*CHAPTER VI.*
_*THE PERVERSITY OF PEOPLE*_*.*
"'Do one good'! Is it good, if I don't want it done? Now do let me grumble and groan: It is all very well other folks should have fun; But why can't they let me alone?"
Damoiselle Melisende and I have been busy all morning in laying outdried herbs under the superintendence of Lady Judith. The herbs of thisland are not like those of Poitou. There was cassia,--of which onevariety,[#] Lady Judith says, is taken as medicine, to clear the systemand purify the blood,--and garlic, which they consider an antidote topoison,--and the wild gourd,[#] which is medicine for the liver,--andhyssop, spikenard, wormwood (a cure for vertigo), and many others. Twocurious fruits they have here which I never heard of in Poitou; the oneis a dark, fleshy stone-fruit, very nice indeed, which they call plumsor damascenes;[#] they grow chiefly at Damascus. The other grows ontrees around the Dead Sea, and is the apple of Sodom, very lovely to theeye, but as soon as you bite it, you find nothing but a mouthful ofashes. I was so amused with this fruit that I brought some home andshowed them to Marguerite.
[#] Senna.
[#] Colocynth.
[#] Introduced into Europe by the Crusaders.
"Ah, the world is full of those!" she said, when she had tried one, andfound out what sort of thing it was.
"Thou art quite mistaken, Margot," said I. "They are found but in thiscountry, and only in one particular spot."
"Those that can be seen, very likely," said she. "But the unseen fruit,my Damoiselle, grows all over the world, and men and women are runningafter it all their lives."
Then I saw what she meant.
They have no apples here at all; but citrons and quinces, which are notunlike apples. The golden citron[#] is a beautiful fruit, juicy andpleasant; and Lady Judith says some people reckon it to be the goldenapples of the Hesperides, which were guarded by dragons, and likewisethe "apples of gold," of which Monseigneur King Solomon speaks in HolyWrit. There are almonds, and dates, and cucumbers, and large, lusciousfigs, and grapes, and melons, and mulberries, and several kinds of nuts,and olives, and pomegranates. Quinces are here thought to make childrenclever. They make no hay in this country.
[#] Oranges.
As for their stuffs, there are new and beautiful ones. Here they weavebyssus,[#] and a very fine transparent stuff called muslin. Crape comesfrom Cyprus, and damask from Damascus, whence it is named. But thefairest of all their stuffs is the baudekyn, of which we have none inEurope,--especially the golden baudekyn, which is like golden samite. Ihave bought two lovely pieces for Alix, the one gold-colour, the otherblue.
[#] Cotton.
Some very curious customs they have here, which are not common inEurope. Instead of carrying lanterns when one walks or rides at night,they hang out lanterns in the streets, so that all are lighted at once.It seems to me rather a good idea.
Guy has been telling us some strange things about the Saracens. Ofcourse I knew before that they worship idols,[#] and deal in the blackart; but it seems that Saladin, when he marches, makes known hisapproach by a dreadful machine produced by means of magic, which roarslouder than a lion,[#] and strikes terror into every Christian ear thatis so unhappy as to be within hearing. This is, of course, by themachinations of the Devil, since it is impossible that any true Catholiccould be frightened of a Saracen otherwise.
[#] All mediaeval Christians thought this.
[#] The first drum on record.
We are all very busy preparing for the weddings. There are to be three,on three successive days. On the Saturday, Amaury is to be married toDamoiselle Eschine. (Poor thing!--how I pity her! I would not marryAmaury to be Empress.) On the Sunday, Guy weds with Lady Sybil. And onMonday, Lady Isabel with Messire Homfroy de Tours.
I think Lady Sybil grows sweeter and sweeter. I love her,--Oh, so much!She asked me if Guy had told me the news. I said he had.
"And dost thou like it, Lynette?" she asked shyly.
"Very much indeed," said I,--"if you love him, Lady."
"Love him!" she said. And she covered her face with her hands. "OLynette, if thou knewest how well! He is my first love. I was weddedto my Lord of Montferrat when both of us were little children; we neverchose each other. I hope I did my best to make him a good and dutifulwife; I know I tried to do so. But I never knew what love meant, asconcerned him. Never, till _he_ came hither."
Well, I am sure Guy loves her. But--shall I own to having been theleast bit disappointed with what he said the other day about women?
I should not have cared if Amaury had said it. I know he despiseswomen--I have noticed that brainless men always do--and I should nothave expected any thing better. But I did not look for it from Guy.Several times in my life, dearly as I love him, Guy has ratherdisappointed me.
Why do people disappoint one in that way? Is it that one sets up toohigh a standard, and they fall short of it? I think I will ask LadyJudith what she thinks. She has lived long enough to know.
I found an opportunity for a chat with Lady Judith the very next day.We were busy broidering Lady Sybil's wedding-dress, the super-tunic ofwhich is to be white baudekyn, diapered in gold, and broidered with deepred roses. She wears white, on account of being a widow. Lady Isabelwill be in gold-coloured baudekyn, and my new sister Eschine in rosedamask.
I have said nothing about Eschine, though she is here. It was because Ihad not any thing to say. Her eyes, hair, and complexion are of nocolour in particular; she is not beautiful--nor ugly: she is notagreeable--nor disagreeable. She talks very little. I feel absolutelyindifferent to her. I should think she would just do for Amaury.
Well!--we were broidering the tunic, Lady Judith doing the gold, and Ithe red; and Damoiselle Melisende had been with us, working the greenleaves, but the Lady Queen sent for her, and she went away. So LadyJudith and I were left alone.
"Holy Mother," said I, "give me leave to ask you a question."
"Surely, my child," said she; "any one thou wilt."
"Then, holy Mother,--do people ever disappoint you? I mean, when youfancy you know a man, does he never surprise you by some action whichyou think unworthy of him, and which you would not have expected fromhim?"
Lady Judith's first answer was an amused smile.
"Who has been disappointing thee, Helena?"
"Oh, nobody in particular," said I hastily; for how could I accuse Guy?_Loyaute d'amour_ forbid! "But I mean in general."
"Generals are made of particulars, Helena. But I have not answered thyquestion. Yes, certainly I have known such a feeling."
"And, if it please you, holy Mother, what is the reason of it?" said I."Does one set up one's standard of right, truth, and beauty, too high?"
"That is not possible, my child. I should rather think thou hast set upthe man too high."
"Oh!" said I deprecatingly.
"Hast thou ever heard a saying, Helena, that 'a man sees only that whichhe brings eyes to see'? There is much truth in it. No man canunderstand a character which is higher or broader than his own. Admireit he may; enter into it, he cannot. Human character is a verycomplicated thing."
"Then one may be too low to see a man's character?"
"True; and one may be too high. A single eye will never understand adouble one.--Or they may be too far asunder. A miser and a spendthriftare both in the wrong, but neither of them can feel with the other."
"But where the temperaments are alike--?" said I; for I always think Guyand I were cast in the same mould.
"They never are quite alike," she replied. "As in a shield borne by twobrothers, there is always a difference."
"Pray you, holy Mother, do you think my brother Guy and me alike?"
"Alike, yet very different," she said, and smiled. "Cast from onemould,--yet he on the one side of it, and thou on the other."
"What do you think is the difference, holy Mother? May I know?"
"Wouldst thou
like to know, Helena?" she said, and smiled again.
"Oh, I think I can bear to hear my faults," said I. "My pride is not ofthat sort."
"No," she said; "but thou art very proud, little one."
"Certainly," said I; "I am noble."
Lady Judith looked suddenly up at me, with a kind of tender look in hergrey eyes, which are so like, and yet so unlike, Lady Sybil's eyes.
"Little maid, tell me one thing; is thine heart at rest?"
"I have never been at rest, holy Mother. I do not know how to get it."
"No, dear heart; thy shoulder is not under the yoke. Listen to thewords of the Master--thy Lord and mine. 'Take My yoke upon you, andlearn of Me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find restunto your souls.' Little maiden, wilt thou not come and learn of Him?He is the only one in Heaven or earth who will never disappoint thee."
Rather bitter tears were filling my eyes.
"I don't know how!" I said.
"No, dear heart; He knows _how_," said Lady Judith. "Only tell Him thouart willing to learn of Him--if thou art willing, Helena."
"I have had some thoughts of going into the cloister," said I. "But--Icould not leave Guy."
"Dear child, canst thou not learn the lessons of God, without going intothe cloister?"
"I thought not," said I. "One cannot serve the good God, and remain inthe world,--can one?"
"Ah, what is the world?" said Lady Judith. "Walls will not shut it out.Its root is in thine own heart, little one."
"But--your pardon, holy Mother!--you yourself have chosen the cloister."
"Nay, my child. I do not say I might not have done so. But, in fact,it was chosen for me. This veil has been upon my head, Helena, since Iwas five years old."
"Yet you would not deny, holy Mother, that a nun is better than awife?"[#]
[#] I trust that I shall not be misunderstood, or supposed to expressany approbation of conventual life. At the date of this story, anunmarried woman who was not a nun was a phenomenon never seen, and nowoman who preferred single life had any choice but to be a nun. In theseearly times, also, nuns had more liberty, and monasticism, as well asreligion in general, was free from some corruptions introduced in lateryears. The original nunneries were simply houses where single womencould live together in comfort and safety, and were always seminaries oflearning and charitable institutions. Most of them were very differentplaces at the date of the dissolution.
"Better? I am not so sure. Happier,--yes, I think so."
"Most people would say just the opposite, would they not?" said I,laughing.
"Most men, and some women," she answered, with a smile. "ButMonseigneur Saint Paul thought a woman happier who abode withoutmarriage."
"That is what I should like best: but how can I, without being a nun?Perhaps, if I were an eremitess, like your Nobility, I might still getleave from my superiors to live with Guy."
"It is always Guy with thee," remarked Lady Judith, smiling. "Does Guynever disappoint thee, my child?"
It was on my lips to say, "Oh no!"--but I felt my cheeks grow hot, and Idid not quite like to tell a downright lie. I am sure Lady Judith sawit, but she kindly took no notice. However, at this point, DamoiselleMelisende came back to her leaves, and we began to talk of somethingelse.
I asked Marguerite, at night, if people disappointed her.
"Did my Damoiselle expect never to be disappointed?" she answered,turning the question on myself at once. (Old people do. They seem tothink one always means one's self, however careful one may be.) "Then Iam afraid she will be disappointed."
"But why?" said I. "Why don't people do right, as one expects them todo?"
"Does one always know what is right? As to why,--there are the world,the flesh, and the Devil, against it; and if it were not for the graceof the good God, any one of them would be more than enough."
The world, the flesh, and the Devil! The world,--that is other people;and they do provoke one, and make one do wrong, terribly, sometimes.But the flesh,--why, that is me. I don't prevent myself doing right.Marguerite must be mistaken.
Then, what is grace? One hears a great deal about it; but I neverproperly understood what it was. It certainly is no gift that one cansee and handle. I suppose it must be something which the good God putsinto our minds; but what is it? I will ask Lady Judith and Marguerite.Being old, they seem to know things; and Marguerite has a great deal ofsense for a villein. Then, having been my nurse, and always dwelt withnobles, she is not quite like a common villein; though of course theblood must remain the same.
I wonder what it is about Lady Isabel which I do not like. I have beenpuzzling over it, and I am no nearer. It feels to me as if there weresomething slippery about her. She is very gracious and affable, but Ishould never think of calling her sweet--at least, not sweet like hersister. She seems just the opposite of Lady Judith, who never stops tothink whether it is her place to do any thing, but just does it becauseit wants doing. Lady Isabel, on the contrary, seems to me to do onlywhat _she_ wants doing. In some inexplicable manner, she slides out ofevery thing which she does not fancy; and yet she so manages it that onenever sees she is doing it at the time. I never can fathom people ofthat sort. But I do not like them.
As for darling Lady Sybil, I love her better and better every day. I donot wonder at Guy.
Of Guy himself I see very little. He is Regent of the kingdom, and toobusy to attend to any thing.
"Marguerite," I said, "what is grace?"
"Does my Damoiselle mean the grace of the good God?"
I nodded.
"I think it is help," she answered.
"But what sort of help?"
"The sort we need at the minute."
"But I do not quite understand," said I. "We get grace when we receivethe good Lord; but we do not get help. Help for what?"
"If my Damoiselle does not feel that she needs help, perhaps that is thereason why she does not get it."
"Ah, but we do get it in the holy mass. Can we receive our Lord, andnot receive grace?"
"Do we always, and all, receive our Lord?"
"Margot! Is not that heresy?"
"Ha! I do not know. If it be truth, it can hardly be."
"But does not holy Church teach, that whenever we eat the holy bread,the presence of our Lord comes down into our hearts?"[#]
[#] Holy Church had gone no further than this in 1183. Baretransubstantiation was not adopted by authority till about thirty yearslater.
"I suppose He will come, if we want Him," said Marguerite thoughtfully."But scarcely, I should think, if we ate that bread with our hearts seton something else, and not caring whether He came or not."
I was rather afraid to pursue the question with Margot, for I keepfeeling afraid, every now and then, when she says things of that sort,whether she has not received some strange, heretical notion from thatman in sackcloth, who preached at the Cross, at Lusignan. I cannot helpfancying that he must be one of those heretics who lately crept intoEngland, and King Henry the father had them whipped and turned out ofdoors, forbidding any man to receive them or give them aid. It was avery bitter winter, and they soon perished of hunger and cold, as Isuppose such caitiffs ought. Yet some of them were women; and I couldnot but feel pity for the poor innocent babes that one or two had intheir arms. And the people who saw them said they never spoke a bitterword, but as soon as they understood their penalty, and the punishmentthat would follow harbouring them, they begged no more, but wandered upand down the snowy streets in company, singing--only fancy, singing!And first one and then another dropped and died, and the rest heapedsnow over them with their hands, which was the only burial they couldgive; and then they went on, singing,--always singing. I askedDamoiselle Elisinde de Ferrers,--it was she who told me,--what theysang. She said they sang always the holy Psalter, or else the NativitySong of the angels,--"Glory to God in the highest,--on earth peacetowards men of good-will."[#] And at last they were all dead under thesnow bu
t one,--one poor old man, who survived last. And he went onalone, singing. He tottered out of the town,--I think it was Lincoln,but I am not sure,--and as far as men's ears could follow, they caughthis thin, quavering voice, still singing,--"Glory to God in thehighest!" And the next morning, they found him laid in a ditch, notsinging,--dead. But on his face was such a smile as a saint might haveworn at his martyrdom, and his eyes gazing straight up into heaven, asif the angels themselves had come down to help him to finish hissong.[#]
[#] Vulgate version.
[#] This is the first persecution on record in England of professingChristians, by professing Christians.
Oh, I cannot understand! If this is heresy and wickedness, wherein liesthe difference from truth and holiness?
I must ask Lady Judith.
Oh dear, why _will_ people?--I do think it is too bad. I never thoughtof such a thing. If it had been Amaury, now,--But that Guy, of allpeople in all this world--
Come, I had better tell my story straight.
I was coming down the long gallery after dinner, to the bower of theLady Queen, where I meant to go on with my embroidery, and I thought Imight perhaps get a quiet talk with Lady Judith. All at once I feltmyself pulled back by one of my sleeves, and I guessed directly who hadcaught me.
"Why, Guyon! I have not seen thee for an age!"
"And I want to see thee for a small age," answered he, laughing. "Howmany weddings are there to be next week, Lynette?"
"Why, three," said I. "Thou wist as well as I."
"What wouldst thou say to four?"
"Wish them good fortune, so I am not the bride."
"Ah, but suppose thou wert?"
"Cry my eyes out, I think."
Hitherto Guy had spoken as if he were jesting. Now he changed his tone.
"Seriously, Elaine, I am thinking of it. Thou knowest thou camesthither for that object."
"_I_ came hither for that!" cried I in hot indignation.
"Thou wert sent hither, then," answered Guy, half laughing at my tone."Do not be so hot, little one. Monseigneur expects it, I can assurethee."
"Art thou going to wed me against my will? O Guy! I never thought itof thee!" exclaimed I pitifully.
For that was the bitterest drop--that Guy should be willing to part withme.
"No, no, my darling Lynette!" said Guy, taking my hands in his. "Thoushalt not be wed against thy will, I do assure thee. If thou dost notlike the knight I had chosen, I will never force him upon thee. But itwould be an excellent match,--and of course I should be glad to see theecomfortably settled. Thou mightest guess that."
Might I! That is just what I never should have guessed. Do men everunderstand women?
"'Settled,' Guy!" I said. "What dost thou mean by 'settled'? What isthere about me that is unsettled?"
"Now, that is one of thy queer notions," answered Guy. "Of course, nowoman is considered settled till she marries."
"I should think it was just the most unsettling thing in the world,"said I.
"Lynette, thou wert born in the wrong age!" said Guy. "I do not know inwhat age thou wert born, but certainly not this."
"And thou wouldst be glad to lose me, Guy!"
"Nay, not glad to lose thee, little one"--I think Guy saw that had hurtme--"but glad for thine own sake. Why, Lynette, crying? For what, dearfoolish child?"
I could hardly have told him. Only the world had gone dark and dreary.I know he never meant to be unkind. Oh no! I suppose people don't,generally. They do not find out that they have hurt you, unless youscream. Nor perhaps then, if they are making a noise themselves.
"My dear little sister," said Guy again,--and very lovingly he saidit,--"why are all these tears? No man shall marry thee without thyleave. I am surprised. I thought women were always ready to bemarried."
Ah, that was it. He did not understand!
"And thou art not even curious to hear whom it should have been?"
"What would that matter?" said I, trying to crush back a few morehundreds of tears which would have liked to come. "But tell me if thouwilt."
"Messire Tristan de Montluc," he said.
It flashed on me all at once that Messire Tristan had tried to take thebridle of my horse,[#] when we came from the Church of the Nativity. Imight have guessed what was coming.
[#] Then a tacit declaration of love to a lady.
"Does that make any difference?" asked Guy, smiling.
"No," said I; "none."
"And the poor fellow is to break his heart?"
"I dare say it will piece again," said I.
Guy laughed, and patted me on the shoulder.
"Come, dry all those tears; there is nothing to cry about. Farewell!"
And away he went, whistling a troubadour song.
Nothing to cry about! Yes, that was all he knew.
I went to my own chamber, sent Bertrade out of it, and finished my cry.Then I washed my face, and when I thought all traces were gone, I wentdown to my embroidery.
Lady Judith was alone in the bower. She looked up with her usual kindsmile as I took the seat opposite. But the smile gave way in an instantto a graver look. Ah! she saw all was not right.
I was silent, and went on working. But in a minute, without anywarning, Lady Judith was softly singing. The words struck me.
"'Art thou weary, art thou languid, Art thou sore distressed? 'Come to Me,' saith One, 'and, coming, Be at rest.'
"'Hath He marks to lead me to Him, If He be my Guide?' 'In His feet and hands are wound-prints, And His side.'
"'Is there diadem, as monarch, That His brow adorns?' 'Yea, a crown, in very surety, But of thorns.'
"If I find Him, if I follow, What His guerdon here?' 'Many a sorrow, many a labour, Many a tear.'
"'If I still hold closely to Him, What hath He at last?' 'Sorrow vanquished, labour ended, Jordan past.'
"'If I ask Him to receive me, Will He say me nay?' 'Not till earth, and not till heaven, Pass away.'"
"Oh! Your pardon, holy Mother, for interrupting you," said DamoiselleMelisende, coming in some haste; "but the Lady Queen sent me to ask whenthe Lady Sybil's tunic will be finished."
Her leaves are finished, but not my roses, nor Lady Judith's golddiapering. I felt much obliged to her, for something in the hymn had sotouched me that the tears were very near my eyes again. Lady Judithanswered that she thought it would be done to-morrow; and Melisende ranoff again.
"Hast thou heard that hymn before, Helena?" said Lady Judith, busy withthe diaper.
"Never, holy Mother," said I, as well as I could.
"Did it please thee now?"
"It brought the tears into my eyes," said I, not sorry for the excuse.
"They had not far to come, had they, little one?"
I looked up, and met her soft grey eyes. And--it was very silly of me,but--I burst into tears once more.
"It is always best to have a fit of weeping out," said she. "Thou wiltfeel better for it, my child."
"But I had--had it out--once," sobbed I.
"Ah, not quite," answered Lady Judith. "There was more to come, littleone."
"It seems so foolish," I said, wiping my eyes at last. "I do notexactly know why I was crying."
"Those tears are often bitter ones," said Lady Judith. "For sometimesit means that we dare not look and see why."
I thought that was rather my position. For indeed the bitter ingredientin my pain at that moment was one which I did not like to put intowords, even to myself.
It was not that Guy did not love me. Oh no! I knew he did. It was noteven that I did not stand first in his love. I was ready to yield thatplace to Lady Sybil. Perhaps I should not have been quite so ready hadit been to any one else. But--there was the sting--he did not love me asI loved him. He could do without me.
And I could have no comfort from sympathy. Because, in the first place,the only person
whose sympathy would have been a comfort to me was thevery one who had distressed me; and in the second place, I had a vagueidea underlying my grief that I had no business to feel any; that everybody (if they knew) would tell me I was exceedingly silly--that it wasonly what I ought to have expected--and all sorts of uncomfortableconsolations of that kind. Was I a foolish baby, crying for themoon?--or was I a grand heroine of romance, whose feelings were soexquisitely delicate and sensitive that the common clay of which otherpeople were made could not be expected to understand me? I could nottell.
Oh, why must we come out of that sweet old world where we walked hand inhand, and were all in all to each other? Why must we grow up, and driftasunder, and never be the same to one another any more?
Was I wicked?--or was I only miserable?
About the last item at any rate there was no doubt. I sat, thinking sadthoughts, and trying to see my work through half-dimmed eyes, when LadyJudith spoke again.
"Helena," she said, "grief has two voices; and many only hear the upperand louder one. I shall be sorry to see thee miss that lower, stillervoice, which is by far the more important of the two."
"What do you mean, holy Mother?" I asked.
"Dear heart," she said, "the louder voice, which all must hear, chantsin a minor key, 'This world is not your rest.' It is a sad, sad song,more especially to those who have heard little of it before. But manymiss the soft, sweet music of the undertone, which is,--'Come unto Me,and I will give you rest.' Yet it is always there--if we will onlylisten."
"But a thing which is done cannot be undone," said I.
"No," she answered. "It cannot. But can it not be compensated? Ifthou lose a necklace of gilt copper, and one give thee a gold carcanetinstead, hast thou really sustained any loss?"
"Yes!" I answered, almost astonished at my own boldness. "If the coppercarcanet were a love-gift from the dead, what gold could make up to mefor that?"
"Ah, my child!" she replied, with a quick change in her tone. It wasalmost as if she had said,--"I did not understand thee to mean_that_!"--"For those losses of the heart there is but one remedy. Butthere is one."
"Costly and far-fetched, methinks!" said I, sighing.
"Costly, ay, in truth," she replied; "but far-fetched? No. It is closeto thee, if thou wilt but stretch forth thine hand and grasp it."
"What, holy Mother?"
Her voice sank to a low and very reverent tone.
"'Nevertheless, not as I will, but as Thou wilt.'"
"I cannot!" I sobbed.
"No, thou couldst not," she said quietly, "until thou lovest the will ofHim that died for thee, better than thou lovest the will of Helene deLusignan."
"O holy Mother!" I cried. "I could not set up my will against the goodGod!"
"Couldst thou not?" was all she said.
"Have I done that?" I faltered.
"Ask thine own conscience," replied Lady Judith. "Dear child, He lovednot His will when He came down from Heaven, to do the will of God HisFather. That will was to save His Church. Little Helena, was it tosave thee?"
"How can I know, holy Mother?"
"It is worth knowing," she said.
"Yes, it is worth knowing," said I, "but how can we know?"
"What wouldst thou give to know it? Not that it can be bought: but whatis it worth in thine eyes?"
I thought, and thought, but I could not tell wherewith to measure anything so intangible.
"Wouldst thou give up having thine own will for one year?" she asked.
"I know not what might happen in it," said I, with a rather frightenedfeeling.
Why, I might marry, or be ill, or die. Or Guy might give over loving mealtogether, in that year. Oh, I could not, could not will that! And ayear is such a long, long time. No, I could not--for such a time asthat--let myself slip into nothing, as it were.
"Helena," she said, "suppose, at this moment, God were to send an angeldown to thee from Heaven. Suppose he brought to thee a message from GodHimself, that if thou wouldst be content to leave all things to Hisordering for one year, and to have no will at all in the matter, Hewould see that nothing was done which should really harm thee in theleast. What wouldst thou say?"
"Oh, then I should dare to leave it!" said I.
"My child, if thou art of His redeemed, He has said it--not for oneshort year, but for all thy life. _If_, Helena!"
"Ah,--if!" I said with a sigh.
Lady Judith wrought at her gold diapering, and I at my roses, and wewere both silent for a season. Then the Lady Queen and the Lady Isabelcame in, and there was no further opportunity for quiet conversation.