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.”