The Well in the Desert | Page 8

all."
Not least among the points which astonished her was the resumption of
her title. She did not know that this had formed a part of the bargain
with Sir Richard, who had proved impracticable on harder terms. He
did not mind purchasing the eldest daughter of Arundel at the high
price set upon her; but he gave the Earl distinctly to understand that if
he were merely selling a Mistress Philippa, there must be a
considerable discount.
When the ceremony and the wedding festivities were over, and her
palfrey was standing ready at the door, Philippa timidly entered the
banqueting-hall, to ask--for the first and last time--her father's blessing.
He was conversing with the Earl of Kent, the bridegroom of Alesia,
concerning the merits of certain hawks recently purchased; and near
him, at her embroidery-frame, sat the Countess Alianora.
Philippa knelt first to her.
"Farewell, Philippa!" said the Countess, in a rather kinder tone than
usual. "The saints be with thee."

Then she turned to the only relative she had.
Earl Richard just permitted his jewelled fingers to touch Philippa's
velvet hood, saying carelessly,--"Our Lady keep thee!--I cry you mercy,
fair son; the lesser tercel is far stronger on the wing."
As Philippa rose, Sir Richard Sergeaux took her hand and led her away.
So she mounted her palfrey, and rode away from Arundel Castle. There
were only two things she was sorry to leave--Agnes, because she might
have told her more about her mother,--and the grave, in the Priory
churchyard below, of the baby Lady Alianora--the little sister who
never grew up to tyrannise over her.
It was a long journey ere they reached Kilquyt Manor, and Philippa had
time to make the acquaintance of her new owner. He was about her
own age, and so far as she could at first judge, a reasonably
good-tempered man. The first discovery she made was that he was
rather proud of her. Of Philippa the daughter of Arundel, of course, not
of Philippa the woman: but it was so new to be reckoned anything or
anybody--so strange to think that somebody was proud of her--that
Philippa enjoyed the knowledge. As to his loving her, or her loving him,
these were ideas that never entered the minds of either.
So at first Philippa found her married life a pleasant change. She was
now at the head, instead of being under the feet of every one else; and
her experience of Sir Richard gave her the impression at the outset that
he would not prove a hard master. Nor did he, strictly speaking; but on
further acquaintance he proved a very trying one. His temper was not of
the stormy kind that reigned at Arundel, which had hitherto been
Philippa's only idea of a bad temper: but he was a perpetual grumbler,
and the slightest temporary discomfort or vexation would overcast her
sky with conjugal clouds for the rest of the day. The least stone in his
path was treated as a gigantic mountain; the narrowest brooklet as an
unfathomable sea. And gradually--she scarcely knew how or when--the
old weary discomfort crept back over Philippa's heart, the old
unsatisfied longing for the love that no one gave. Her bower at Kilquyt
was no more strewn with roses than her turret-chamber at Arundel. She
found that "On change du ciel--l'on ne change point de soi." The

damask robes and caparisoned palfreys, which her husband did not
grudge to her as her father had done, proved utterly unsatisfying to the
misunderstood cravings of her immortal soul. She did not herself
comprehend why she was not happier. She knew not the nature of the
thirst which was upon her, which she was trying in vain to quench at
the broken cisterns within her reach. Drinking of this water, she thirsted
again; and she had not yet found the way to the Well of the Living
Water.
About seven years after her marriage, Philippa stood one day at the gate
of her manor. It was a beautiful June morning--just such another as that
one which "had failed her hope" at the gate of Arundel Castle, thirty
years before. Sir Richard had ridden away on his road to London,
whence he was summoned to join his feudal lord, the Earl, and Lady
Sergeaux stood looking after him in her old dreamy fashion, though
half-an-hour had almost passed since she had caught sight of the last
waving of his nodding plume through the trees. He had left her a legacy
of discomfort, for his spurs had been regilded, not at all to his mind,
and he had been growling over them ever since the occurrence, "Dame,
have you a draught of cold water to bestow on a weary brother?"
Philippa started suddenly when the question reached her ear.
He who