MARY’S LILIES
IT came to pass upon a certain day scarce a se’nnight later, that Prior
Stephen was troubled in his mind by reason of a dream which came to him.
It happened on this wise. He was sitting by his window after the noon
repast, musing, as he was wont, on his dear son. The song of the bees
busy in the herb-garden was very pleasant to his ear, the warm, still air
overcame him, and he slept. Suddenly he heard a voice calling—a voice he
knew in every fibre of his being and yet could set no name to, for it was
the voice of God. He arose in haste and went out into the garth, and lo!
under the lilies Hilarius lay sleeping. The Prior stood fast in great
wonder, his heart leaping for joy; yet he could not cross the little
piece of grass that lay between the cloister and the farmery door.
As he watched, a woman, light of foot and of great beauty, came swiftly
from the gate to where Hilarius slept; and the Prior was grieved, and
marvelled that the porter had opened to such an one; for it was a grave
scandal that a woman should set foot within the Monastery precincts. He
strove to cry, but his voice died on his lips, and his feet were as lead.
The woman stayed when she came to the sleeping lad, and stooped to arouse
him, but he slept on. She called him, and her voice was as the calling
of the summer sea on a shelving beach; but Hilarius gave no heed. Then,
in great impatience, she caught at the white lilies under which he lay;
and, as she broke the flower-crowned stems, Hilarius stirred and cried
out in his sleep, whereat she plucked the faster. Of a sudden Prior
Stephen was as one set free. He strode to the woman’s side: there was
but one lily left. He laid his hand on her shoulder, for speech was
still far from him: and she fell back from the one remaining blossom with
a cry of fear—and Prior Stephen awoke, for behold! it was a dream; but he
was sore troubled.
“Maybe,” said he, “evil threatens the lad, such evil as slew his mother,
on whom God have mercy!” And sighing heavily he took his way to the
great Rood and made supplication for his son.
* * * * *
Far away, under a southern sky, in one of the great palaces of Florence,
there stood a woman of fair stature, with tight-clenched hands, whose
many jewels bit the tender flesh. Her russet eyes flashed under
threatening brows, her teeth held fast the curling upper lip. Great,
alack! was her fame: men crept to her knee like spaniels craving favour.
Great was her wealth: a golden piece for every ruddy strand that hung a
shimmering mantle to her knee. Her beauty—nay, men had slain themselves
gladly to escape the torment of her look. She stood in the curtained
doorway, a heavy purple hanging at her back; and the man who awaited her
paled as he saw her vengeful face.
It was Hilarius. He drew himself up to the full of his slender height,
and bowed.
Panting a little, the woman came towards him across the many-hued marble
floors; and, as she passed, a vase of great white lilies caught in her
draperies of cramoisie and fell. She gave no heed, but swept on, and
faced him in the sunny silence. Across the pause the Angelus sounded
from a church hard by: Hilarius crossed himself devoutly; and the
stillness fled before a woman’s scornful laugh.
“Nay, then, Signor,” she cried mockingly, “is ours to be a war of signs
and silence? I have heard thy lips were ready enough with judgment,
though they halt at a love-phrase. By Our Lady, if all that is said of
thee be true, I will e’en have thee whipped at the gibbet for thy gibes!
Speak, fool, while thy tongue is left thee; ’tis a last asking. Wilt
thou paint this face of mine that is, it seems, so little to thy liking?
Strain not my patience over much—’tis a slender cord at best, and
somewhat tried already. Speak, is it yea or nay?”
Hilarius looked away to where Mary’s flowers lay bruised and scattered on
the flag of blood-red marble; his answer came low and clear:—
“‘It is nay.’”
She thrust her head forward, and looked at him wondering; there was a
stain where her teeth had been busy.
“‘It is nay,’” she repeated after him, and her eyes mocked him. “May a
poor Princess ask the Signor’s reason?”
Hilarius pointed past her to the fallen lilies.
“It lies there.”
For an instant the hot colour splashed the angry whiteness of her cheek;
then, pale to the lips, she turned on him; and she stammered in her
wrath:—
“And dost thou—dost thou dare, say this to my face—to me, who stooped to
ask when I had but to command? I, with my unmatched beauty; I, who hold
the hearts of men in thrall to the lifting of my eyes; I, to whom men
kneel as to their God! Art thou mad, mad, that thou canst set aside such
a behest as mine? ’Tis small wonder men say thy doublet hides a monkish
dress; of a truth the tale they brought savoured of little else. Hear
me, thou prating, milk-faced Modesty, I choose that thou shalt limn this
face of mine: say me nay, and I will teach thee a lesson hard of
forgetting; for I will silence thy preaching for aye, and lend my
serving-men to whip thee through the streets. Men, said I? Nay, thou
art too much a cur to make fit sport for men: rather my maids shall wield
the rod and lace thy shoulders.”
She flung herself on a low couch by the open window, where the peacocks
on the terrace strutted in the sun; and Hilarius waited, dumb as the dog
to which she had likened him, for he had no word.
There was silence a while.
Then the Princess spoke, and her voice cut Hilarius like the sting of a
lash:—
“Bring me yon flowers.”
He obeyed.
“Set them at my feet.”
He bent his knee and did so, wondering.
A moment, and she trod them under; their dying fragrance filled the air,
as their living breath had flooded the senses of the blind-eyed lad at
the Monastery gate.
One by one she set her heel upon the blossoms, and the marble was yellow
with stolen gold.
Hilarius held his breath; it was as if she did to death some living
thing, and yet he dared not bid her stay her insolent feet.
It was done; and she looked at him under questioning brows.
“So much for thy lilies! Dost still think that it will soil thy brush to
limn such an one as I? I, whom men call the Queen of Love—but thy lips,
say they, burnt with another name! Bethink thee, faint heart, there is
not a man in all this city but would count death a small price to pay for
my favours; and I ask of thee one little service, and thou shalt name
thine own reward. Surely ’tis churlish to gainsay!”
Her voice was suddenly sweet.
Stooping, she gathered to her the destruction she had wrought, fingering
the fallen petals tenderly, with a little sigh. She glanced up at
Hilarius through her lashes’ net. “Maybe I was over hasty,” she said
softly, and a sob swelled the round of her wonderful throat—“and yet how
couldst thou call me wanton?” Her mouth drooped a little—she was very
fair.
“Art thou still minded to set these poor pale flowers against the roses
in love’s garden? For I love thee,” she added, and then suddenly she was
still.
Hilarius looked from the dead flowers to the woman in her over-mastering
beauty, and all at once the passion that lies hid in the heart of every
man leapt to his lips. He desired this woman as he had never before
desired aught in all the world, and he knew, to his shame, that she was
his for the asking. The blood thudded and rang in his veins; he feasted
his eyes on the curve of her neck and the radiance of her sun-swept hair.
He stretched out his hands, but ere he could speak she raised a white,
terrified face, and glanced over her shoulder.
“Who touched me?” she gasped, her voice shrill with fear, “who touched
me?” And she sprang to her feet.
There was no one: the two shared a common pallor as they stared into each
other’s eyes across the dying lilies. Hilarius shrank back and covered
his face with his hands. Clear and distinct he heard the Prior’s voice:
“_A light woman—a light woman_.”
Then the Princess said hoarsely, “Go, go;” and without word or look
Hilarius went.
* * * * *
The Prior rose from his knees comforted. He had wrestled with the devil
for his son’s soul, and knew that he had prevailed.