Grisly Grisell; Or, The Laidly Lady of Whitburn: A Tale of the Wars of the Roses. Yonge Charlotte Mary

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СКАЧАТЬ of faintness came upon her before she had been carried to the little bed which had been made ready for her.  When she opened her eyes, while a spoon was held to her lips, the first thing she saw was the sweetest, calmest, most motherly of faces bent over her, one arm round her, the other giving her the spoon of some cordial.  She looked up and even smiled, though it was a sad contorted smile, which brought a tear into the good sister’s eyes; but then she fell asleep, and only half awoke when the Countess came up to see her for the last time, and bade her farewell with a kiss on her forehead, and a charge to Sister Avice to watch her well, and be tender with her.  Indeed no one could look at Sister Avice’s gentle face and think there was much need of the charge.

      Sister Avice was one of the women who seem to be especially born for the gentlest tasks of womanhood.  She might have been an excellent wife and mother, but from the very hour of her birth she had been vowed to be a nun in gratitude on her mother’s part for her father’s safety at Agincourt.  She had been placed at Wilton when almost a baby, and had never gone farther from it than on very rare occasions to the Cathedral at Salisbury; but she had grown up with a wonderful instinct for nursing and healing, and had a curious insight into the properties of herbs, as well as a soft deft hand and touch, so that for some years she had been sister infirmarer, and moreover the sick were often brought to the gates for her counsel, treatment, or, as some believed, even her healing touch.

      When Grisell awoke she was alone in the long, large, low room, which was really built over the Norman cloister.  The walls were of pale creamy stone, but at the end where she lay there were hangings of faded tapestry.  At one end there was a window, through the thick glass of which could be dimly seen, as Grisell raised herself a little, beautiful trees, and the splendid spire of the Cathedral rising, as she dreamily thought, like a finger pointing upwards.  Nearer were several more narrow windows along the side of the room, and that beside her bed had the lattice open, so that she saw a sloping green bank, with a river at the foot; and there was a trim garden between.  Opposite to her there seemed to be another window with a curtain drawn across it, through which came what perhaps had wakened her, a low, clear murmuring tone, pausing and broken by the full, sweet, if rather shrill response in women’s voices.  Beneath that window was a little altar, with a crucifix and two candlesticks, a holy-water stoup by the side, and there was above the little deep window a carving of the Blessed Virgin with the Holy Child, on either side a niche, one with a figure of a nun holding a taper, the other of a bishop with a book.

      Grisell might have begun crying again at finding herself alone, but the sweet chanting lulled her, and she lay back on her pillows, half dozing but quite content, except that the wound on her neck felt stiff and dry; and by and by when the chanting ceased, the kind nun, with a lay sister, came back again carrying water and other appliances, at sight of which Grisell shuddered, for Master Miles never touched her without putting her to pain.

      “Benedicite, my little maid, thou art awake,” said Sister Avice.  “I thought thou wouldst sleep till the vespers were ended.  Now let us dress these sad wounds of thine, and thou shalt sleep again.”

      Grisell submitted, as she knew she must, but to her surprise Sister Avice’s touch was as soft and soothing as were her words, and the ointment she applied was fragrant and delicious and did not burn or hurt her.

      She looked up gratefully, and murmured her thanks, and then the evening meal was brought in, and she sat up to partake of it on the seat of the window looking out on the Cathedral spire.  It was a milk posset far more nicely flavoured than what she had been used to at Amesbury, where, in spite of the Countess’s kindness, the master cook had grown tired of any special service for the Dacre wench; and unless Margaret of York secured fruit for her, she was apt to be regaled with only the scraps that Maudlin managed to cater for her after the meals were over.

      After that, Sister Avice gently undressed her, took care that she said her prayers, and sat by her till she fell asleep, herself telling her that she should sleep beside her, and that she would hear the voices of the sisters singing in the chapel their matins and lauds.  Grisell did hear them, as in a dream, but she had not slept so well since her disaster as she slept on that night.

      CHAPTER V

      SISTER AVICE

      Love, to her ear, was but a name

      Combined with vanity and shame;

      Her hopes, her fears, her joys, were all

      Bounded within the cloister wall.

Scott, Marmion.

      Sister Avice sat in the infirmary, diligently picking the leaves off a large mass of wood-sorrel which had been brought to her by the children around, to make therewith a conserve.

      Grisell lay on her couch.  She had been dressed, and had knelt at the window, where the curtain was drawn back while mass was said by the Chaplain, the nuns kneeling in their order and making their responses.  It was a low-browed chapel of Norman or even older days, with circular arches and heavy round piers, and so dark that the gleam of the candles was needed to light it.

      Grisell watched, till tired with kneeling she went back to her couch, slept a little, and then wondered to see Sister Avice still compounding her simples.

      She moved wearily, and sighed for Madge to come in and tell her all the news of Amesbury—who was riding at the ring, or who had shot the best bolt, or who had had her work picked out as not neat or well shaded enough.

      Sister Avice came and shook up her pillow, and gave her a dried plum and a little milk, and began to talk to her.

      “You will soon be better,” she said, “and then you will be able to play in the garden.”

      “Is there any playfellow for me?” asked Grisell.

      “There is a little maid from Bemerton, who comes daily to learn her hornbook and her sampler.  Mayhap she will stay and play with you.”

      “I had Madge at Amesbury; I shall love no one as well as Madge!  See what she gave me.”

      Grisell displayed her pouncet box, which was duly admired, and then she asked wearily whether she should always have to stay in the convent.

      “Oh no, not of need,” said the sister.  “Many a maiden who has been here for a time has gone out into the world, but some love this home the best, as I have done.”

      “Did yonder nun on the wall?” asked Grisell.

      “Yea, truly.  She was bred here, and never left it, though she was a King’s daughter.  Edith was her name, and two days after Holy Cross day we shall keep her feast.  Shall I tell you her story?”

      “Prithee, prithee!” exclaimed Grisell.  “I love a tale dearly.”

      Sister Avice told the legend, how St. Edith grew in love and tenderness at Wilton, and how she loved the gliding river and the flowers in the garden, and how all loved her, her young playmates especially.  She promised one who went away to be wedded that she would be godmother to her first little daughter, but ere the daughter was born the saintly Edith had died.  The babe was carried to be christened in the font at Winchester Cathedral, and by a great and holy man, no other than Alphegius, who was then Bishop of Winchester, but was made Archbishop of Canterbury, and died a holy martyr.

      “Then,” said Sister Avice, “there was a great marvel, for among the sponsors around the square black font there stood another figure in the dress of our Mother Abbess, and as the Bishop spake and said, “Bear this taper, in token that thy lamp shall be alight when the Bridegroom cometh,” the form held the torch, shining bright, clear, and like no candle or light on earth ever shone, and the face was the face of the holy Edith.  It СКАЧАТЬ