Peter was footsore and weary. For three days he had walked from sunrise
to sunset, and now, at the end of the third day, his shipman’s legs
were stiff and his feet blistered almost to bleeding. But he valiantly
stepped forward, looking neither to left nor right, aiding himself much
by his staff, and planting his feet firmly on the rough way.
He began to recognise the landmarks. There, blue-black against the
red-shot sky of sunset, lay the Cow’s Back, as he had seen it so often
of old, like a barrier for ever dividing darkness from intolerable
splendours; there, winding down and clothing the valley as far as the
eye could reach in a mantle of sombre foliage, lay the Ravens Wood, in
which he had so often gone shooting with his little bow when a boy;
there, wave after wave in multitudinous succession swept the grassy
uplands over which he had seen the villeins drive the herds in the
fresh light of so many mornings of yore; there, clad in bramble and
gorse and heather, stretched the wild common where he had been wont to
gather the ripe berries in autumn.
And now, as he came nearer home, there was the splintered oak which
folk called ‘the Fairies,’ round which he had danced with two little
village girls for good luck when a lad; there were the two huge and
solitary stones, by which he had played with his dead brother through
many a long summer’s day; there was the standing pool upon which he had
been wont to slide with the village boys in the hard winters; there was
the desolate mere where he had found the bittern’s nest.
Meanwhile the red fire had faded from the western sky, and the shadows
deepened and stretched outwards from under the hills. The mist came
up and hid the land like a layer of cotton wool and soaked him to the
skin. He plodded on.
At the last village folk had told him, ‘A good eight mile and he were
best to stay there that night, for it was a rough road and one easy to
miss.’ But he had replied that he was in haste and he knew the road.
In the darkness he could distinguish little, but over the hill yonder
should lie the church with the graveyard, in which rested his father’s
and his father’s father’s bones. In the hollow below the hill and on
this side of it should lie his mother’s house; at the top of the rise
he should see it if there were only light enough. He hastened and
climbed the rise. Down in the valley, a tiny yellow light glimmered
feebly through the blackness. There was his home, and the candles
burnt for his return. He hastened on again, breaking into a shambling
run. As he drew near he fell into a walking pace, for he felt a sudden
shamefacedness. Besides, he did not want to alarm his mother; honest
wayfarers were few at that time of night, he thought.
He reached the door and put his hand upon the latch. Suddenly he
stayed. An unearthly wailing came from within, the feeble and cracked
voices of old women raised in a mournful melody. Peter’s breath came
thick and fast, he almost choked, and his heart thumped like a hammer
against his ribs. With an effort he lifted the latch and flung open the
door.
Upon a table in the middle of the room lay the dead body of his mother,
laid out for burial and swathed completely except for the face in
white grave-clothes. Upon her bosom was set a small platter of salt,
and at each corner of the table a rushlight burnt feebly. Four old
women sat round the corpse and wailed the lyke-wake dirge.
‘This ae night, this ae night,
Every night and all,
Fire and sleet and candle light,
And Christ receive thy soul.’
Their ancient withered bodies swayed in time with the mournful air they
sang, and cast fantastic shadows on the bare and plastered walls. Peter
comprehended the scene in an instant.
At his entrance the hags abruptly ceased their wailing and, gazing upon
him, sent up exclamations of recognition and surprise.
‘Eh, this is thy home-coming,’ quoth one.
‘Behold thy mother, thou evil son,’ cried another.
‘Art not ashamed?’ screamed the third, pointing to the corpse.
‘Thou serpent,’ cried the fourth.
Peter did not answer them. He stood uncertainly upon his feet as though
he had been drunk, and trembled like a leaf. Then he went shakily
across the floor and gazed upon the face of the dead.
One of the old women stole up behind him. ‘She hath gone to accuse
thee before the Lord God,’ she screamed into his ear.
Peter turned and looked mournfully upon her with a face like death.
‘That she would never do,’ quoth he sadly.
Whereupon they snarled at him like she-wolves, he not answering them
but standing like one sore perplexed and distressed. Then one began the
dirge again, and the others held the burden. Peter turned and gazed
steadily at them.
‘Go,’ he said, and pointed to the door.
They ceased wailing and looked at him dumbly. One began to utter words
of abuse, but he pointed to the door again. So they gathered their rags
about them and went out, muttering foully and casting spiteful glances
upon him. He shut the door behind them.
Then he went and stood by the head of the dead woman and regarded her
face steadfastly. It was as white as the linen which shrouded it, and
the features as clear-cut and firm as they had been cunningly worked
in marble; the majesty of an unutterable peace was on her countenance.
Peter thought of the stone image of a holy nun he had once seen on a
tomb in a great church at Bruges.
‘She was a very holy woman, although she was my mother and I am her
son,’ he thought simply. ‘I am as foul as she was holy.’
He watched the dead hour after hour all through the night, and the
whole of his life passed before his eyes as the life of every man will
pass before the eyes of the Incorruptible Judge at Doomsday. Anon
bitter tears fell like rain down his cheeks, anon his eyes were hot and
dry as glowing coals; he tried to pray, but he had forgotten most of
what his mother had taught him, and he had no wit to pray in his own
language. Anon he passionately hated himself as Righteousness hateth
Sin, anon he pitied himself with a pity nigh as great as Our Lord’s for
the souls that are damned. The dead woman lying there shamed him all
the while, but she could not rebuke him.
It neared the end of the last watch of the night, and the rush-lights
guttered out one by one. Peter was moved with a mighty anguish and
shaken like a reed from head to foot. He flung his arms round the dead
woman and cried out with a loud and terrible voice, ‘Mother, forgive
me, I did not know.’
The eyes of the dead woman slowly unclosed, her mouth opened and she
spoke:
‘Son, keep me no longer here, nor cheat me of that everlasting rest
that I have already found.’
Her eyes closed for ever, and Peter knew that of the dead there is no
forgiveness.