother?” she said breathlessly.
“Do you, Lady?” asked the monk—as Philippa felt, with a deeper than the merely literal meaning.
“I know the ‘ancor soyf aura,’” she said, mournfully; “I have not reached beyond that.”
“Then did you ask, and He did not give?” inquired the stranger.
“No—I never asked, for—” she was going on to add, “I never knew where to ask.”
“But how to ask?—whom to ask? There may be the Well, but where is the way?”
“How to ask, Lady? As I asked you but now for that lower, poorer water, whereof whosoever drinketh shall thirst again. Whom to ask? Be there more Gods in Heaven than one? Ask the Master, not the servants. And where is the way? It was made on the red rood, thirteen hundred years ago, when ‘one of the soldiers with a spear pierced His side, and forthwith came thereout blood and water.’ Over that stream of blood is the way to the Well of Living Water.”
“You look weary, Lady,” said the monk, changing his tone.
“I am weary,” she answered; “wearier than you—in one sense.”
“Ay, wearier than I,” he replied; “for I have been to the Well, and have found rest.”
“Are you a priest?” asked Philippa suddenly.
The monk nodded.
“Then come in hither and rest, and let me confess to you. I fancy you might tell me what would help me.”
The monk silently obeyed, and followed her to the house. An hour later he sat in Philippa’s bower, and she knelt before him.
“Father,” she said, at the close of her tale, “I have never known rest nor love. All my life I have been a lonely, neglected woman. Is there any balm-tree by your Well for such wounds as mine?—any healing virtue43 in its waters that could comfort me?”
“Have you never injured or neglected any, daughter?” asked the monk quietly.
“Never!” she said, almost indignantly.
“I cannot hold with you there,” he replied.
“Whom have I ever injured?” exclaimed Philippa, half angrily, half amazed.
“Listen,” said he, “and I will tell you of One whom all your life you have injured and neglected—God.”
Philippa’s protestations died on her lips. She had not expected to hear such words as these.
“Nay, heed44 not my words,” he pursued gently. “Your own lips shall bring you in guilty. Have you loved God with all your mind, and heart, and soul, and strength? Hath He been in all your thoughts?”
Philippa felt instinctively45 that the monk spoke46 truly. She had not loved God, she had not even wished to love Him. Her conscience cried to her, “Unclean!” yet she was too proud to acknowledge it. She felt angry, not with herself, but with him. She thought he “rubbed the sore, when he should bring the plaster.” Comfort she had asked, and condemnation47 he was giving her instead.
“My daughter,” answered the monk very gently, “the pitcher49 must be voided ere it can be filled. If you go to the Well with your vessel50 full of the water of earth, there will be no room there for the Living Water.”
“Is it only for saints, then?” she asked in a disappointed tone.
“It is only for sinners,” answered he: “and according to your own belief, you are not a sinner. The Living Water is not wasted on pitchers51 that have been filled already at other cisterns, ‘I will give unto him that is athirst’—but to him only—‘of the Fountain of the Water of Life, freely.’”
“But tell me, in plain words, what is that Water of Life?”
“The Holy Spirit of God.”
Philippa’s next question was not so wide of the mark as it seemed.
“Are you a true Dominican?”
“I am one of the Order of Predicant Friars.”
“From what house?”
“From Ashridge.”
“God.”
“Is the seal of the servant worth more than that of the Master?”
“I would know, Father,” urged Philippa.
The monk smiled. “Archbishop Bradwardine,” he said.
“Then Ashridge is a Dominican house? I know not that vicinage.”
“Men give us another name,” responded the monk slowly, “which I see you would know. Be it so. They call us—Boni-Homines.”
“But I thought,” said Philippa, looking bewilderedly into his face, “I thought those were very evil men. And Archbishop Bradwardine was a very holy man—almost a saint.”
A faint ironical53 smile flitted for a moment over the monk’s grave lips. The gravity was again unbroken the next instant.
“A very holy man,” he repeated. “He walked with God; and he is not, for God took him. Ay, took him away from the evil to come, where he should vex20 his righteous soul no more by unlawful deeds—where the alloyed gold of worldly greatness, which men would needs braid over the pure ermine of his life, should soil and crush it no more.”
He spoke rather to himself than to Philippa: and his eyes had a far-away look in them, as he lifted his head and gazed from the window over the moorland.
“Then what are the Boni-Homines?” inquired Lady Sergeaux.
“A few sinners,” answered the monk, “whose hearts God hath touched, that they have sought and found that Well of the Living Water.”
“But, Father, explain it to me!” she cried anxiously, perhaps even a little querulously. “Put it in plain words, that I can understand it. What is it to drink this Living Water?”
“To come to Christ, my daughter,” replies the monk.
“But I cannot understand you,” she objected, in the same tone. “How can I come? What mean you by coming? He is not here in this chamber, that I can rise and go to Him. Can you not use words more intelligible54 to me?”
“In the first place, my daughter,” softly replied the monk, “you are under a great mistake. Christ is here in this chamber, and hath heard every word that we have said. And in the second place, I cannot use words that shall be plainer to you. How can the dead understand the living? How shall a man born blind be brought to know the difference of colour between green and blue. Yet the hardship lieth not in the inaptness of the teacher, but in the inability of the taught.”
“But I am not blind, nor dead!” cried Philippa.
“Both,” answered the monk. “So, by nature, be we all.”
Philippa made no reply; she was too vexed55 to make any. The monk laid his hand gently upon her head.
“Take the best wish that I can make for you:—God show you how blind you are! God put life within you, that you may awake, and arise from the dead, and see the light of Christ! May He grant you that thirst which shall be satisfied with nothing short of the Living Water—which shall lead you to disregard all the roughnesses of the way, and the storms of the journey, so that you may win Christ, and be found in Him! God strip you of your own goodness!—for I fear you are over-well satisfied therewith. And no goodness shall ever have admittance into Heaven save the goodness which is of God.”
“Grace of congruity! grace of condignity!” (see Note) cried the monk fervently57. “Grace of sin and gracelessness! It is not all worth so much as one of these rushes upon your floor. If you carry grace of congruity to the gates of Heaven, I warn you it shall never bear you one step beyond. Lay down those miserable58 rush-staffs, wherein is no pith; and take God’s golden staff held out to you, which is the full and perfected obedience59 of the Lord Jesus Christ. That staff shall not fail you. All the angels at the gate of Paradise know it; and the doors shall fly wide open to whoso smiteth on them with that staff of God. Lord, open her eyes, that she may see!”
The prayer was answered, but not then.
“What shall I call you?” asked Philippa, when the monk rose to depart.
“Men call me Guy of Ashridge,” he said.
“I hope to see you again, Father,” responded Philippa.
“So do I, my daughter,” answered the monk, “in that other land whereinto nothing shall enter that defileth. Nothing but Christ and Christ’s—the Head and the body, the Master and the meynie (household servant). May the Master make you one of the meynie! Farewell.”
And in five minutes more, Guy of Ashridge was gone.
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1
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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manors
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| n.庄园（manor的复数形式） | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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6
rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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7
ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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9
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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10
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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11
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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12
hawks
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| 鹰( hawk的名词复数 )； 鹰派人物，主战派人物 | |
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13
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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14
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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15
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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16
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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17
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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18
grumbler
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| 爱抱怨的人，发牢骚的人 | |
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19
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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21
overcast
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| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
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22
conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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23
brooklet
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| n. 细流, 小河 | |
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24
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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25
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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26
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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27
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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28
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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29
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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30
quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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31
cisterns
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| n.蓄水池，储水箱( cistern的名词复数 )；地下储水池 | |
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32
feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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33
plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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34
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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35
growling
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| n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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36
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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38
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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goblet
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| n.高脚酒杯 | |
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40
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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41
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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42
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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43
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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44
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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45
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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46
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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47
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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48
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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49
pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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50
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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51
pitchers
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| 大水罐( pitcher的名词复数 ) | |
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52
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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53
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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54
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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55
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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56
congruity
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| n.全等，一致 | |
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57
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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58
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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59
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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