“Even so, my daughter.” (See Note 1.)
Philippa’s countenance fell. It seemed very hard to part again when they had but just found each other. If this were religion, it must be difficult work to be religious. Yet she was more disappointed than surprised, especially when the first momentary annoyance was past.
“My child,” said Isabel softly, seeing her disappointment, “if I err in thus speaking, I pray God to pardon me. I can but follow what I see right; and ‘to him that esteemeth anything to be unclean, to him it is unclean.’ How can I forsake the hearts that look to me for help throughout this valley? And if thou have need of me, thou canst always come, or send for me.”
This gentle, apologetic explanation touched Philippa the more, because she felt that in the like case, she could not herself have condescended to make it.
The next thing to be done was to write to Sir Richard. This Philippa was unable to do personally, since the art of handling the pen had formed no part of her education. Her mother did it for her; for Isabel had been solidly and elaborately instructed by Giles de Edingdon, under the superintendence of the King’s Confessor, Luke de Wodeford, also a Predicant Friar. The letter had to be directed very much at random,—to “Sir Richard Sergeaux, of the Duke of Lancaster’s following, at Bordeaux, or wherever he may be found.” Fortunately for Philippa, the Prior of the neighbouring monastery was just despatching his cellarer to London on conventual business: and he undertook to convey her letter to the Savoy Palace, whence it would be forwarded with the next despatches sent to John of Gaunt. Philippa, in whose name the letter was written, requested her husband to reply to her at Shaftesbury, whither she and Isabel meant to proceed at once.
The spring was in its full beauty when they reached Shaftesbury. Philippa had not found an opportunity to let the Abbess know of her coming, but she was very cordially welcomed by that good-natured dame. The recreation-bell sounded while they were conversing, and at Philippa’s desire the Abbess sent for Mother Joan to the guest-chamber. Sister Senicula led her in.
“How is it with you, Aunt?” said Philippa affectionately. “I have returned hither, as you may hear.”
“Ah! Is it thou, child?” said the blind nun in answer. “I fare reasonably well, as a blind woman may. I am glad thou hast come hither again.”
It evidently cost Isabel much to make herself known to the sister from whom she had parted in such painful circumstances, thirty-seven years before. For a few moments longer, she did not speak, and Philippa waited for her. At last Isabel said in a choked voice—“Sister Joan!”
“Holy Virgin!” exclaimed the blind woman; “who called me that?”