When upon his knees he had come most close to her, when she felt his
hands, his brow, his breathing against her sandalled feet, she had
given back in a kind of terror. Then, all unluckiness!
Flying, she had dropped her mantle. Brother Norbert, Brother Anselm and
their terrified white faces! Brother Anselm coming after her, out of
the cell, down the stone passage. Another coming after, great torch in
his hand, smoke and flame streaming backward his face like Death and
Judgment! Brother Anselm’s breathing on her cheek, his hand seizing,
pushing her, who needed no urging, for now she knew panic.
The outward-giving porter’s cell that they used--the door, quick!
Through, clap it to behind, draw bolt across--opposite door, quick!
Short passage again, the little postern. Anselm had the key, Brother
Edward the porter sleeping elsewhere this night. Open--open! Morgen Fay
knew agony until she saw the stars over Abbey orchard.
Wall and the ivy tods which made no ladder necessary. Up! and on wide
wall-top rest a moment, breathe and look back. Bell was ringing,
lights hurried here, hurried there in Abbey, but the orchard between
lay still, at peace and bathed in moonlight. Down the wall on forest
side, where footholds had been cunningly made. Brother Anselm spoke. “I
will work them over so that even they cannot be found.”
“Through the poplar wood there is a path,” she said. “Go back, and I
will run alone to the ruined farm. Never--never--never more, Morgen
Fay!”
They spoke in whispers. “Aye, it is better. God knoweth what trouble we
shall have now! But you, mistress, you will be dumb?”
“Oh, aye! All night, on pallet, under eaves, in the ruined farm, I was
stretched so fast asleep! I dreamed only of my house by the river and
my garden where now are blooming pinks and marigold!”
“Better that than dream of red flame!” said Anselm. “Haste now!”
He slipped back over the wall; she was in poplar wood.
The moon shone so that she could find her way. Thin wood gave into
deep wood, beech, oak. Her feet felt the slight path. A doe and fawn
started from her, hare bounded across, owl hooted, moon shone and light
was beaten by branch and leaf into thousands and thousands of silver
pieces. She ran; she felt drunken.
There was near a league to go. Her pace slowed, she stood drawing
hard breath, then went on again but not running. None were after her;
she heard none after her. Here clung darkness, or cold, mysterious,
shifting light. The air hung cool, very still, with faint fragrances.
Her mind had wings, great dark ones, and now it beat in the passages
and cells of Silver Cross, and now at the ruined farm, and now about
and through Somerville Hall. It went also to Middle Forest and into
Montjoy’s castle. Back it beat to the ruined farm, and Somerville
to-morrow, in this wood, and then London road. London road! No doubt
now. London road! Her mind sought London town, but that hung distasted,
weary, drear and threatening. “O Morgen, why so? Will there not be
Montjoys and Somervilles there--aye, greater ones. Mayhap princely
ones!” But she hated London road and London town. “Oh, what are the
hands that hold me here--cannot hold but would hold!” To-morrow,
to-morrow, next day at latest, London road, London road!
Going through the dark wood, she no longer felt panic. Perhaps it was
so and perhaps it was not so that all Silver Cross was roused, those
who knew and those who did not know. She knew that not twenty there
did know; and at first she had felt the hands of all those others, the
guiltless, upon her, against her. Almost she had felt their stoning.
But those who knew were foxes and serpents,--cunning, cunning! They
would provide safety for themselves and so for her, too, bound in the
same bundle with them. “With the foxes and serpents,” she thought.
Now she walked steadily, about her mighty trees, overhead the moon, in
her ears the million small forest tongues, in her nostril the smell of
fern. The night did not terrify her, she was warm in her frieze cloak.
She saw the ruined farm sunk in dimness and sleep. By the outside stair
she would creep up to her room, Joan the serving-woman, so negligible a
soul. To-morrow would come Somerville. Morgen Fay, so negligible a soul.
A voice went through her. “Who neglecteth? Soul, soul, who neglecteth?”
She would not answer. She ran again under the moon, upon the forest
path.
Forest broke away. The ruined farm all in the moonlight and Margery and
David sleeping like the long dead. The long dead--the long dead. “Am I
the long dead?”
She crept up the stair and as she did so the cock was crowing. Here
was loft chamber, here straw bed cleanly covered. Frieze cloak dropped,
her body stood in moonlight, dressed in the colours and the fashion of
the great picture. Morgen Fay took off the raiment and folded it and
laid it upon the bench under the window. “As soon as it is light I will
burn it.” She felt fatigue, overpowering, extreme, and dropped upon the
bed and drew over her the cover and hid her face from the moonlight in
her arms, in her hair.
But at first light she stood up. One might not sleep this morning, not
yet! She put on her dress of serving-woman, took up the raiment from
the bench, made it into a small bundle, covered it with her frieze
cloak and went down the stair. Margrey and David stirred in their
part of the house. She heard them talking, the woman screaming to the
man who was deaf. A tall, blooming lilac stood by the beehives. Here
she hid her bundle, went and returned with a brand from the hearth,
shielded in an earthenware pitcher. Taking it up again, she bore
all away from the house into stony field. Thorn trees springing up
presently hid her and her ways from the house. Here, in a corner was a
flat, hearth-like space. She gathered dead twigs, took her brand from
the pitcher and made fire. She opened the bundle and piece by piece
burned all, then with a thorn bough scattered the ashes. Mantle and
veil had been left in Norbert’s cell. “Fire there, too, last night,”
she thought. “Hiding fire, cleansing fire.”
At the house door Margery cried to her, “Have you baked the cakes and
drawn the ale? Or have you been to Fairies’ Hill? There’s a witched
look about you!”
She worked an hour and then another while Margery watched and grumbled,
then when the old woman’s back was turned away she slipped. “Joan!
Joan!” But she was gone to wood of beech and oak and ash. Somerville
must come soon, oh, no doubt of it!
Oak and beech and ash wore the freshest green. Underneath spread
grasses and flowers. The sun came down in a golden dust, birds sang,
bees hummed, air held still and fine. She sat and nursed her knees, or
turning stretched fair body of Morgen Fay on summer earth. He did not
come, Somerville did not come. So weary was she that she slept for a
while. Waking, she found the sun at noon. She must go back to the house
and hear if anything had been heard. Nothing! it might as well have
been in dreamland, a thousand, thousand leagues from Wander side.
She sat at the table with David and Margery, drank ale and broke bread.
The two quarrelled weakly, faded leaves on the edge of winter. She
felt suddenly that it was so with all things. As though it were the
greatest cloud that ever she had met or had dreamed, as though it were
night that made other nights light, blackness rolled over her. She
rose, pushed back her stool and quit the house. Certes, the sun shone.
It made no difference; she was night, night! Her feet took her to the
wood, anywhere, anywhere! She must have movement. But night, night, and
horror of the spirit. She groaned, she flung herself down under an oak
and pressed her forehead to its great root. She was leaf that had left
the tree, whirling down.
Blackness, emptiness, nothingness--but not peace, no! The end, Morgen
Fay, the end, the end!
It seemed to her that she swooned, and that then she came again. Now
there was evil grey, but grey.
It seemed to her that she put out her hand and that it closed upon a
robe. It seemed to her that she put her forehead to this. She said,
“Mother!” It seemed to her that hands came down to her and touched her,
that there was a breathing, that a voice said, “O Thyself!”
She lay against trees in darkness and in ache.
Somerville found her here. “Asleep? Art asleep?”
She sat up. “No. Awake. I have done a villain thing.”
He regarded her with his odd, twitching face, somewhat pale to-day, and
the smile a dry grimace. “If thou hast so, thou art like to pay for it!
All came out. Your monk broke cloister and told it at town cross.”
“Yea, did he? He has manhood.”
“There was all town to hear. Father Edmund tossed thy name forth like a
ball.”
She moistened her lips. “So?”
“Then the monk told it in castle hall. Montjoy believed.”
“Believed it of me? Well, I did it.”
“Then arrive Abbot Mark and Prior Matthew, riding hard from Silver
Cross. Now comes about the strangest thing. I doff my cap, I lout my
knee to Westforest!”
He told. She drew hard breath, then broke into terrible laughter.
“So, the monk is in the madhouse and they drive a stake for me by
town cross? But the Abbot and the Prior and the crew that worked for
them, and Sir Robert Somerville--oh, have you no little penance at all?
Must be that you are to say a hundred paternosters or give a tall wax
candle! Nothing? Scot free? If they take me, I will tell!”
“If you do, it does you no good nor them any harm! Prior Matthew
usually spins without a fault.”
“‘Us,’ Rob! Does ‘us’ no harm!”
He jerked his shoulders. “‘Us’ then. I was at home. Thomas Bettany
brought me all this two hours agone. I came as soon as I could think
it out. Search is up already, Morgen! They course here and they course
there. Presently the ruined farm. I run high danger, standing talking
here.”
“Begone, then! Quick, Rob, quick!”
Somerville turned red under her tone. “Naturally, I am all thy care!
Thou bitter witch!”
“Didst ever burn thy finger? It is not pleasant to burn finger. Well,
now, counsel!”
“Counsel is to hide as deep and as soon as may be.”
“Where?”
“I thought of those thick alders by Wander brook--a mile of them. If
you lie close to the ground, and they have not dogs--”
“Dogs!”
“If search sweeps over, not finding, then to-night a wagon filled with
straw will cross Wander brook at the old bridge, going Londonward. This
is all that I can do. I do no more, by all the Saints!”
“Why,” she said, “I do not after all wish thee to burn beside me!
Alders by Wander brook.”
He said, “Hark!” raising his hand.
They heard it, distant rout of voices. “Go!” he said. “Run! No time for
love-parting! I must return to the Hall.”
“I wish no love-parting!” she answered. “That is dead. But
farewell--farewell, Rob! Now you go to the Hall but I to Wander brook.”
He was listening. “They come louder!” When he turned his head, she
was gone. He saw her brown dress beyond ash stem and bough; now she
was deep in fern. He heard her movement, then silence. Still a brown
gleam, then that vanished. He stood still, he put hands to face and
drew a breath deep and long, then turning he walked rapidly through
the forest to his park and his hall. The ruined farm he had already
visited. David and Margery had their word. “A serving-wench? Yes, they
had had one--Joan. Country from toward Minchester. But she was gone--a
se’ennight since.” Somerville had climbed the steps into the loft room.
Little was here of Joan or Morgen Fay. But what was, he himself had
carried and given to hearth flame. There was one thing, a rose tree in
a great crock, and this most carefully he had destroyed.
Now, walking fast toward Somerville Hall, he thought, “Have you done
wickedly, knight? Why, not so wickedly! A little here, a little there,
but no great amount anywhere. Even chance, they may not beat the
alders.” He made for himself a picture of London and a little house by
the Thames, and Robert Somerville coming to its door, it opening and
Ailsa saying, “Why, enter, knight! Flowers and candles and wine--”
Morgen Fay crouched among rushes, beneath alders at the edge of a
wide brook. It was still and sunny, warm, the water singing drowsily.
Two dragon flies in blue mail. The reeds met over her head; it was
still as creation dawn. A trout leaped, clouds sailed overhead,
blue sky returned, vast, shining, deep as forever. A butterfly and
the dragon flies, a small tortoise among reeds, a blackbird in the
alders,--stillness, stillness, sun, remoteness. Her muscles relaxed.
She thought, “Oh, after all--”
Then came the voices. She cowered, lay flat, looking only with terror
to see if she made chasm in the reeds. They waved above her. “Oh,
perhaps--perhaps--” She prayed. Then she heard the dogs, and they
opened cry. She heard a shout, “They’ve got her!” and as they came
with great bounds she rose from among the reeds. She would have run,
but could not. She raised her voice, “Call off the dogs, and I will
come to you!”