From that evening, Sir John de Averenches took to frequenting the bower occasionally, much to the annoyance of Eva, until the happy thought struck her that she might have captivated him at last. Mentally binding him to her chariot wheels, she made no further objection, but on the contrary, became so amiable that the shrewd little Marie noticed the alteration.

"Well, Eva is queer!" said that acute young lady. "She goes into the sulks if Sir William de Cantilupe so much as looks at any body; but she does not care how many people she looks at! I think she should be jealous on both sides!"

Eva's amenities, however, seemed to have no more effect on Sir John than her displeasure. Night after night, there he sat, never speaking to any one, and apparently not noticing one more than another.

"He's going out of his mind," suggested Marie.

"Not he!" said Eva. "He's none to go out of!"

The mystery was left unsolved, except by Bruno, who fancied that he guessed its meaning; but since the clue was one which he preferred not to pursue, he discreetly left matters to shape themselves, or rather, to be shaped by Providence, when the time should come.

That was a dreary winter altogether. The King had openly insulted his sister and Montfort, when they made their appearance at the ceremony of the Queen's "up-rising;" [Churching] and they had left England, pocketing the affront, but as concerned Montfort, by no means forgetting it.

The Pope made further encroachments on the liberties of the Church of England, by sending over a horde of Italians to fill vacant benefices.

The n.o.bles blazed out into open wrath "that the Pope, through avarice, should deprive them of their ancient right to the patronage of livings!"

They were headed, as usual, by the King's brother, Richard Earl of Cornwall, who seems to have been not a true, living Christian (as there is reason to believe his son was), but simply a political opponent of the aggressions of Rome. The citizens of London were about equally disgusted with the King, who at this time received a visit from the Queen's uncle, Tomaso of Savoy, and in his delight, His Majesty commanded his loyal and grumbling subjects to remove all dirt from the streets, and to meet the Count in gala clothing, and with horses handsomely accoutred.

The hint thrown out by Levina had not been lost on the Countess. She thought a complete change might do good to the fading flower which was only too patently withering on its stem: and at her instance the whole household removed to Westminster at the beginning of this winter. They had hardly settled down in their new abode when a fresh storm broke on the now aged head of Earl Hubert.

Once more, all the old, worn-out charges were trumped up, including even that by which the Princess Margaret's name had been so cruelly aspersed.

A flash of the early fire of the old man blazed forth when the accusation was made.

"I was never a traitor to you, nor to your father!" said Hubert de Burgh, facing his ungrateful King and pupil of long ago: "If I had been, under G.o.d, you would never have been here!"

It was true, and Henry knew it, best of all men.

The King, in the fulness of his compa.s.sionate grace, was pleased to let the Earl off very lightly. The sentence pa.s.sed was, that he should only resign the four most valuable castles that he had. This, of course, was not because Hubert was guilty, but because His Majesty was covetous.

Chateau Blanc, Grosmond, Skenefrith, and Hatfield, were given up to the Crown. Hubert bore it, we are told, very quietly and patiently. His own time could not be long now, for he was at least seventy; and the Benjamin of his love was dying of a broken heart.

King Henry himself was not without sorrow, for about All Saints' Day, Guglielmo of Savoy, the beloved uncle who had moulded him like wax, died rather suddenly at Viterbo. So grieved was the King, that he tore his royal mantle from his shoulders, and flung it into the fire. With that sudden and pa.s.sionate reaction to the other side, often seen in weak natures, he now threw himself into the arms of the Predicants and Minorites--until he set up a new favourite, who was not long in appearing.

Before the winter was over, a second sorrow fell upon Richard de Clare, in the death of his mother, Isabel, wife of the King's brother.

Cornwall grieved bitterly both for the loss of his wife and for the miserable state into which England was sinking; and declaring that he loved his country so much, that he could not bear to stay and see it go to ruin, he prepared to head a fresh crusade. Perhaps it did not occur to him that love and patriotism would have been shown better by staying at home and trying to keep his country from going to ruin. That was reserved for another Richard--the young Earl of Gloucester.

Another comet, and a violent hurricane, in the spring, made the augurs shake their heads and prophesy worse calamities than ever. There was a fresh one on the way, in the shape of a Papal exaction of one-fifth of the property of foreign beneficed clerks in England, in order to support the war then waged by the Pope on the Emperor of Germany. The royal Council was stirred, and told its listless master that he "ought not to suffer England to become a spoil and a desolation to immigrants, like a vineyard without a wall, exposed to wild beasts." His Majesty, like a true son of holy Church, replied that he "neither wished nor dared to oppose the Pope in any thing." As if to make confusion worse confounded, the Archbishop of Canterbury (subsequently known as Saint Edmund of Pontigny) aspired to become a second Becket, and appealed to the Pope to do away with state patronage, which he of course considered ought to be vested in the Primate. King Henry, supine as he was, was roused at last, and sent a message to Rome to the effect that the appeal of the Archbishop was contrary to his royal dignity. The Pope declined to entertain the appeal: and the King, we are told (by a monk) "became more tyrannical than ever," and appointed Bonifacio of Savoy to the See of Winchester. The defeated Archbishop submitted to the Pope's demand of a fifth of his income: but when the Pope, emboldened by success, came, to an agreement with the Italian priests occupying English benefices, that on condition of their helping him against the Emperor, all benefices in his gift should be bestowed upon Italians, the Archbishop could bear no longer, and he left England, never to return.

He died at Pontigny, his birthplace, on the sixteenth of November following; and not long afterwards, King Henry reverently knelt to worship at the tomb of the saint [Note 1] who had been a thorn in his side as long as he lived.

Then the English Abbots, cruelly mulcted by the Pope, appealed to their natural Sovereign, to be met by a scowl, and to hear the Legate told that he might choose the best of the royal castles wherein to imprison them. Twenty-four Roman priests came over to fill English benefices: and at last, when the Legate left England (for which "no one was sorry but the King"), it was calculated that with the exception of church plate, he carried out of England more wealth than he left in it.

But in the halls of Earl Hubert at Westminster, all interest in outside calamities was lost in the inside. As that spring drew on towards summer, the blindest eyes could no longer refuse to see that the white lily had faded at last, and the star was going out.

The trial of patience had been long for Margaret but it was over now.

Master Aristoteles could not understand it. The maiden had no disease that he could discover: and to think that the blessed hair of Saint Dominic should have failed to restore her! It was most unaccountable.

There was no word of complaint from the dying girl. She no longer thought it strange that G.o.d should have made her young life short and bitter. The lesson was learned, at last.

So gradually her life went out, that no one expected the end just when it came. Weaker and weaker she grew from day to day; more unable to sit up, to work, to talk: but the transition from life to death was so quiet that it was difficult for those around to realise how near it was.

Margaret had risen and dressed every day, but had lain outside her bed when dressed, for the greater part of April. It was May Day now, and in all the streets were May-poles and May dancers, singing and sunshine.

Eva went out early, with a staff of attendants, to join in the festivities.

"Why, what good can there be in my staying at home?" she said, answering Doucebelle's face. "Margaret will not be any better because I am here.

And then, when I come in at night, I can tell her all about it. And it is no use talking, Doucebelle! I really cannot bear this sort of thing!

I get so melancholy, you have no idea! I don't know what would become of me if I had not some diversion."

Beatrice and Doucebelle stayed with Margaret: Doucebelle from a sort of inward sensation, she hardly knew what or why; Beatrice from a remark made by Bruno the night before.

"It will not be long, now, at least," he had said.

The day wore slowly on, but it seemed just like twenty days which had preceded it. Bruno paid his daily visit towards evening.

"Are the streets very full of holiday-makers?" asked Margaret.

"Very full, my daughter. There is a great crowd round the May-pole."

"I hope Eva will enjoy herself."

"I have no doubt she will."

"It seems so far off, now," said Margaret, dreamily. "As if I were where I could hardly see it--somewhere above this world, and all the things that are in the world. Father, have you any idea what there will be in Heaven?"

"There will be Christ," answered Bruno. "And what may be implied in 'His glory, which G.o.d hath given Him,'--our finite minds are scarcely capable of guessing. Only, His will is that His people shall behold it and share it. It must be something that He thinks worth seeing--He, who has beheld the glory of G.o.d before the worlds were."

"Father," said Margaret, with deep feeling, "it seems too much that _we_ should see it."

"True. But not too much that He should bestow it. He gives,--as He forgives--like a king."

Like what king?--was the thought in Doucebelle's mind. Not like the one of whom she knew any thing--who was responsible before G.o.d for that death which was coming on so quietly, yet so surely.

Beatrice had left the room a few minutes before, and she was now returning to it through the ante-chamber. The dusk was rapidly falling, and, not knowing of any presence but her own, she was extremely startled to find herself grasped by the shoulder, by a firm hand which evidently had no intention of standing any trifling. She looked up into the face of a stranger, and yet a face which was not altogether strange. It was that of a tall, handsome man, with fair hair, and a stern, pained compression of brow and lips.

"Is it true?" he said in a husky voice.

"Is what true?" Beatrice was too startled to think what he meant.

The grasp upon her shoulder tightened till a weaker woman would have screamed.

"Belasez, do not trifle with me! Is she dying?"

And then, all at once, Beatrice knew who it was that asked her.

"It is too true, Sir Richard," she said sadly, pityingly, with almost a reverential compa.s.sion for that faithful love which had brought him there that night.

"I must see her, Belasez."

"Is it wise, Sir Richard?"