Thereof Kenric—as he rode along with his harness on his back, and his weapons in his hand, a freeman among freemen, a feudal retainer among the retainers, some Norman, some Saxon, of his noble lord—was neither louder, nor noisier, nor more exultant, perhaps the reverse, than his wont, though happier far than he had conceived it possible for him to be.
And by his bearing, his comrades and fellows judged him, and ruled their own bearing toward him. The Saxons of the company naturally rejoiced to see their countryman free by his own merit, and, seeing him in all things their equal, gladly admitted him to be so. The haughtier Normans, seeing that he bore his bettered fortunes as became a man, ready for either fortune, admitted him as one who had won his freedom bravely, and wore it as if it had been his from his birth—they muttered beneath their thick mustaches, that he deserved to be a Norman.
Edith, on the contrary, young yet, and unusually handsome, who had been the pet of her own people, and the favorite of her princely masters, who had never undergone any severe labor, nor suffered any poignant sorrow, who knew nothing of the physical hardships of slavery, more than she did of the real and tangible blessings of liberty, had ever been as happy and playful as a kitten, and as tuneful as a bird among the branches.
But now her voice was silent of spontaneous song, subdued in conversation, full fraught with a suppressed deeper feeling. The very beauty of the fair face was changed, soberer, more hopeful, farther seeing, full no longer of an earthly, but more with something of an angel light.
The spirit had spoken within her, the statue had learned that it had a soul.
And Guendolen had noted, yet not fully understood the change or its nature. More than once she had called her to her bridle-rein and conversed with her, and tried to draw her out, in vain. At last, she put the question frankly—
"You are quieter, Edith, calmer, sadder, it seems to me," she said, "than I have ever seen you, since I first came to Waltheofstow. I have done all that lies in me to make you happy, and I should be sorry that you were sad or discontented."
"Sad, discontented! Oh! no, lady, no!" she replied, smiling among her tears. "Only too happy—too happy, to be loud or joyous. All happiest things, I think, have a touch of melancholy in them. Do you think, lady, yonder little stream," pointing to one which wound along by the roadside, now dancing over shelvy rapids, now sleeping in silent eddies, "is less happy where it lies calm and quiet, reflecting heaven's face from its deep bosom, and smiling with its hundred tranquil dimples, than where it frolics and sings among the pebbles, or leaps over the rocks which toss it into noisy foam-wreaths? No! lady, no. There it gathers its merriment and its motion, from the mere force of outward causes; here it collects itself from the depth of its own heart, and manifests its joy and love, and thanks God in silence. It is so with me, Lady Guendolen. My heart is too full for music, but not too shallow to reflect boundless love and gratitude forever."
The lady smiled, and made some slight reply, but she was satisfied; for it was evident that the girl's poetry and gratitude both came direct from her heart; and in the smile of the noble demoiselle there was a touch of half-satiric triumph, as she turned her quick glance to Sir Yvo, who had heard all that passed, and asked him, slyly, "And do you, indeed, think, gentle father, that these Saxons are so hopelessly inferior, that they are fitting for nothing but mere toil; or is this the mere inspiration that springs from the sense of freedom?"
"I think, indeed," he replied, "that my little Guendolen is but a spoiled child at the best; and, as to my thoughts in regard to the Saxons, them I shall best consult my peace of mind and pocket by keeping my own property; since, by our Lady's Grace! you may take it into your head to have all the serfs in the north emancipated; and that is a little beyond my powers of purchase. But see, Guendolen, see how the sunbeams glint and glitter yonder on the old tower of Barden, and how redly it stands out from those purple clouds which loom so dark and thunderous over the peaceful woods of Bolton. Give your jennet her head, girl, and let her canter over these fair meadows, that we may reach the abbey and taste the noble prior's hospitality before the thunder gust is upon us."