Richard--"

She could imagine no evil tidings except as a.s.sociated with him.

Doucebelle conquered her unwillingness to speak, by a strong effort.

"Yes, dear Margaret, it is about him. The--"

"Is he dead?" asked Margaret, hurriedly.

"No."

"I thought, if it had been that,"--she hesitated.

"Margaret, didst thou not expect something more to happen?"

"Something--what? I see!" and her tone changed. "It is marriage."

"Yes, Sir Richard is married to--"

"No! Don't tell me to whom. I am afraid I should hate her. And I do not want to do that."

Doucebelle was silent.

"Was it his doing," asked Margaret in a low voice, "or did the Lord King order it?"

"Oh, it was the Lord King's doing, entirely, the Lady says."

"O Dulcie! I ought to wish it were his, because there would be more likelihood of his being happy: but I cannot--I cannot!"

"My poor Margaret, I do not wonder!" answered Doucebelle tenderly.

"Is it very wicked," added Margaret, in a voice of deep pain, "not to be able to wish him to be happy, without me? It is so hard, Dulcie! To be shut out from the warmth and the sunlight, and to see some one else let in! I suppose that is a selfish feeling. But it is so hard!"

"My poor darling!" was all that Doucebelle could say.

"Father Bruno said, that so long as we kept saying, 'My will be done,'

we must not expect G.o.d to comfort us. Yet how are we to give over? O Dulcie, I thought I was beginning to submit, and this has stirred all up again. My heart cries out and says, 'This shall not be! I will not have it so!' And if G.o.d will have it so!--How am I to learn to bend my will to His?"

Neither of the girls had heard any one enter, and they were a little startled when a third voice replied--

"None but Himself can teach thee that, my daughter. If thou canst not yet give Him thy will, ask Him to take it in spite of thee."

"I have done that, already, Father Bruno."

"Then thou mayest rest a.s.sured that He will do all that is lacking."

That night, Bruno said to Beatrice,--"That poor, dear child! I am sure G.o.d is teaching her. But to-day's news has driven another nail into her coffin."

Would it have been easier, or harder, if the veil could have been lifted which hid from Margaret the interior of Gloucester Castle? To the eyes of the world outside, the young Earl behaved like any other bridegroom.

He brought the Lady Maud to his home, placed her in sumptuous apartments, surrounded her with obsequious attendants, provided her with all the comforts and luxuries of life: but there his attentions ended.

For four years his step never crossed the threshold of the tower where she resided, and they met only on ceremonial occasions. Wife she never was to him, until for twelve months the cold stones of Westminster Abbey had lain over the fair head of his Margaret, the one love of his tried and faithful heart.

Having now completed the wreck of these two young lives, His Majesty considerately intimated to Richard de Clare, that in return for the unusual favours which had been showered upon him, he only asked of him to feel supremely happy, and to be devoted to his royal service for the term of his natural life.

Only!

How often it is the case that we imagine our friends to be blessing us with every fibre of their hearts, when it is all that they can do to pray for grace to enable them to forgive us!

Not that Richard did any thing of the kind. So far from it, that he registered a vow in Heaven, that if ever the power to do it should fall into his hands, he would repay that debt an hundredfold.

The two chaplains of the Earl had shown no interest whatever in Margaret and her troubles. Father Warner despised all human affections of whatever kind, with the intensity of a nature at once cold and narrow.

Father Nicholas was of a far kindlier disposition, but he was completely engrossed with another subject. Alchemy was reviving. The endless search for the philosopher's stone, the elixir of life, and other equally desirable and unattainable objects, had once more begun to engage the energies of scientific men. The real end which they were approaching was the invention of gunpowder, which can hardly be termed a blessing to the world at large. But Father Nicholas fell into the snare, and was soon absolutely convinced that only one ingredient was wanting to enable him to discover the elixir of life. That one ingredient, of priceless value, remains undiscovered in the nineteenth century.

Yet one thing must be said for these medieval philosophers,--that except in the way of spending money, they injured none but themselves. Their search for the secret of life did not involve the wanton torture of helpless creatures, nor did their boasted knowledge lead them to the idiotic conclusion that they were the descendants of a jelly-fish.

Oh, this much-extolled, wise, learned, supercilious Nineteenth Century!

Is it so very much the superior of all its predecessors, as it complacently a.s.sumes to be?

King Alexander of Scotland married his second wife in the May of 1239, to the great satisfaction of his sisters. The Countess of Kent thought that such news as this really ought to make Margaret cheer up: and she was rather perplexed (which Doucebelle was not by any means) at the discovery that all the gossip on that subject seemed only to increase her sadness. An eclipse of the sun, which occurred on the third of June, alarmed the Countess considerably. Some dreadful news might reasonably be expected after that. But no worse occurrence (from her point of view) happened than the birth of a Prince--afterwards to be Edward the First, who has been termed "the greatest of all the Plantagenets."

The occasion of the royal christening was eagerly seized upon, as a delightful expedient for the replenishing of his exhausted treasury, by the King who might not inappropriately be termed the least of the Plantagenets. Messengers were sent with tidings of the auspicious event to all the peers, and if the gifts with which they returned laden were not of the costliest description, King Henry dismissed them in disgrace.

"G.o.d gave us this child," exclaimed a blunt Norman n.o.ble, "but the King sells him to us!"

Four days after the Prince's birth came another event, which to one at least in Bury Castle, was enough to account for any portentous eclipse.

The Countess found Beatrice drowned in tears.

"Beatrice!--my dear maiden, what aileth thee? I have scarcely ever seen thee shed tears before."

The girl answered by a pa.s.sionate gesture.

"'Oh that mine head were waters, and mine eyes a fountain of tears, that I might weep day and night for the slain of the daughter of my people!'"

"_Ha, chetife_!--what is the matter?"

"Lady, there has been an awful slaughter of my people." And she stood up and flung up her hands towards heaven, in a manner which seemed to the Countess worthy of some cla.s.sic prophetess. "'Remember, O Adonai, what is come upon us; consider, and behold our reproach!' 'O G.o.d, why hast Thou cast us off for ever? why doth Thine anger smoke against the sheep of Thy pasture? We see not our signs: there is no more any prophet.' 'Arise, O Adonai, judge the earth! for Thou shalt inherit all nations.'"

The Countess stood mute before this unparalleled outburst. She could not comprehend it.

"My child, I do not understand," she said, kindly enough. "Has some relative of thine been murdered? How shocking!"

"Are not all my people kindred of mine?" exclaimed Beatrice, pa.s.sionately.

"Dost thou mean the ma.s.sacre of the Jews in London?" said the Countess, as the truth suddenly flashed upon her. "Oh yes, I did hear of some such dreadful affair. But, my dear, remember, thou art now a De Malpas.

Thou shouldst try to forget thine unfortunate connection with that low race. They are not thy people any longer."

Beatrice looked up, with flashing eyes from which some stronger feeling than sorrow had suddenly driven back the tears.

"'If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning!'

Lady, thou canst not fathom the heart of a Jew. No Christian can. We are brethren for ever. And you call my nationality unfortunate, and low! Know that I look upon that half of my blood as the King does upon his crown,--yea, as the Lord dees upon His people! 'We are Thine; Thou never barest rule over them; they were not called by Thy name.' But you do not understand, Lady."