The Well in the Desert | Page 5

therefore, were readily forthcoming. She put the despised bracelet in
her pocket; and as soon as she received her dismissal, ran with a lighter
step than usual to her turret-chamber. Without any distinct reason for
doing so, she drew the bolt, and sitting down by the window, proceeded

to examine her treasure.
It was a plain treasure enough. A band of black enamel, set at intervals
with seed-pearl and beryls, certainly was not worth much; especially
since the snap was gone, one of the beryls and several pearls were
missing, and from the centre ornament, an enamelled rose, a portrait
had apparently been torn away. Did the rose open? Philippa tried it; for
she was anxious to reach the device, if there were one to reach. The
rose opened with some effort, and the device lay before her, written in
small characters, with faded ink, on a scrap of parchment fitting into
the bracelet.
Philippa's one accomplishment, which she owed to her old friend Alina,
was the rare power of reading. It was very seldom that she found any
opportunity of exercising it, yet she had not lost the art. Alina had been
a priest's sister, who in teaching her to read had taught her all that he
knew himself; and Alina in her turn had thus given to Philippa all that
she had to give.
But the characters of the device were so small and faint, that Philippa
consumed half an hour ere she could decipher them. At length she
succeeded in making out a rude rhyme or measure, in the
Norman-French which was to her more familiar than English.
"Quy de cette eaw boyra Ancor soyf aura; Mais quy de cette eaw boyra
Que moy luy donneray, Jamais soif n'aura A l'eternite."
Devices of the mediaeval period were parted into two divisions--
religious and amatory. Philippa had no difficulty in deciding that this
belonged to the former category; and she guessed in a moment that the
meaning was a moral one; for she was accustomed to such hidden
allegorical allusions. And already she had advanced one step on the
road to that Well; she knew that "whosoever drinketh of this water shall
thirst again." Ay, from her that weary thirst was never absent. But
where was this Well from which it might be quenched? and who was it
that could give her this living water?
Philippa's memory was a perfect storehouse of legends of the saints,

and above all of the Virgin, who stood foremost in her pantheon of
gods. She searched her repertory over and over, but in vain. No saint,
and in particular not Saint Mary, had ever, in any legend that she knew,
spoken words like these. And what tremendous words they were!
"Whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never
thirst."
There were long and earnest prayers offered that night in the little
turret-chamber. Misdirected prayers--entreaties to be prayed for,
addressed to ears that could not hear, to hands that could not help. But
perhaps they reached another Ear that could hear, another Hand that
was almighty. The unclosing of the door is promised to them that ask.
Thanks be to God, that while it is not promised, it does sometimes in
His sovereign mercy unclose to them that know not how to ask.
The morning after this, as Philippa opened her door, one of the castle
lavenders, of washerwomen, passed it on her way down the stairs. She
was a woman of about fifty years of age, who had filled her present
place longer than Philippa could recollect.
Throughout the whole of the Middle Ages--for a period of many
centuries, closing only about the time of the accession of the House of
Hanover-- laundress was a name of evil repute, and the position was
rarely assumed by any woman who had a character to lose. The
daughters of the Lady Alianora were strictly forbidden to speak to any
lavender; but no one had cared enough about Philippa to warn her, and
she was therefore free to converse with whom she pleased. And a
sudden thought had struck her. She called back the lavender.
"Agnes!"
The woman stopped, came to Philippa's door, and louted--the
old-fashioned reverence which preceded the French courtesy.
"Agnes, how long hast thou been lavender here?"
"Long ere you were born, Lady."

"Canst thou remember my mother?"
Philippa was amazed at the look of abject terror which suddenly took
possession of the lavender's face.
"Hush, Lady, Lady!" she whispered, her voice trembling with fear.
Philippa laid her hand on the woman's arm.
"Wilt thou suffer aught if thou tarry?"
Agnes shook her head.
"Then come in hither." And she pulled her into her own room, and shut
the door. "Agnes, there is some strange thing I cannot understand: and I