THE ROLLING OF THE STONE
It was a week later, and a little before dawn, that Isabel was kneeling
by Anthony's bed in his room in the Tower. The Lieutenant had sent for
her to his lodging the evening before, and she had spent the whole night
with her brother. He had been racked four times in one week, and was
dying.
* * * *
The city and the prison were very quiet now; the carts had not yet begun
to roll over the cobble-stones and the last night-wanderers had gone
home. He lay, on the mattress that she had sent in to him, in the corner
of his cell under the window, on his back and very still, covered from
chin to feet with her own fur-lined cloak that she had thrown over him;
his head was on a low pillow, for he could not bear to lie high; his feet
made a little mound under the coverlet, and his arms lay straight at his
side; but all that could be seen of him was his face, pinched and white
now with hollows in his cheeks and dark patches and lines beneath his
closed eyes, and his soft pointed brown beard that just rested on the fur
edging of Isabel's cloak; his lips were drawn tight, but slightly parted,
showing the rim of his white teeth, as if he snarled with pain.
The only furniture in the room was a single table and chair; the table
was drawn up not far from the bed, and a book or two, with a flask of
cordial and some fragments of food on a plate lay upon it; his cloak and
doublet and ruff lay across the chair and his shoes below it, and a
little linen lay in a pile in another corner; but the clothes in which he
had been tortured the evening before, his shirt and hose, could not be
taken off him and he lay in them still. They had been so soaked with
sweat, that Isabel had found him shivering, and laid her cloak over him,
and now he lay quiet and warm.
Earlier in the night she had been reading to him, and a taper still
burned in a candlestick on the table; but for the last two hours he had
lain either in a sleep or a swoon, and she had laid the book down and was
watching him.
He was so motionless that he would have seemed dead except for the steady
rise and fall of a fold in the mantle, and for a sudden muscular twitch
every few minutes. Isabel herself was scarcely less motionless; her face
was clear and pale as it always was, but perfectly serene, and even her
lips did not quiver. She was kneeling and leaning back now, and her hands
were clasped in her lap. There was a proud content in her face; her dear
brother had not uttered one name on the rack except those of the Saviour
and of the Blessed Mother. So the Lieutenant had told her.
Suddenly his eyes opened and there was nothing but peace in them; and his
lips moved. Isabel leaned forward on her hands and bent her ear to his
mouth till his breath was warm on it, and she could hear the whisper....
Then she opened the book that lay face down on the table and began to
read on, from the point at which she had laid it down two hours before.
"'_Erat autem hora tertia: et crucifixerunt eum._ And it was the third
hour and they crucified him ... And with him they crucify two thieves,
the one on his right hand, and the other on his left. And the scripture
was fulfilled which saith, And he was numbered with the transgressors.'"
Her voice was slow and steady as she read the unfamiliar Latin, still
kneeling, with the book a little raised to catch the candlelight, and her
grave tranquil eyes bent upon it. Only once did her voice falter, and
then she commanded it again immediately; and that, as she read "_Erant
autem et mulieres de longe aspicientes_." "There were also women looking
on afar off."
And so the tale crept on, minute by minute, and the priest lay with
closed eyes to hear it; until the mocking was complete, and the darkness
of the sixth hour had come and gone, and the Saviour had cried aloud on
His Father, and given up the ghost; and the centurion that stood by had
borne witness. And the great Criminal slept in the garden, in the
sepulchre "wherein was never man yet laid."
There was a listening silence as the voice ceased without another falter.
Isabel laid the book down and looked at him again; and his eyes opened
languidly.
He had not yet said more than single words, and even now his voice was so
faint that she had to put her ear close to his mouth. It seemed to her
that his soul had gone into some inner secret chamber of profound peace,
so deep that it was a long and difficult task to send a thought to the
surface through his lips.
She could just hear him, and she answered clearly and slowly as to a
dazed child, pausing between every word.
"I cannot get a priest; it is not allowed."
Still his eyes bent on her; what was it he said? what was it?...
Then she heard, and began to repeat short acts of contrition clearly and
distinctly, pausing between the phrases, in English, and his eyes closed
as she began:
"O my Jesus--I am heartily sorry--that I have--crucified thee--by my
sins--Wash my soul--in Thy Precious Blood. O my God--I am sorry--that I
have--displeased Thee--because thou art All-good. I hate all the
sins--that I have done--against Thy Divine Majesty."
And so phrase after phrase she went on, giving him time to hear and to
make an inner assent of the will; and repeating also other short vocal
prayers that she knew by heart. And so the delicate skein of prayer rose
from the altar where this morning sacrifice lay before God, waiting the
consummation of His acceptance.
Presently she ended, and he lay again with closed eyes and mute face.
Then again they opened, and she bent down to listen....
"It will all be well with me," she answered, raising her head again.
"Mistress Margaret has written from Brussels. I shall go there for a
while.... Yes, Mr. Buxton will take me; next week: he goes to Normandy,
to his estate."
Again his lips moved and she listened....
A faint flush came over her face. She shook her head.
"I do not know; I think not. I hope to enter Religion.... No, I have not
yet determined.... The Dower House?... Yes, I will sell it.... Yes, to
Hubert, if he wishes it."
Every word he whispered was such an effort that she had to pause again
and again before he could make her understand; and often she judged more
by the movement of his lips than by any sound that came from him. Now and
then too she lifted her handkerchief, soaked in a strong violet scent,
and passed it over his forehead and lips. She motioned with the flask of
cordial once or twice, but his eyes closed for a negative.
As she knelt and watched him, her thoughts circled continually in little
flights; to the walled garden of the Dower House in sunshine, and Anthony
running across it in his brown suit, with the wallflowers behind him
against the old red bricks and ivy, and the tall chestnut rising behind;
to the wind-swept hills, with the thistles and the golden-rod, and the
hazel thickets, and Anthony on his pony, sunburnt and voluble, hawk on
wrist, with a light in his eyes; to the warm panelled hall in winter,
with the tapers on the round table, and Anthony flat on his face, with
his feet in the air before the hearth, that glowed and roared up the wide
chimney behind, and his chin on his hands, and a book open before him;
or, farther back even still, to Anthony's little room at the top of the
house, his clothes on a chair, and the boy himself sitting up in bed with
his arms round his knees as she came in to wish him good-night and talk
to him a minute or two. And every time the circling thought came home and
settled again on the sight of that still straight figure lying on the
mattress, against the discoloured bricks, with the light of the taper
glimmering on his thin face and brown hair and beard; and every time her
heart consented that this was the best of all.
A bird chirped suddenly from some hole in the Tower, once, and then three
or four times; she glanced up at the window and the light of dawn was
beginning. Then, as the minutes went by, the city began to stir itself
from sleep. There came a hollow whine from the Lion-gate fifty yards
away; up from the river came the shout of a waterman; two or three times
a late cock crew; and still the light crept on and broadened. But Anthony
still lay with his eyes closed.
At last over the cobbles outside a cart rattled, turned a corner and was
silent. Anthony had opened his eyes now and was looking at her again; and
again she bent down to listen; ... and then opened and read again.
"'_Et cum transisset sabbatum Maria Magdalene et Maria Jacobi et Salome
emerunt aromata, ut venientes ungerent Jesum._'
"'And when the Sabbath was past, Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother of
James and Salome, had bought sweet spices that they might come and anoint
him.'"
A slight sound made her look up. Anthony's eyes were kindling and his
lips moved; she bent again and listened.... What was it he said?...
Yes, it was so, and she smiled and nodded at him: she was reading the
Gospel for Easter Day, the Gospel of the first mass that they had heard
together on that spring morning at Great Keynes, when their Lord had led
them so far round by separate paths to meet one another at His altar. And
now they were met again here. She read on:
"'_Et valde mane una sabbatorum, veniunt ad monumentum, orto jam
sole._'
"'Very early they came unto the sepulchre at the rising of the sun; and
they said among themselves, Who shall roll us away the stone from the
door of the sepulchre? And when they looked, they saw that the stone was
rolled away, for it was very great.'...
"'... _magnus valde_,'" read Isabel; and looked up again;--and then
closed the book. There was no need to read more.
* * * *
She walked across the court half an hour later, just as the sun came up;
and passed out through the Lieutenant's lodging, and out by the narrow
bridge on to the Tower wharf.
To the left and behind her, as she looked eastwards down the river, lay
the heavy masses of the prison she had left, and the high walls and
turrets were gilded with glory. The broad river itself was one rolling
glory too; the tide was coming in swift and strong and a barge or two
moved upwards, only half seen in the bewildering path of the sun. The air
was cool and keen, and a breeze from the water stirred Isabel's hair as
she stood looking, with the light on her face. It was a cloudless October
morning overhead. Even as she stood a flock of pigeons streamed across
from the south side, swift-flying and bathed in light; and her eyes
followed them a moment or two.
As she stood there silent, a step came up the wharf from the direction of
St. Katharine's street, and a man came walking quickly towards her. He
did not see who she was until he was close, and then he started and took
off his hat; it was Lackington on his way to some business at the Tower;
but she did not seem to see him. She turned almost immediately and began
to walk westwards, and the glory in her eyes was supreme. And as she went
the day deepened above her.