The White Rose of Langley | Page 9

to express her feelings at so unparalleled a proposal.
"What sangst thou as I was a-coming in?" asked the child, dropping a subject on which she found no sympathy.
"'Twas but an old song, Lady, of your Grace's grandsire King Edward (whom God assoil! [pardon]) and his war of France."
"That was ere I was born. Was it ere thou wert, Dame?"
"Truly no, Lady," said Agnes, smiling; "nor ere my Lord your father."
"What manner of lad was my Lord my father, when he was little?"
"Rare meek and gent, Lady,--for a lad, and his ire saved." [Except when he was angry.]
Dame Agnes saved her conscience by the last clause, for gentle as Prince Edmund had generally been, he was as capable of going into a genuine Plantagenet passion as any of his more fiery brothers.
"But a maiden must be meeker and gentler?"
"Certes, Damosel," said Agnes, spinning away.
The child reclined in her chair for a time in silence. Perhaps it was the suddenness of the next question which made the old lady drop her distaff.
"Dame, who is Sir John de Wycliffe?"
The distaff had to be recovered before the question could be considered.
"Ask at Dame Joan, Lady," was the discreet reply.
"So I did; and she bade me ask at thee."
"A priest, methinks," said Agnes vaguely.
"Why, I knew that," answered the child. "But what did he, or held he?-- for 'tis somewhat naughty, folk say."
"If it be somewhat naughty, Lady Custance, you should not seek to know it."
"But my Lady my mother wagged her head, though she spake not. So I want to know."
"Then your best way, Damosel," suggested the troubled Agnes, "were to ask at her Grace."
"I did ask at her."
"And what said she?"
"She said she would tell me another day. But I want to know now."
"Her Grace's answer might have served you, Lady."
"It did not serve Ned. He said he would know. And so will I."
"The Lord Edward is two years your elder, Lady."
"Truth," said the child shrewdly, "and you be sixty years mine elder, so you should know more than he by thirty."
Agnes could not help smiling, but she was sadly perplexed how to dismiss the unwelcome topic.
"Let be. If thou wilt not tell me, I will blandish some that will. There be other beside thee in the university [world, universe].--What is yonder bruit?" [a noise.]
It was little Maude, flying in frantic terror, with Parnel in hot pursuit, both too much absorbed to note in what direction they were running. The cause was not far to seek.
After Maude had recovered from the effects of her exposure in the forest, she lighted unexpectedly on the little flat parcel which her mother had charged her to keep. It was carefully sewn up in linen, and the sewing cost Maude some trouble to penetrate. She reached the core at last. It was something thin and flat, with curious black and red patterns all over it. This would have been the child's description. It was, in truth, a vellum leaf of a manuscript, elaborately written, but not illuminated, unless capitals in red ink can be termed illumination. Remembering her mother's charge, to let "none beguile her of it," Maude had striven to keep its possession a secret from every one, first from the nuns, and then from Ursula Drew. Strange to say, she had succeeded until that morning. It was to her a priceless treasure--all the more inestimable because she could not read a word of it. But on that unlucky morning, Parnel had caught a glimpse of the precious parcel, always hidden in Maude's bosom, and had immediately endeavoured to snatch it from her. Contriving to elude her grasp, yet fearful of its repetition, Maude rushed out of the kitchen door, and finding that her tormentor followed, fled across the base court, took refuge in an open archway, dashed up a flight of steps, and sped along a wide corridor, neither knowing nor caring that her flying feet were bearing her straight in the direction of the royal apartments. Parnel was the first to see where they were going, and at the last corner she stayed her pursuit, daring to proceed no further. But Maude did not know that Parnel was no longer on her track, and she fled wildly on, till her foot tripped at an inequality in the stone passage, and she came down just opposite an open door.
For a minute the child was too much stunned by her fall to think of any thing. Then, as her recollection returned, she cast a terrified glance behind her, and saw that her pursuer had not yet appeared round the corner. And then, before she could rise, she heard a voice in front of her.
"What is this, my child?"
Maude looked up, past a gorgeous spread of blue and gold drapery, into a meek, quiet face--a face whose