"Ay, Lady. The Lady Alianora never deigns to speak to such as we poor lavenders be, but _she_ did not think it would soil her lips to comfort us when our hearts were sad. I have seen her wear that jewel."

A terrible fancy all at once occurred to Philippa.

"Agnes, was she an evil woman, that thou wilt not speak of her?"

The lavender's heart was reached, and her tongue loosed.

"No, no, Lady, no!" she cried, with a fervour of which Philippa had not imagined her capable. "The snow was no whiter than her life, the honey no sweeter than her soul!"

"Then what does it all mean?" said Philippa again, in a tone of more bewilderment than ever.

But the momentary fervour had died away, and silence once more settled on the lavender's tongue. Agnes louted, and walked away; and Philippa knew only one thing more--that the broken bracelet had been her mother's. But who was she, and what was she, this mysterious mother of whom none would speak to her--the very date of whose death her child was not allowed to know?

"That is too poor for you, Alesia," said the Lady Alianora.

"'Tis but thin, in good sooth," observed that young lady.

"I suppose Philippa must have a gown for the wedding," resumed the Countess, carelessly. "It will do for her."

It was cloth of silver. Philippa had never had such a dress in her life. She listened in mute surprise. Could it be possible that she was intended to appear as a daughter of the house at Alesia's marriage?

"You may choose your hood-stuff from chose velvets," said the Countess condescendingly to Philippa. "I trow you will have to choose your own gowns after you are wedded, so you may as well begin now."

"Will Philippa be wed when I am?" yawned Alesia.

"The same day," said the Lady Alianora.

The day was about sixty hours off; and this was the first word that Philippa had heard of her destiny. To whom was she to be handed over after this summary fashion? Would the Countess, of her unspeakable goodness, let her know that? But the Countess could not tell her; she had not yet heard. She thought there were two knights in treaty for her, and the last time he had mentioned it, the Earl had not decided between them.

As soon as Alesia's wardrobe was settled, and Philippa was no longer wanted to unfold silks and exhibit velvets, she fled like a hunted deer to her turret-chamber. Kneeling down by her bed, she buried her face in the coverlet, and the long-repressed cry of the sold slave broke forth at last.

"O Mother, Mother, Mother!"

The door opened, but Philippa did not hear it.

"Lady, I cry you mercy," said the voice of Agnes in a compa.s.sionate tone. "I meant not indeed to pry into your privacy; but as I was coming up the stairs, I thought I heard a scream. I feared you were sick."

Philippa looked up, with a white, woe-begone face and tearless eyes.

"I wish I were, Agnes!" she said in a hopeless tone. "I would I were out of this weary and wicked world."

"Ah, I have wished that ere now," responded the lavender. "'Tis an ill wish, Lady. I have heard one say so."

"One that never felt it, I trow," said Philippa.

"No did, Lady? Ay, one whose lot was far bitterer than yours."

"Verily, I would give something to see one whose lot were so," answered the girl, bitterly enough. "I have no mother, and as good as no father; and none would care were I out of the world this night. Not a soul loveth me, nor ever did."

"She used to say One did love us," said Agnes in a low voice; "even He that died on the rood. I would I could mind what she told us; but it is long, long ago; and mine heart is hard, and my remembrance dim. Yet I do mind that last time she spake, only the very day before--never mind what. But that which came after stamped it on mine heart for ever. It was the last time I heard her voice; and I knew--we all knew--what was coming, though she did not. It was about water she spake, and he that drank should thirst again; and there was another well some whither, whereof he that should drink should never thirst. And He that died on the rood would give us that better water, if we asked Him."

"But how shall I get at Him to ask Him?" cried Philippa.

"She said He could hear, if we asked," replied the lavender.

"Who said?"

"She--that you wot of. Our Lady that used to be."

"My mother?"

Agnes nodded. "And the water that He should give should bring life and peace. It was a sweet story and a fair, as she told it. But there never was a voice like hers--never."

Philippa rose, and opened her cherished bracelet. She could guess what that bracelet had been. The ornament was less common in the Middle Ages than in the periods which preceded and followed them; and it was usually a love-token. But where was the love which had given and received this?

Was it broken, too, like the bracelet?

She read the device to Agnes.

"It was something like that," said Agnes. "But she read the story touching it, out of a book."

"What was she like?" asked Philippa in a low tone.

"Look in the mirror, Lady," answered Agnes.

Philippa began to wonder whether this were the mysterious reason for her bitter lot.

"Dost thou know I am to be wed?"

"Ay, Lady."

So the very lavenders had known it before herself! But finding Agnes, as she thought, more communicative than before, Philippa returned to her former subject.

"What was her name?"

Agnes shook her head.

"Thou knowest it?"

The lavender nodded in answer.

"Then why not tell it me? Surely I may know what they christened her at the font--Philippa, or Margaret, or Blanche?"

Agnes hesitated a moment, but seemed to decide on replying. She sank her voice so low that Philippa could barely hear her, but she just caught the words.

"The Lady Isabel."

Philippa sat a minute in silence; but Agnes made no motion to go.

"Agnes, thou saidst her lot was more bitter than mine. How was it more bitter?"