THE VEIL UPLIFTED.

"Household names, that used to flutter Through your laughter unawares,-- G.o.d's Divine Name ye can utter With less trembling, in your prayers."

Elizabeth B. Browning.

Philippa sat down again with the book in her hand. Her mood had changed suddenly at the sight of the text, which she instantly guessed to be the original of her well-remembered device.

"I need not go yet," she said, "unless I weary you, Mother."

"I am never wearied of the Master's work," answered the low voice.

Lady Sergeaux opened the door of the cell.

"Lena and Oliver," she called, "you can return to the convent, and come hither for me again ere the dusk falleth. I shall abide a season with this holy Mother."

"But your Ladyship will ere that be faint for hunger," objected Lena.

"No,--I will take care of that," replied the Grey Lady, ere Philippa could answer.

Lena louted, and departed with Oliver, and her mistress again closed the door of the cell. The Grey Lady set bread before her, and honey, with a cup of milk, bidding her eat.

"Thank you, Mother, but I am not hungry yet," said Philippa.

"You ought to be. You had better eat," was the quiet answer.

And quiet as the voice was, it had a tone of authority which Philippa involuntarily and unconsciously obeyed. And while she ate, her hostess in her turn became the questioner.

"Are you a knight's wife?"

"I am the wife of Sir Richard Sergeaux, a knight of Cornwall," said Philippa. "My lord is away in Gascony, in the train of the Earl of Arundel, who accompanies the Duke of Lancaster, at present Governor of those parts. While he is absent, I hope to be able to make my salvation in retreat, and to quiet my conscience."

The Grey Lady made no reply. Philippa almost expected her to ask if her conscience were quiet, or how much of her salvation she had made. Guy of Ashridge, she thought, would have preached a sermon on that text.

But no answer came from the veiled figure, only her head drooped upon her hand as if she were tired.

"Now I am wearying you," said Philippa reproachfully. "I ought to have gone when I first thought thereof."

"No," said the Grey Lady.

Her voice, if possible, was even softer than before, but Philippa could not avoid detecting in it a cadence of pain so intense that she began to wonder if she were ill, or what portion of her speech could possibly have caused it.

"Are you ill, Mother?" she asked compa.s.sionately.

The eremitess lifted her head; and her voice was again calm.

"I thank you,--no. Let us not speak of ourselves, but of G.o.d."

"Mother, I wish to ask you something," said Philippa rather doubtfully, for she did not wish to pain her again, yet she deemed her coming question necessary.

"Ask what you will, Lady de Sergeaux."

There was no sad cadence now in the gentle voice.

"I desire to know--for so only can you really help me--if you know yourself what it is to be unloved."

Once more Philippa saw the grey veil tremble.

"I know it--well." But the words were uttered scarcely above a whisper.

"I meant to ask you that at first, and we name upon another subject.

But I am satisfied if you know it. And now tell me, how may any be content under such a trial? How may a weary, thirsting heart, come to drink of that water which he that drinketh shall thirst no more?

Mother, all my life I have been drinking of many wells, but I never yet came to this Well. 'Ancor soyf j'ay:' tell me how I must labour, where I must go, to find that Well whereof the drinker

"'Jamays soyf n'aura A l'eternite'?"

"Who taught you those lines?" asked the eremitess quickly.

"I found them in the device of a jewel," replied Philippa.

"Strange!" said the recluse; but she did not explain why she thought it so. "Lady, the Living Water is the gift of G.o.d; or rather, it is G.o.d.

And the heart of man was never meant to be satisfied with anything beneath G.o.d."

"But the heart of woman, at least," said Philippa, "for I am not a man-- is often satisfied with things beneath G.o.d."

"It often rests in them," said the Grey Lady; "but I doubt whether it is satisfied. That is a strong word. Are you?"

"I am most unsatisfied," answered Philippa; "otherwise I had not come to you. I want rest."

"And yet Christ hath been saying all your life, to you, as to others,--'Come unto Me, all ye that travail and are weary laden, and I will give you rest.'"

"He never gave it me."

"Because you never came for it."

"I wonder if He can give it," said Philippa, sighing.

"Trust me that He can. I never knew it till I came to Him."

"But are you at rest? You scarcely looked so just now."

"At rest," said the Grey Lady, "except when a breeze of earth stirs the soul which should be soaring above earth--when the dreams of earth come like a thick curtain between that soul and the hope of that Heaven--as it was just now."

"Then you are not exempt from that?"

"In coming to Christ for rest, we do not leave our human hearts and our human infirmities behind us--a.s.suredly not."

"Then do you think it wrong to desire to beloved?"

"Not wrong to desire Christ's love."