The Life and Death of Richard Yea-and-Nay | Page 7

sacrament. Before it was
grey in the east he did so, fully armed in mail, with his red surcoat of
leopards upon him, his sword girt, his spurs strapped on. Outside the
chapel in the weeping mirk a squire held his shield, another his helm, a
groom walked his horse. Milo the Abbot was celebrant, a snuffling boy
served; the Count knelt before the housel-cloth haloed by the light of
two thin candles. Hardly had the priest begun his introibo when Jehane
Saint-Pol, who had been awake all night, stole in with a hood on her
head, and holding herself very stiffly, knelt on the floor. She joined her
hands and stuck them up before her, so that the tips of her fingers,
pointing upwards as her thoughts would fly, were nearly level with her
chin. Thus frozen in prayer she remained throughout the office; nor did
she relax when at the elevation of the Host Richard bowed himself to
the earth. It seemed as if she too, bearing between her hands her own

heart, was lifting it up for sacrifice and for worship.
The Count was communicated. He was a very religious man, who
would sooner have gone without his sword than his Saviour upon any
affairs. Jehane saw him fed without a twitch of the lips. She was in a
great mood, a rapt and pillared saint; but when mass was over and his
thanksgiving to make, she got up and hid herself away from him in the
shades. There she lurked darkling, and he, lunging out, swept with his
sword's point the very edge of her gown. She did not hear him go, for
he trod like a cat; but she felt him touch her with the sword, and
shuddered once or twice. He went out of the courtyard at a gallop.
While the abbot was reciting his own thanksgiving Jehane came out of
her corner, minded to speak with him. So much he divined, needing not
the beckoning look she sent him from her guarded eyes. He sat himself
down by the altar of Saint Remy, and she knelt beside him.
'Well, my daughter?' says Milo.
'I think it is well,' she took him up.
The Abbot Milo, a red-faced, watery-eyed old man, rheumy and
weathered well, then opened his mouth and spake such wisdom as he
knew. He held up his forefinger like a claw, and used it as if describing
signs and wonders in the air.
'Hearken, Madame Jehane,' he said. 'I say that you have done well, and
will maintain it. That great prince, whom I love like my own son, is not
for you, nor for another. No, no. He is married already.'
He hoped to startle her, the old rhetorician; but he failed. Jehane was
too dreary.
'He is married, my daughter,' he repeated; 'and to whom? Why, to
himself. That man from the birth has been a lonely soul. He can never
wed, as you understand it. You think him your lover! Believe me, he is
not. He is his own lover. He is called. He has a destiny. And what is
that? you ask me.'

She did not, but rhetoric bade him suppose it. 'Salem is his destiny;
Salem is his bride, the elect lady in bonds. He will not wed Madame
Alois of France, nor you, nor any virgin in Christendom until that
spiritual wedlock is consummate. I should not love him as I do if I did
not believe it. For why? Shall I call my own son apostate? He is signed
with the Cross, a married man, by our Saviour!'
He leaned back in his chair, peering down at her to see how she took it.
She took it stilly, and turned him a marble, storm-purged face, a pair of
eyes which seemed all black.
'What shall I do to be safe?' Her voice sounded worn.
'Safe, my child?' He wondered. 'Bless me, is not the Cross safety?'
'Not with him, father.'
This was perfectly true, though tainted with scandal, he thought. The
abbot, who was trained to blink all such facts, had to learn that this girl
blinked none. True to his guidance, he blinked.
'Go home to your brother, my daughter; go home to
Saint-Pol-la-Marche. At the worst, remember that there are always two
arks for a woman in flood-time, a convent and a bed.'
'I shall never choose a convent,' said Jehane.
'I think,' said the abbot, 'that you are perfectly wise.'
I suppose the alternative struck a sudden terror into her; for the abbot
abruptly records in his book that 'here her spirit seemed to flit out of her,
and she began to tremble very much, and in vain to contend with tears.
I had her all dissolved at my feet within a few