The Well in the Desert | Page 6

will understand it. What letteth [hinders] thee to speak to me of my
mother?"
Agnes looked astonished at Philippa's tone, as well she might. "It hath
been forbidden, Lady."
"Who forbade it?"
The lavender's compressed lips sufficiently intimated that she did not
mean to answer that question.
"Why was it forbidden?"
The continued silence replied.
"When died she? Thou mayest surely tell me so much."
"I dare not, Lady," replied Agnes in a scarcely audible whisper.
"How died she?"
"Lady, I dare not answer,--I must not. You weary yourself to no good."
"But I will know," said Philippa, doggedly.

"Not from me, Lady," answered the lavender with equal determination.
"What does it all mean?" moaned poor Philippa to her baffled self.
"Look here, Agnes. Hast thou ever seen this bracelet?"
"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 compassionate
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