It was the old perplexity—as old as Asaph; but he understood it when he went into the sanctuary of God, and Mother Joan had never followed him there.
“Lady de Sergeaux,” resumed the blind nun, “there is at times a tone in your voice, which mindeth me strangely of hers—hers, of whom I spake but now. If I offend not in asking it, I pray you tell me who were your elders?”
Philippa gave her such information as she had to give. “I am a daughter of my Lord of Arundel.”
“Which Lord?” exclaimed Mother Joan, in a voice as of deep interest suddenly awakened.
“They call him,” answered Philippa, “Earl Richard the Copped-Hat.” (See Note 4.)
“Ah!” answered Mother Joan, in that deep bass tone which sounds almost like an execration. “That was the man. Like Dives, clad in purple and fine linen, and faring sumptuously every day; and his portion shall be with Dives at the last. Your pardon, Dame; I forgat for the nonce that I spake to his daughter. Yet I said but truth.”
“That may be,” responded Philippa under her breath.
“Then you have not found him a saint?” replied the blind nun, with a bitter little laugh. “Well, I might have guessed that. And you, then, are a daughter of that proud jade Alianora of Lancaster, for whose indwelling the fiend swept the Castle of Arundel clean of God’s angels? I do not think she made up for it.”
Philippa’s own interest was painfully aroused now. Surely Mother Joan knows something of that mysterious history which hitherto she had failed so sadly to discover.
“I cry you mercy, Mother,” she said. “But I am not the daughter of the Lady Alianora.”