The Well in the Desert | Page 4

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, 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