Grisell might have begun crying again at finding herself alone, but the sweet chanting lulled her, and she lay back on her pillows, half dozing but quite content, except that the wound on her neck felt stiff and dry; and by and by when the chanting ceased, the kind nun, with a lay sister, came back again carrying water and other appliances, at sight of which Grisell shuddered, for Master Miles never touched her without putting her to pain.
"Benedicite, my little maid, thou art awake," said Sister Avice. "I thought thou wouldst sleep till the vespers were ended. Now let us dress these sad wounds of thine, and thou shalt sleep again."
Grisell submitted, as she knew she must, but to her surprise Sister Avice's touch was as soft and soothing as were her words, and the ointment she applied was fragrant and delicious and did not burn or hurt her.
She looked up gratefully, and murmured her thanks, and then the evening meal was brought in, and she sat up to partake of it on the seat of the window looking out on the Cathedral spire. It was a milk posset far more nicely flavoured than what she had been used to at Amesbury, where, in spite of the Countess's kindness, the master cook had grown tired of any special service for the Dacre wench; and unless Margaret of York secured fruit for her, she was apt to be regaled with only the scraps that Maudlin managed to cater for her after the meals were over.
After that, Sister Avice gently undressed her, took care that she said her prayers, and sat by her till she fell asleep, herself telling her that she should sleep beside her, and that she would hear the voices of the sisters singing in the chapel their matins and lauds. Grisell did hear them, as in a dream, but she had not slept so well since her disaster as she slept on that night.
CHAPTER V-SISTER AVICE
Love, to her ear, was but a name
Combined with vanity and shame;
Her hopes, her fears, her joys, were all
Bounded within the cloister wall.
SCOTT, Marmion.
Sister Avice sat in the infirmary, diligently picking the leaves off a large mass of wood-sorrel which had been brought to her by the children around, to make therewith a conserve.
Grisell lay on her couch. She had been dressed, and had knelt at the window, where the curtain was drawn back while mass was said by the Chaplain, the nuns kneeling in their order and making their responses. It was a low-browed chapel of Norman or even older days, with circular arches and heavy round piers, and so dark that the gleam of the candles was needed to light it.
Grisell watched, till tired with kneeling she went back to her couch, slept a little, and then wondered to see Sister Avice still compounding her simples.
She moved wearily, and sighed for Madge to come in and tell her all the news of Amesbury-who was riding at the ring, or who had shot the best bolt, or who had had her work picked out as not neat or well shaded enough.
Sister Avice came and shook up her pillow, and gave her a dried plum and a little milk, and began to talk to her.
"You will soon be better," she said, "and then you will be able to play in the garden."
"Is there any playfellow for me?" asked Grisell.
"There is a little maid from Bemerton, who comes daily to learn her hornbook and her sampler. Mayhap she will stay and play with you."
"I had Madge at Amesbury; I shall love no one as well as Madge! See what she gave me."
Grisell displayed her pouncet box, which was duly admired, and then she asked wearily whether she should always have to stay in the convent.
"Oh no, not of need," said the sister. "Many a maiden who has been here for a time has gone out into the world, but some love this home the best, as I have done."
"Did yonder nun on the wall?" asked Grisell.
"Yea, truly. She was bred here, and never left it, though she was a King's daughter. Edith was her name, and two days after Holy Cross day we shall keep her feast. Shall I tell you her story?"
"Prithee, prithee!" exclaimed Grisell. "I love a tale dearly."
Sister Avice told the legend, how St. Edith grew in love and tenderness at Wilton, and how she loved the gliding river and the flowers in the garden, and how all loved her, her young playmates especially. She promised one who went away to be wedded that she would be godmother to her first little daughter, but ere the daughter was born the saintly Edith had died. The babe was carried to be christened in the font at Winchester Cathedral, and by a great and holy man, no other than Alphegius, who was then Bishop of Winchester, but was made Archbishop of Canterbury, and died a holy martyr.
"Then," said Sister Avice, "there was a great marvel, for among the sponsors around the square black font there stood another figure in the dress of our Mother Abbess, and as the Bishop spake and said, "Bear this taper, in token that thy lamp shall be alight when the Bridegroom cometh," the form held the torch, shining bright, clear, and like no candle or light on earth ever shone, and the face was the face of the holy Edith. It is even said that she held the babe, but that I know not, being a spirit without a body, but she spake the name, her own name Edith. And when the holy rite was over, she had vanished away."
"And that is she, with the lamp in her hand? Oh, I should have been afraid!" cried Grisell.
"Not of the holy soul?" said the sister.
"Oh! I hope she will never come in here, by the little window into the church," cried Grisell trembling.
Indeed, for some time, in spite of all Sister Avice could say, Grisell could not at night be free from the fear of a visit from St. Edith, who, as she was told, slept her long sleep in the church below. It may be feared that one chief reliance was on the fact that she could not be holy enough for a vision of the Saint, but this was not so valuable to her as the touch of Sister Avice's kind hand, or the very knowing her present.
That story was the prelude to many more. Grisell wanted to hear it over again, and then who was the Archbishop martyr, and who were the Virgins in memory of whom the lamps were carried. Both these, and many another history, parable, or legend were told her by Sister Avice, training her soul, throughout the long recovery, which was still very slow, but was becoming more confirmed every day. Grisell could use her eye, turn her head, and the wounds closed healthily under the sister's treatment without showing symptoms of breaking out afresh; and she grew in strength likewise, first taking a walk in the trim garden and orchard, and by and by being pronounced able to join the other girl scholars of the convent. Only here was the first demur. Her looks did not recover with her health. She remained with a much-seamed neck, and a terrible scar across each cheek, on one side purple, and her eyebrows were entirely gone.
She seemed to have forgotten the matter while she was entirely in the infirmary, with no companion but Sister Avice, and occasionally a lay sister, who came to help; but the first time she went down the turret stair into the cloister-a beautiful succession of arches round a green court-she met a novice and a girl about her own age; the elder gave a little scream at the sight and ran away.
The other hung back. "Mary, come hither," said Sister Avice. "This is Grisell Dacre, who hath suffered so much. Wilt thou not come and kiss and welcome her?"
Mary came forward rather reluctantly, but Grisell drew up her head within, "Oh, if you had liefer not!" and turned her back on the girl.
Sister Avice followed as Grisell walked away as fast as her weakness allowed, and found her sitting breathless at the third step on the stairs.