“If they had died in battle as brave men should, we might have borne it bravely,” she said, at last; “but to be slain by the cold, cruel, treacherous waters in the height of joy and hope, almost within hail of home, it is too terrible, too terrible, prior; I cannot be resigned. And for my crushed roses—orphaned, widowed, ere they became wives—it is too much; I cannot survive it.”
And before that month was out the twin-sisters were left to weep out their tears in each other’s arms, and bear the fresh blow as best they might, with only the good prior to watch and guard them in their orphanhood, and lead them to bow meekly to the inscrutable decrees of heaven.
There was William Harpur willing to do the co-heiresses suit and service, and leave his own estate, a mile or so away, to the care of his reeve, whilst he administered affairs at the hall, but neither the prior nor the sisters cared for his interference, and when the old retainers, with the seneschal at their head, came in a body at the prior’s summons to swear fealty to the ladies Bellamont, and Idonea accepted their homage for herself and her sweet sister, as one born to command, he turned away to bite his nails in displeasure, and quitted the hall before the sun went down.
But though Idonea could order the household, and the seneschal could keep the retainers in order, and the reeve overlook the villeins and lands, nothing seemed to rouse the drooping Avice, or remove the more rebellious sorrow that mutely burned on the cheeks and in the eyes of Idonea.
“My daughters,” said the prior, on the eve of his departure, “duty calls me away to my own flock. The bridge I built over the Dove three years agone, after the great hurricane, has, Friar Paul brings word, been shaken sorely. I must needs see to its repair. The safety of many lives depends on its stability. Yet I would fain see you more submissive to the divine will ere I depart. Think how many sufferers there have been by the same calamity—how many a hearth has been laid bare, how many cry aloud for sustenance the flood has swept away. Abandon not your hours to selfish lamentations, but go abroad, see how the poor hinds bear their sorrows, and endeavour, by good and charitable deeds, to win the favour of your offended Lord. Look on the crosses that ye wear, and think of His wounds and His tears, and remember that His blood and His tears were shed for others, not for self.”
Idonea’s eyes were fixed on him when he began; they drooped as low as those of Avice ere he ended.
“Father,” said she, “your rebuke is just. We have thought the world was our own—in joy and in sorrow. It shall not be so henceforth. We ask your blessing ere you go.”
The benediction was spoken, and on the morrow he was gone.
They, too, went forth in their mourning-weeds, and saw what sorrow meant for the very poor and for the class above them. Tottering huts, bare fields, where the only crop was dull red mud; mothers in rags weeping over naked and famishing babes; churls looking hopeless on desolation, or seeking wearily to repair a fence or clear a garden. And wherever they went they left hope behind, as well as coin, or food, or raiment from the hall. But some took their gifts and sympathy with sullen thanklessness. They were little better than serfs, and were more inclined to resent the ability to bestow than feel grateful to the willing bestowers.
Seneschal and reeve said they would spoil the peasantry with their frequent alms; and even the prior when he came suggested moderation in doles, which destroyed honest independence and fostered beggary.