Easter fell full early the year following, and it was a cruel, bitter
season. Then it was that Sir Geoffrey’s new barn was levelled to the
earth by weight of snow, and there was a great flood in the village by
reason of the swelling of the stream.
All the year preceding, Master Parson had come often to Four Lane Ends,
and he comforted Meg as much as he might, bidding her earnestly to
trust in the merits of Our Lord Jesus Christ, and to cease not from
importuning the Blessed Virgin that she would intercede for her at the
Throne of Grace. Moreover, he said that though her sins were as scarlet
yet might they be whiter than snow, and that our God was a God of mercy
and not of vengeance, and would abundantly pardon such as returned to
Him with weeping and amendment.
‘Nay,’ quoth Meg sadly, ‘I have sinned the unpardonable sin for which
there is no forgiveness.’
‘Tush, tush, woman,’ cried Master Parson, ‘thou talkest nonsense. To
sin against the Holy Ghost were indeed to be in evil case, but thou
hast sinned against Christ alone, and He is full soft and kind and
forgiving.’
By this time Meg was so infirm of her body that she could only walk
with difficulty, and it was sore trouble for her to do about the house,
much more to go hoeing and weeding in the fields as she was wont to do.
When the sun shone brightly on the Red Headland she would sit in the
doorway of the cottage sadly regarding the green-budding hawthorns
and the early violets that grew under the bank, and at whiles her lips
moved as though she prayed. Much she thought in those days of her
former wild words and deeds, and many bitter tears she shed therefore.
‘My sins are too black for even Christ to forgive,’ she would say.
‘’Twould much ease her heart,’ quoth Gilbert to Master Parson, ‘if she
could but think she was forgiven.’
Towards Easter she grew more feeble, weakening as the year
strengthened, and when the earth began to put on its robe of green she
began to strip off, as it were, her robe of mortality. About a week
before Easter Day her husband came in from his work in the fields to
see how she fared. She was sitting deep in thought at the doorway.
‘I have been thinking, husband,’ quoth she, ‘that I would above all
things partake of the Blessed Sacrament in the Town Church this Easter.
But I am unworthy and that I know. The Lord hath taken the strength out
of my joints. Pray for me, dear husband.’
‘Why, Meg,’ quoth he. ‘Hob of the Cross would gladly lend me a hand and
we two could right easily carry thee to Church, an there were need, the
Holy Day.’
‘Thou art indeed a kind man and a good to me,’ said his wife. ‘If the
Lord granted me to partake once more of His precious Body and Blood,
I should die happy, for I should know that He had forgiven my sin and
done away mine iniquity.’
On Easter day Gilbert looked from the little window. The air was chill
as death, and a soft darkness brooded dumbly over a waste of snow. The
branches of the trees bowed under their burden; the ways were choked.
Tears came into his eyes.
‘It lies thick with snow,’ he said sadly.
Meg bowed her head. ‘The Lord is not willing. How can He forgive me?’
she said simply.
But anon and in the good time he had promised came Hob of the Cross,
his round face like a glowing coal, his breath going up like a white
cloud from his mouth.
‘What, Meg,’ quoth he, stamping the snow from his shoes before the
hearth fire and clapping his hands noisily together. ‘Art ready for
Church? We shall fetch thee there right readily, I warrant thee.’
A faint colour tinged her faded cheeks and a light flickered in her
eyes. Gilbert stood doubtfully by.
‘Would God it were possible,’ she said.
‘It lies three feet deep in places, I guess, good Hob?’ said Gilbert.
‘Yea, neighbour, but if thy wife here be ready, it might be done.’
‘’Twould do her mortal harm, I’m feared,’ said Gilbert.
‘When I have partaken of the Blessed Sacrament this Easter Day,’ quoth
Meg, ‘happy will I die straightway.’
Then, turning from one to another with more alacrity than she had
used this many a long day, she said, ‘Good husband mine and kindest
neighbour Hob, do ye but take me in your arms this morning to the Town
Church and leave the rest to the Lord. Fear not for the snow or the
foul ways; I must die and that soon, and I might die the happier for
your kindness.’
Hob looked at Gilbert.
‘We will do as she wishes,’ said Gilbert.
They joined hands with crossed arms and took Meg upon their wrists, she
staying herself thereon by clasping their shoulders. Thus they carried
her forth between them in the twilight of the early morning. Their feet
sank deeply into the snow even to their knees, and much ado they had to
keep their footing on the rough way under such a burden and going in
such a fashion. Often they stayed by the way to get their breath and to
rest a while, when Meg stood leaning heavily upon her husband. Once as
they stood thus she spied a dead bird that had dropped frozen upon the
snow from the branches overhead.
‘Alas,’ quoth she, ‘thou poor bird.’
As they got nearer the town the morning lightened.
‘Are we far off yet?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Nay, not far,’ quoth Gilbert.
A little while after they caught a glimpse of the smoking roofs of the
town lying down in the hollow, and with that they heard the first merry
peal of Easter bells chiming up over the snow.
‘Jesus be praised,’ cried Meg faintly.
‘Hold fast, good Meg,’ panted Hob. ‘We shall win through at last. Holy
Virgin, how I sweat.’
Then they saw the Town Church itself and the people streaming through
the porch.
‘Jesus, Jesus, for but a little while longer,’ murmured Meg.
Gilbert and Hob hastened their toilsome steps. So at last they came to
the Church and, the folk courteously making way for them, they bore her
to a stool by the rood-screen.
The Church was decked with fair flowers, white tapers burnt like stars
before the Altar, a sweet smoke of incense went up to the rafters, the
clergy boys sang loudly and clearly ‘Alleluia.’ Lit by candleshine,
with white lilies round her feet, stood God’s Mother clasping her
Little Son, and He stretched His little arms out and smiled towards her
through the odorous mist. Meg had been overcome by faintness once or
twice by the way, but now all her mortal powers concentrated themselves
on the act of devotion. As she listened to the words of the Priest her
eyes closed, and she turned her face upwards to Heaven like as she had
been one born blind. Her lips moved at the responses but made no sound,
except, when the sacring bell rang, a deep sob burst from her and shook
her weakened frame from head to foot. In her turn she would have gone
toward the Altar to receive the Blessed Sacrament but for her bodily
weakness she might not, so her husband aided her upon the one side and
Hob upon the other, and the three of them knelt together thus side by
side. Then came the Priest and said, ‘This is the cup of My Blood which
is shed for you,’ and placed the Sacred Wafer upon her tongue. As she
received and swallowed it a blissful light as of a great peace shone
out of her countenance; she lifted up her hands joined together towards
Heaven, and cried in a clear joyful voice that all might hear, ‘Jesu!’
She fell back into Gilbert’s arms, and the Priest, gazing upon her
face, knew she was dead.
They began to bear her away, and, as they did so, Gilbert saw that Hob
of the Cross wept. He turned to him with a right steadfast and glad
countenance and cried in a joyful voice, ‘Weep not, dear Hob, the Lord
hath judged His servant worthy to depart in peace.’