FAREWELL--HERE, AND NOW
When the Prioress, a lighted lantern in her hand, opened the door of
her chamber, a tall figure in the dress of the White Ladies of
Worcester stood motionless against the wall, facing the door.
"Come!" she whispered, beckoning; and, noiselessly, it stood beside
her. Then she closed the door and, using her master-key, locked it
behind her.
Silently the two white figures passed along the passage, through the
cloister, and down the flight of steps into the Convent crypt. The
Prioress unlocked the door and stooping they passed under the arch, and
entered the subterranean way.
Placing the lantern on the ground, the Prioress drew out the key,
closed the door, and locked it on the inside.
She turned, and lifting the lantern, saw that the Knight had rid
himself of his disguise, and now stood before her, very straight and
tall, just within the circle of light cast by her lantern.
With the closing and locking of the door a strange sense came over
them, as of standing together in a third world--neither his nor
hers--tomblike in its complete isolation and darkness; heavy with a
smell of earth and damp stones; the slightest sound reverberating in
hollow exaggeration; yet, in itself, silent as the grave.
This tomblike quality in their surroundings seemed to make their own
vitality stronger and more palpitating.
The seconds of silence, after the grating of the key in the lock
ceased, seemed hours.
Then the Knight spoke.
"Give me the lantern," he said.
She met his eyes. Again the dignity of her Office slipped from her.
Again it was sweet to obey.
He held the lantern so that its light illumined her face and his.
"Mora," he said, "it is long since thou and I last walked together over
the sunny fields, amid buttercups and cowslips, and the sweet-smelling
clover. To-night we walk beneath the fields instead of through them.
We are under the grass, my sweet. I seem to stand beside thee in the
grave. And truly my hopes lie slain; the promise of our love is dead,
and shall soon be buried. Yet thou and I still live, and now must walk
together side by side, the sad ghosts of our former selves.
"So now I ask thee, Mora, for the sake of those past walks among the
flowers, to lay thy hand within my arm and walk with me in gentle
fellowship, here in this place of gloom and darkness, as, long ago, we
walked among the flowers."
His dark eyes searched her face. An almost youthful eagerness vibrated
in his voice.
She hesitated, lifting her eyes to his. Then slowly moved toward him
and laid her hand within his arm.
Then, side by side, they paced on through the darkness; he, in his
right hand, holding the lantern, swinging low, to light their feet;
she, leaning on his left arm, keeping slow pace with him.
Over their heads, in the meadows, walked lovers, arm in arm; young men
and maidens out in the gathering twilight. All nature, refreshed,
poured forth a fragrant sweetness. But the rose, with its dewy petals,
seemed to the youth less sweet than the lips of the maid. This, he
shyly ventured to tell her; whereupon, as she bent to its fragrance,
her cheeks reflected the crimson of those delicate folds.
So walked and talked young lovers in the Worcester meadows; little
dreaming that, beneath their happy feet, the Knight and the Prioress
paced slowly, side by side, through the darkness.
No word passed between them. With, her hand upon his arm, her face so
near his shoulder, his arm pressing her hand closer and closer against
his heart, silence said more than speech. And in silence they walked.
They passed beneath the city wall, under the Foregate.
The Sheriff rode home to supper, well pleased with a stroke of business
accomplished in a house in which he had chanced to shelter during the
storm.
The good people of Worcester bought and sold in the market. Men whose
day's work was over, hastened to reach the rest and comfort of wife and
home. Crowds jostled gaily through the streets, little dreaming that
beneath their hurrying, busy feet, the Knight and the Prioress paced
slowly, side by side, through the darkness.
Had the Knight spoken, her mind would have been up in arms to resist
him. But, because he walked in silence, her heart had leisure to
remember; and, remembering, it grew sorely tender.
At length they reached the doorway leading into the Cathedral crypt.
The Prioress carried the key in her left hand. Freeing her right from
the grip of his arm, she slipped the key noiselessly into the lock;
but, leaving it there unturned, she paused, and faced the Knight.
"Hugh," she said, "I beg you, for my sake and for the sake of all whose
fair fame is under my care, to pass through quickly into the crypt, and
to go from thence, if possible, unseen, or in such manner as shall
prevent any suspicion that you come from out this hidden way. Tales of
wrong are told so readily, and so quickly grow."
"I will observe the utmost caution," said the Knight.
"Hugh," she said, "I grieve to have had, perforce, to disappoint you."
The brave voice shook. "This is our final farewell. Do you forgive
me, Hugh? Will you think kindly, if you ever think on me?"
The Knight held the lantern so that its rays illumined both her face
and his.
"Mora," he said, "I cannot as yet take thine answer as final. I will
return no more, nor try to speak with thee again. But five days
longer, I shall wait. I shall have plans made with the utmost care, to
bear thee, in safety and unseen, from the Cathedral. I know the doors
are watched, and that all who pass in and out are noted and observed.
But, if thou wilt but come to me, belovèd, trust me to know how to
guard mine own. . . . Nay, speak not! Hear me out.
"Daily, after Vespers, I shall stand hidden among the pillars, close to
the winding stair. One step aside--only one step--and my arm will be
around thee. A new life of love and home will lie before us. I shall
take thee, safely concealed, to the hostel where I and my men now
lodge. There, horses will stand ready, and we shall ride at once to
Warwick. At Warwick we shall find a priest--one in high favour, both
in Church and State--who knows all, and is prepared to wed us without
delay. After which, by easy stages, my wife, I shall take thee home."
He swung the lantern high. She saw the lovelight and the triumph, in
his eyes. "I shall take thee home!" he said.
She stepped back a pace, lifting both hands toward him, palms outward,
and stood thus gazing, with eyes full of sorrow.
"My poor Hugh," she whispered; "it is useless to wait. I shall not
come."
"Yet five days," said the Knight, "I shall tarry in Worcester. Each
day, after Vespers, I shall be here."
"Go to-day, dear Hugh. Ride to Warwick and tell thy priest, that which
indeed he should know without the telling: that a nun does not break
her vows. This is our final farewell, Hugh. Thou hadst best believe
it, and go."
"Our last farewell?" he said.
"Our last."
"Here and now?"
"Here and now, dear Hugh."
Looking into that calm face, so lovely in its sadness, he saw that she
meant it.
Of a sudden he knew he had lost her; he knew life's way stretched
lonely before him, evermore.
"Yes," he said, "yes. It is indeed farewell--here and now--forever."
The dull despair in the voice which, but a few moments before, had
vibrated with love and hope, wrung her heart.
She still held her hands before her, as if to ward him off.
"Ah, Hugh," she cried, sharply, "be merciful, and go! Spare me, and go
quickly."
The Knight heard in her voice a tone it had not hitherto held. But he
loved her loyally; therefore he kept his own anguish under strong
control.
Placing the lantern on the ground, he knelt on one knee before her.
"Farewell, my Love," he said. "Our Lady comfort thee; and may Heaven
forgive me, for that I have disturbed thy peace."
With which he lifted the hem of her robe, and pressed his lips upon it.
Thus he knelt, for a space, his dark head bent.
Slowly, slowly, the Prioress let drop her hands until, lightly as the
fall of autumn leaves,--sad autumn leaves--they rested upon his head,
in blessing and farewell.
But feeling his hair beneath her hands, she could not keep from softly
smoothing it, nor from passing her fingers gently in and out of its
crisp thickness.
Then her heart stood still, for of a sudden, in the silence, she heard
a shuddering sob.
With a cry, she bent and gathered him to her, holding his head first
against her knees, then stooping lower to clasp it to her breast; then
as his strong arms were flung around her, she loosed his head, and, as
he rose to his feet, slipped her arms about his neck, and surrendered
to his embrace.
His lips sought hers, and at once she yielded them. His strong hands
held her, and she, feeling the force of their constraint, did but clasp
him closer.
Long they stood thus. In that embrace a life-time of pain passed from
them, a life-time of bliss was born, and came with a rush to maturity,
bringing with it a sense of utter completeness. A world of sweetest
trust and certainty filled them; a joy so perfect, that the lonely
vista of future years seemed, in that moment, to matter not at all.
All about them was darkness, silence as of the tomb; the heavy smell of
earth; the dank chill of the grave.
Yet theirs was life more abundant; theirs, joy undreamed of; theirs,
love beyond all imagining, while those moments lasted.
Then----
The hands about his neck loosened, unclasped, fell gently away.
He set free her lips, and they took their liberty.
He unlocked his arms, and stepping back she stood erect, like a fair
white lily, needing no prop nor stay.
So they stood for a space, looking upon one another in silence. This
thing which had happened, was too wonderful for speech.
Then the Prioress turned the key in the lock.
The heavy door swung open.
A dim, grey light, like a pearly dawn at sea, came downwards from the
crypt.
Without a word the Knight, bending his head, passed under the archway,
mounted the steps, and was lost to view among the many pillars.
She closed the door, locked it, and withdrawing the key, stood alone
where they had stood together.
Then, sinking to the ground, she laid her face in the dust, there where
his feet had been.
It was farewell, here and now; farewell forever.
* * * * * *
After a while the Prioress rose, took up the lantern, and started upon
her lonely journey, back to the cloister door.