“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.