"
They were interrupted by a servant, who came hurrying down to say
that my lady was even now departing, and to call Sir Lucas to the
bedside.
All was over a few moments after he reached the apartment, and
Grisell was left alone in her desolation. The only real, deep,
mutual love had been between her and poor little Bernard; her elder
brother she had barely seen; her father had been indifferent, chiefly
regarding her as a damaged piece of property, a burthen to the
estate; her mother had been a hard, masculine, untender woman, only
softened in her latter days by the dependence of ill health and her
passion for her sickly youngest; but on her Grisell had experienced
Sister Avice's lesson that ministry to others begets and fosters
love.
And now she was alone in her house, last of her household, her work
for her mother over, a wife, but loathed and deserted except so far
as that the tie had sanctioned the occupation of her home by a
hostile garrison. Her spirit sank within her, and she bitterly felt
the impoverishment of the always scanty means, which deprived her of
the power of laying out sums of money on those rites which were
universally deemed needful for the repose of souls snatched away in
battle. It was a mercenary age among the clergy, and besides, it was
the depth of a northern winter, and the funeral rites of the Lady of
Whitburn would have been poor and maimed indeed if a whole band of
black Benedictine monks had not arrived from Wearmouth, saying they
had been despatched at special request and charge of Sir Leonard
Copeland.
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