“No sister of mine!” she said in the same tone. “I cannot be burdened with nameless childre.”
For an instant Maude’s indignation rose above both her discretion and her sorrow. She cried—“Girl, God pardon you those cruel words!”—but then with a strong effort she bridled her tongue, and sitting down by the bed, drew the sobbing child’s head upon her bosom.
“My poor homeless darling! doth none want thee, my dove?—not even thine own mother’s daughter?—Bertram, good husband, thou wilt not let (hinder) me?—Sweet, come then with us, and be our daughter—to whom beside thee God hath given none. Meseemeth as though He now saith, ‘Take this child and nurse it for Me.’ Lord, so be it!”
At the end of those four years, men’s revenge was satiated, and permission was given for the funeral of the unburied coffin. But they laid her, as they had laid her son, far from the scene of her home, and from the graves of her beloved. The long unused royal vault in the Benedictine Abbey of Reading, in which the latest burial had taken place nearly two hundred years before, was opened to receive its last tenant. There she sleeps calmly, waiting for the resurrection morning.
Three historical tableaux will complete the story.
First, a quiet little village home, where a knight and his wife are calmly passing the later half of life. The knight was rendered useless for battle some years ago by a severe wound, resulting in permanent lameness. In the chimney-corner, distaff in hand, sits the dame,—a small, slight woman, with gentle dark eyes, and a meek, loving expression, which will make her face lovely to the close of life. Opposite to her, occupied with another distaff, is a tall, fair, queenly girl, who can surely be no daughter of the dame. By the knight’s chair, in hunting costume, stands a young man with a very open, pleasant countenance, who is evidently pleading for some favour which the knight and dame are a little reluctant to grant.
“Sir Bertram, not one word would she hear me, but bade me betake me directly unto yourself. So here behold me to beseech your gentleness in favour of my suit.”
“Lord de Audley,” said the knight, quietly, “this is not the first time by many that I have heard of your name, neither of your goodness. You seek to wed my daughter. But I would have you well aware that she hath no portion: and what, I pray you, shall all your friends and lovers say unto your wedding of a poor knight’s portionless daughter?”
“Say! Let them say as they list!” cried the young man. “For portion, I do account Mistress Nell portion and lineage in herself. And they be sorry friends of mine that desire not my best welfare. Her do I love, and only her will I wed.”