The Well in the Desert | Page 4

horse beside the litter, actually hated the
girl whom he had been forced to marry, did not enter into her
calculations: but as Joan cared very little for that herself, it was the less
necessary that Philippa should do so. And Philippa only missed Joan
from the house by the fact that her work was so much the lighter, and
her life a trifle less disagreeable than before.
More considerations than one were troubling Philippa just now.
Blanche, one of the Countess's tire-women, had just visited her
turret-chamber, to inform her that the Lady Alesia was betrothed, and
would be married six months thence. It did not, however, trouble her
that she had heard of this through a servant; she never looked for
anything else. Had she been addicted (which, fortunately for her, she
was not) to that most profitless of all manufactures,
grievance-making,--she might have wept over this little incident. But
except for one reason, the news of her sister's approaching marriage

was rather agreeable to Philippa. She would have another tyrant the less;
though it was true that Alesia had always been the least unkind to her
of the three, and she would have welcomed Mary's marriage with far
greater satisfaction. But that one terrible consideration which Blanche
had forced on her notice!
"I marvel, indeed, that my gracious Lord hath not thought of your
disposal, Mistress Philippa, ere this."
Suppose he should think of it! For to Philippa's apprehension, love was
so far from being synonymous with marriage, that she held the two
barely compatible. Marriage to her would be merely another phase of
Egyptian bondage, under a different Pharaoh. And she knew this was
her probable lot: that (unless her father's neglect on this subject should
continue-- which she devoutly hoped it might) she would some day be
informed by Blanche--or possibly the Lady Alianora herself might
condescend to make the communication--that on the following
Wednesday she was to be married to Sir Robert le Poer or Sir John de
Mountchenesey; probably a man whom she had never seen, possibly
one whom she just knew by sight.
Philippa scarcely knew how, from such thoughts as these, her memory
slowly travelled back, and stayed outside the castle gate, at that June
morning of nineteen years ago. Who was it that had parted with her so
unwillingly? It could not, of course, be the mother of whom she had
never heard so much as the name; she must have died long ago. On her
side, so far as Philippa knew, she had no relations; and her aunts on the
father's side, the Lady Latimer, the Lady de l'Estrange, and the Lady de
Lisle, never took the least notice of her when they visited the castle.
And then came up the thought--"Who am I? How is it that nobody
cares to own me? There must be a reason. What is the reason?"
"Mistress Philippa! look you here: the Lady Mary left with me this
piece of arras, and commanded me to give it unto you to be amended,
and beshrew me but I clean forgot. This green is to come forth, and this
blue to be set instead thereof, and clean slea-silk for the yellow. Haste,
for the holy Virgin's love, or I shall be well swinged when she cometh
home!"

CHAPTER TWO.
HIDDEN TREASURE.
"Who hears the falling of the forest leaf? Or who takes note of every
flower that dies?"
Longfellow.
The morning after Blanche and the arras had thus roughly dispelled
Philippa's dream, the Lady Alianora sat in her bower, looking over a
quantity of jewellery. She put some articles aside to be reset, dismissed
others as past amendment, or not worth it, and ordered some to be
restored to the coffer whence they had been taken. The Lady Alesia
was looking on, and Philippa stood behind with the maids. At last only
one ornament was left.
"This is worth nothing," said the Countess, lifting from the table an old
bracelet, partly broken. "Put it with the others--or stay: whence came
it?"
"Out of an ancient coffer, an't like your Ladyship," said Blanche, "that
hath been longer in the castle than I."
"I should think so," returned the Countess. "It must have belonged to
my Lord's grandmother, or some yet more ancient dame. 'Tis worth
nothing. Philippa, you may have it."
Not a very gracious manner of presenting a gift, it must be confessed;
but Philippa well knew that nothing of any value was likely to be
handed to her. Moreover, this was the first present that had ever been
made to her. And lastly, a dim notion floated through her mind that it
might have belonged to her mother; and anything connected with that
dead and unknown mother had a sacred charm in her eyes. Her thanks,