Grisly Grisell

C >> Charlotte M. Yonge >> Grisly Grisell

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Grisell submitted, as she knew she must, but to her surprise Sister
Avice's touch was as soft and soothing as were her words, and the
ointment she applied was fragrant and delicious and did not burn or
hurt her.

She looked up gratefully, and murmured her thanks, and then the
evening meal was brought in, and she sat up to partake of it on the
seat of the window looking out on the Cathedral spire. It was a milk
posset far more nicely flavoured than what she had been used to at
Amesbury, where, in spite of the Countess's kindness, the master cook
had grown tired of any special service for the Dacre wench; and
unless Margaret of York secured fruit for her, she was apt to be
regaled with only the scraps that Maudlin managed to cater for her
after the meals were over.

After that, Sister Avice gently undressed her, took care that she
said her prayers, and sat by her till she fell asleep, herself
telling her that she should sleep beside her, and that she would hear
the voices of the sisters singing in the chapel their matins and
lauds. Grisell did hear them, as in a dream, but she had not slept
so well since her disaster as she slept on that night.

CHAPTER V--SISTER AVICE

Love, to her ear, was but a name
Combined with vanity and shame;
Her hopes, her fears, her joys, were all
Bounded within the cloister wall.

SCOTT, Marmion.

Sister Avice sat in the infirmary, diligently picking the leaves off
a large mass of wood-sorrel which had been brought to her by the
children around, to make therewith a conserve.

Grisell lay on her couch. She had been dressed, and had knelt at the
window, where the curtain was drawn back while mass was said by the
Chaplain, the nuns kneeling in their order and making their
responses. It was a low-browed chapel of Norman or even older days,
with circular arches and heavy round piers, and so dark that the
gleam of the candles was needed to light it.

Grisell watched, till tired with kneeling she went back to her couch,
slept a little, and then wondered to see Sister Avice still
compounding her simples.

She moved wearily, and sighed for Madge to come in and tell her all
the news of Amesbury--who was riding at the ring, or who had shot the
best bolt, or who had had her work picked out as not neat or well
shaded enough.

Sister Avice came and shook up her pillow, and gave her a dried plum
and a little milk, and began to talk to her.

"You will soon be better," she said, "and then you will be able to
play in the garden."

"Is there any playfellow for me?" asked Grisell.

"There is a little maid from Bemerton, who comes daily to learn her
hornbook and her sampler. Mayhap she will stay and play with you."

"I had Madge at Amesbury; I shall love no one as well as Madge! See
what she gave me."

Grisell displayed her pouncet box, which was duly admired, and then
she asked wearily whether she should always have to stay in the
convent.

"Oh no, not of need," said the sister. "Many a maiden who has been
here for a time has gone out into the world, but some love this home
the best, as I have done."

"Did yonder nun on the wall?" asked Grisell.

"Yea, truly. She was bred here, and never left it, though she was a
King's daughter. Edith was her name, and two days after Holy Cross
day we shall keep her feast. Shall I tell you her story?"

"Prithee, prithee!" exclaimed Grisell. "I love a tale dearly."

Sister Avice told the legend, how St. Edith grew in love and
tenderness at Wilton, and how she loved the gliding river and the
flowers in the garden, and how all loved her, her young playmates
especially. She promised one who went away to be wedded that she
would be godmother to her first little daughter, but ere the daughter
was born the saintly Edith had died. The babe was carried to be
christened in the font at Winchester Cathedral, and by a great and
holy man, no other than Alphegius, who was then Bishop of Winchester,
but was made Archbishop of Canterbury, and died a holy martyr.

"Then," said Sister Avice, "there was a great marvel, for among the
sponsors around the square black font there stood another figure in
the dress of our Mother Abbess, and as the Bishop spake and said,
"Bear this taper, in token that thy lamp shall be alight when the
Bridegroom cometh," the form held the torch, shining bright, clear,
and like no candle or light on earth ever shone, and the face was the
face of the holy Edith. It is even said that she held the babe, but
that I know not, being a spirit without a body, but she spake the
name, her own name Edith. And when the holy rite was over, she had
vanished away."

"And that is she, with the lamp in her hand? Oh, I should have been
afraid!" cried Grisell.

"Not of the holy soul?" said the sister.

"Oh! I hope she will never come in here, by the little window into
the church," cried Grisell trembling.

Indeed, for some time, in spite of all Sister Avice could say,
Grisell could not at night be free from the fear of a visit from St.
Edith, who, as she was told, slept her long sleep in the church
below. It may be feared that one chief reliance was on the fact that
she could not be holy enough for a vision of the Saint, but this was
not so valuable to her as the touch of Sister Avice's kind hand, or
the very knowing her present.

That story was the prelude to many more. Grisell wanted to hear it
over again, and then who was the Archbishop martyr, and who were the
Virgins in memory of whom the lamps were carried. Both these, and
many another history, parable, or legend were told her by Sister
Avice, training her soul, throughout the long recovery, which was
still very slow, but was becoming more confirmed every day. Grisell
could use her eye, turn her head, and the wounds closed healthily
under the sister's treatment without showing symptoms of breaking out
afresh; and she grew in strength likewise, first taking a walk in the
trim garden and orchard, and by and by being pronounced able to join
the other girl scholars of the convent. Only here was the first
demur. Her looks did not recover with her health. She remained with
a much-seamed neck, and a terrible scar across each cheek, on one
side purple, and her eyebrows were entirely gone.

She seemed to have forgotten the matter while she was entirely in the
infirmary, with no companion but Sister Avice, and occasionally a lay
sister, who came to help; but the first time she went down the turret
stair into the cloister--a beautiful succession of arches round a
green court--she met a novice and a girl about her own age; the elder
gave a little scream at the sight and ran away.

The other hung back. "Mary, come hither," said Sister Avice. "This
is Grisell Dacre, who hath suffered so much. Wilt thou not come and
kiss and welcome her?"

Mary came forward rather reluctantly, but Grisell drew up her head
within, "Oh, if you had liefer not!" and turned her back on the girl.

Sister Avice followed as Grisell walked away as fast as her weakness
allowed, and found her sitting breathless at the third step on the
stairs.

"Oh, no--go away--don't bring her. Every one will hate me," sobbed
the poor child.

Avice could only gather her into her arms, though embraces were
against the strict rule of Benedictine nuns, and soothe and coax her
to believe that by one at least she was not hated.

"I had forgotten," said Grisell. "I saw myself once at Amesbury! but
my face was not well then. Let me see again, sister! Where's a
mirror?"

"Ah! my child, we nuns are not allowed the use of worldly things like
mirrors; I never saw one in my life."

"But oh, for pity's sake, tell me what like am I. Am I so loathly?"

"Nay, my dear maid, I love thee too well to think of aught save that
thou art mine own little one, given back to us by the will of Heaven.
Aye, and so will others think of thee, if thou art good and loving to
them."

"Nay, nay, none will ever love me! All will hate and flee from me,
as from a basilisk or cockatrice, or the Loathly Worm of
Spindlesheugh," sobbed Grisell.

"Then, my maid, thou must win them back by thy sweet words and kind
deeds. They are better than looks. And here too they shall soon
think only of what thou art, not of what thou look'st."

"But know you, sister, how--how I should have been married to Leonard
Copeland, the very youth that did me this despite, and he is fair and
beauteous as a very angel, and I did love him so, and now he and his
father rid away from Amesbury, and left me because I am so foul to
see," cried Grisell, between her sobs.

"If they could treat thee thus despiteously, he would surely not have
made thee a good husband," reasoned the sister.

"But I shall never have a husband now," wailed Grisell.

"Belike not," said Sister Avice; "but, my sweetheart, there is better
peace and rest and cheer in such a home as this holy house, than in
the toils and labours of the world. When my sisters at Dunbridge and
Dinton come to see me they look old and careworn, and are full of
tales of the turmoil and trouble of husbands, and sons, and dues, and
tenants' fees, and villeins, and I know not what, that I often think
that even in this world's sense I am the best off. And far above and
beyond that," she added, in a low voice, "the virgin hath a hope, a
Spouse beyond all human thought."

Grisell did not understand the thought, and still wept bitterly.
"Must she be a nun all her life?" was all she thought of, and the
shady cloister seemed to her like a sort of prison. Sister Avice had
to soothe and comfort her, till her tears were all spent, as so often
before, and she had cried herself so ill that she had to be taken
back to her bed and lie down again. It was some days before she
could be coaxed out again to encounter any companions.

However, as time went on, health, and with it spirits and life, came
back to Grisell Dacre at Wilton, and she became accustomed to being
with the other inmates of the fine old convent, as they grew too much
used to her appearance to be startled or even to think about it. The
absence of mirrors prevented it from ever being brought before her,
and Sister Avice set herself to teach her how goodness, sweetness,
and kindness could endear any countenance, and indeed Grisell saw for
herself how much more loved was the old and very plain Mother Anne
than the very beautiful young Sister Isabel, who had been forced into
the convent by her tyrannical brother, and wore out her life in
fretting and rudeness to all who came in her way. She declared that
the sight of Grisell made her ill, and insisted that the veiled hood
which all the girls wore should be pulled forward whenever they came
near one another, and that Grisell's place should be out of her sight
in chapel or refectory.

Every one else, however, was very kind to the poor girl, Sister Avice
especially so, and Grisell soon forgot her disfigurement when she
ceased to suffer from it. She had begun to learn reading, writing,
and a little Latin, besides spinning, stitchery, and a few
housewifely arts, in the Countess of Salisbury's household, for every
lady was supposed to be educated in these arts, and great
establishments were schools for the damsels there bred up. It was
the same with convent life, and each nunnery had traditional works of
its own, either in embroidery, cookery, or medicine. Some secrets
there were not imparted beyond the professed nuns, and only to the
more trustworthy of them, so that each sisterhood might have its own
especial glory in confections, whether in portrait-worked vestments,
in illuminations, in sweetmeats, or in salves and unguents; but the
pensioners were instructed in all those common arts of bakery,
needlework, notability, and surgery which made the lady of a castle
or manor so important, and within the last century in the more
fashionable abbeys Latin of a sort, French "of the school of
Stratford le Bowe," and the like, were added. Thus Grisell learnt as
an apt scholar these arts, and took especial delight in helping
Sister Avice to compound her simples, and acquired a tender hand with
which to apply them.

Moreover, she learnt not only to say and sing her Breviary, but to
know the signification in English. There were translations of the
Lord's Prayer and Creed in the hands of all careful and thoughtful
people, even among the poor, if they had a good parish priest, or had
come under the influence of the better sort of friars. In convents
where discipline was kept up the meaning was carefully taught, and
there were English primers in the hands of all the devout, so that
the services could be intelligently followed even by those who did
not learn Latin, as did Grisell. Selections from Scripture history,
generally clothed in rhyme, and versified lives of the Saints, were
read aloud at meal-times in the refectory, and Grisell became so good
a reader that she was often chosen to chant out the sacred story, and
her sweet northern voice was much valued in the singing in the
church. She was quite at home there, and though too young to be
admitted as a novice, she wore a black dress and white hood like
theirs, and the annual gifts to the nunnery from the Countess of
Salisbury were held to entitle her to the residence there as a
pensioner. She had fully accepted the idea of spending her life
there, sheltered from the world, among the kind women whom she loved,
and who had learnt to love her, and in devotion to God, and works of
mercy to the sick.

CHAPTER VI--THE PROCTOR

But if a mannes soul were in his purse,
For in his purse he should yfurnished be.

CHAUCER, Canterbury Pilgrims.

Five years had passed since Grisell had been received at Wilton, when
the Abbess died. She had been infirm and confined to her lodging for
many months, and Grisell had hardly seen her, but her death was to
change the whole tenor of the maiden's life.

The funeral ceremonies took place in full state. The Bishop himself
came to attend them, and likewise all the neighbouring clergy, and
the monks, friars, and nuns, overflowing the chapel, while peasants
and beggars for whom there was no room in the courts encamped outside
the walls, to receive the dole and pray for the soul of the right
reverend Mother Abbess.

For nine days constant services were kept up, and the requiem mass
was daily said, the dirges daily sung, and the alms bestowed on the
crowd, who were by no means specially sorrowful or devout, but
beguiled the time by watching jongleurs and mountebanks performing
beyond the walls.

There was the "Month's Mind" still to come, and then the chapter of
nuns intended to proceed to the election of their new Abbess,
unanimously agreeing that she should be their present Prioress, who
had held kindly rule over them through the slow to-decay of the late
Abbess. Before, however, this could be done a messenger arrived on a
mule bearing an inhibition to the sisters to proceed in the election.

His holiness Pope Calixtus had reserved to himself the next
appointment to this as well as to certain other wealthy abbeys.

The nuns in much distress appealed to the Bishop, but he could do
nothing for them. Such reservations had been constant in the
subservient days that followed King John's homage, and though the
great Edwards had struggled against them, and the yoke had been
shaken off during the Great Schism, no sooner had this been healed
than the former claims were revived, nay, redoubled, and the pious
Henry VI. was not the man to resist them. The sisters therefore
waited in suspense, daring only meekly to recommend their Prioress in
a humble letter, written by the Chaplain, and backed by a
recommendation from Bishop Beauchamp. Both alike were disregarded,
as all had expected.

The new Abbess thus appointed was the Madre Matilda de Borgia, a
relation of Pope Calixtus, very noble, and of Spanish birth, as the
Commissioner assured the nuns; but they had never heard of her
before, and were not at all gratified. They had always elected their
Abbess before, and had quite made up their minds as to the choice of
the present Mother Prioress as Abbess, and of Sister Avice as
Prioress.

However, they had only to submit. To appeal to the King or to their
Bishop would have been quite useless; they could only do as the Pope
commanded, and elect the Mother Matilda, consoling themselves with
the reflection that she was not likely to trouble herself about them,
and their old Prioress would govern them. And so she did so far as
regarded the discipline of the house, but what they had not so
entirely understood was the Mother de Borgia's desire to squeeze all
she could out of the revenues of the house.

Her Proctor arrived, a little pinched man in a black gown and square
cap, and desired to see the Mother Prioress and her steward, and to
overlook the income and expenditure of the convent; to know who had
duly paid her dowry to the nunnery, what were the rents, and the
like. The sisters had already raised a considerable gift in silver
merks to be sent through Lombard merchants to their new Abbess, and
this requisition was a fresh blow.

Presently the Proctor marked out Grisell Dacre, and asked on what
terms she was at the convent. It was explained that she had been
brought thither for her cure by the Lady of Salisbury, and had stayed
on, without fee or payment from her own home in the north, but the
ample donations of the Earl of Salisbury had been held as full
compensation, and it had been contemplated to send to the maiden's
family to obtain permission to enrol her as a sister after her
novitiate--which might soon begin, as she was fifteen years old.

The Proctor, however, was much displeased. The nuns had no right to
receive a pensioner without payment, far less to admit a novice as a
sister without a dowry.

Mistress Grisell must be returned instantly upon the hands either of
her own family or of the Countess of Salisbury, and certainly not
readmitted unless her dowry were paid. He scarcely consented to give
time for communication with the Countess, to consider how to dispose
of the poor child.

The Prioress sent messengers to Amesbury and to Christ Church, but
the Earl and Countess were not there, nor was it clear where they
were likely to be. Whitburn was too far off to send to in the time
allowed by the Proctor, and Grisell had heard nothing from her home
all the time she had been at Wilton. The only thing that the
Prioress could devise, was to request the Chaplain to seek her out at
Salisbury a trustworthy escort, pilgrim, merchant or other, with whom
Grisell might safely travel to London, and if the Earl and Countess
were not there, some responsible person of theirs, or of their son's,
was sure to be found, who would send the maiden on.

The Chaplain mounted his mule and rode over to Salisbury, whence he
returned, bringing with him news of a merchant's wife who was about
to go on pilgrimage to fulfil a vow at Walsingham, and would feel
herself honoured by acting as the convoy of the Lady Grisell Dacre as
far at least as London.

There was no further hope of delay or failure. Poor Grisell must be
cast out on the world--the Proctor even spoke of calling the
Countess, or her steward, to account for her maintenance during these
five years.

There was weeping and wailing in the cloisters at the parting, and
Grisell clung to Sister Avice, mourning for her peaceful, holy life.

"Nay, my child, none can take from thee a holy life."

"If I make a vow of virginity none can hinder me."

"That was not what I meant. No maid has a right to take such a vow
on herself without consent of her father, nor is it binding
otherwise. No! but no one can take away from a Christian maid the
power of holiness. Bear that for ever in mind, sweetheart. Naught
that can be done by man or by devil to the body can hurt the soul
that is fixed on Christ and does not consent to evil."

"The Saints forefend that ever--ever I should consent to evil."

"It is the Blessed Spirit alone who can guard thy will, my child.
Will and soul not consenting nor being led astray thou art safe.
Nay, the lack of a fair-favoured face may be thy guard."

"All will hate me. Alack! alack!"

"Not so. See, thou hast won love amongst us. Wherefore shouldst not
thou in like manner win love among thine own people?"

"My mother hates me already, and my father heeds me not."

"Love them, child! Do them good offices! None can hinder thee from
that."

"Can I love those who love not me?"

"Yea, little one. To serve and tend another brings the heart to
love. Even as thou seest a poor dog love the master who beats him,
so it is with us, only with the higher Christian love. Service and
prayer open the heart to love, hoping for nothing again, and full oft
that which was not hoped for is vouchsafed."

That was the comfort with which Grisell had to start from her home of
peace, conducted by the Chaplain, and even the Prioress, who would
herself give her into the hands of the good Mistress Hall.

Very early they heard mass in the convent, and then rode along the
bank of the river, with the downs sloping down on the other side, and
the grand spire ever seeming as it were taller as they came nearer;
while the sound of the bells grew upon them, for there was then a
second tower beyond to hold the bells, whose reverberation would have
been dangerous to the spire, and most sweet was their chime, the
sound of which had indeed often reached Wilton in favourable winds;
but it sounded like a sad farewell to Grisell.

The Prioress thought she ought to begin her journey by kneeling in
the Cathedral, so they crossed the shaded close and entered by the
west door with the long vista of clustered columns and pointed arches
before them.

Low sounds of mass being said at different altars met their ears, for
it was still early in the day. The Prioress passed the length of
nave, and went beyond the choir to the lady chapel, with its slender
supporting columns and exquisite arches, and there she, with Grisell
by her side, joined in earnest supplications for the child.

The Chaplain touched her as she rose, and made her aware that the
dame arrayed in a scarlet mantle and hood and dark riding-dress was
Mistress Hall.

Silence was not observed in cathedrals or churches, especially in the
naves, except when any sacred rite was going on, and no sooner was
the mass finished and "Ite missa est" pronounced than the scarlet
cloak rose, and hastened into the south transept, where she waited
for the Chaplain, Prioress, and Grisell. No introduction seemed
needed. "The Holy Mother Prioress," she began, bending her knee and
kissing the lady's hand. "Much honoured am I by the charge of this
noble little lady." Grisell by the by was far taller than the plump
little goodwoman Hall, but that was no matter, and the Prioress had
barely space to get in a word of thanks before she went on: "I will
keep her and tend her as the apple of mine eye. She shall pray with
me at all the holy shrines for the good of her soul and mine. She
shall be my bedfellow wherever we halt, and sit next me, and be
cherished as though she were mine own daughter--ladybird as she is--
till I can give her into the hands of the good Lady Countess. Oh
yes--you may trust Joan Hall, dame reverend mother. She is no new
traveller. I have been in my time to all our shrines--to St. Thomas
of Canterbury, to St. Winifred's Well, aye, and, moreover, to St.
James of Compostella, and St. Martha of Provence, not to speak of
lesser chantries and Saints. Aye, and I crossed the sea to see the
holy coat of Treves, and St. Ursula's eleven thousand skulls--and a
gruesome sight they were. Nay, if the Lady Countess be not in London
it would cost me little to go on to the north with her. There's St.
Andrew of Ely, Hugh, great St. Hugh and little St. Hugh, both of them
at Lincoln, and there's St. Wilfred of York, and St. John of Beverly,
not to speak of St. Cuthbert of Durham and of St. Hilda of Whitby,
who might take it ill if I pray at none of their altars, when I have
been to so many of their brethren. Oh, you may trust me, reverend
mother; I'll never have the young lady, bless her sweet face, out of
my sight till I have safe bestowed her with my Lady Countess, our
good customer for all manner of hardware, or else with her own kin."

The good woman's stream of conversation lasted almost without drawing
breath all the way down the nave. It was a most good-humoured hearty
voice, and her plump figure and rosy face beamed with good nature,
while her bright black eyes had a lively glance.

The Chaplain had inquired about her, and found that she was one of
the good women to whom pilgrimage was an annual dissipation,
consecrated and meritorious as they fondly believed, and gratifying
their desire for change and variety. She was a kindly person of good
reputation, trustworthy, and kind to the poor, and stout John Hall,
her husband, could manage the business alone, and was thought not to
regret a little reprieve from her continual tongue.

She wanted the Prioress to do her the honour of breaking her fast
with her, but the good nun was in haste to return, after having once
seen her charge in safe hands, and excused herself, while Grisell,
blessed by the Chaplain, and hiding her tears under her veil, was led
away to the substantial smith's abode, where she was to take a first
meal before starting on her journey on the strong forest pony which
the Chaplain's care had provided for her.

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