"Poor brother, I pity thee," said the maiden; "there is no man or maid
but pities thee. If thou wilt tell me of thy mother, I will find her,
even were I to travel far, and bid her come to thee. Well I wot she
will come to thee if she may."
For all his manhood and learning and holiness, Waldo could not still
the crying of the little child within him, and he told the maiden of
his mother, and blessed her, and asked her name. When she answered
that it was Dorothy, "Truly," said he, "it is a fair name and gracious,
and in thy coming thou hast been a gift of God to me."
Thereupon the maiden left him, and Waldo returned to his hut, comforted
and full of hope.
After a month had gone Dorothy returned. Crossing the stepping-stones
in the clear light of the early morning, she found Waldo meditating by
the door of his hut.
"I have done thy bidding, brother," she said in a gentle voice, "but
alas! thy mother cannot come to thee. Grieve not too much at this, for
she is with God. She must have died about the time thou didst call for
her; and well may I believe that it was she who sent me to thee in her
stead."
"The will of God be done," said Waldo, and he bowed his head, and spoke
no more for a long while; but the maiden stood patiently awaiting till
he had mastered his grief.
At length he raised his head and saw her. "Art thou not gone?" he
asked. "I thought thou hadst gone. Thou art good and gentle, and I
thank thee. Go now, for here thou mayst not stay."
"Nay, brother," replied Dorothy, "thou hast no mother to come to thee
now, no companion or friend to minister to thee. This is my place. Do
not fear that I shall annoy or weary thee. I shall but serve and obey
thee, coming and going at thy bidding. Truly thou art too weak and
afflicted to be left any more alone."
"It may not be, dear child. Thy father and mother or others of thy
kinsfolk need thee at home."
"All these have been long dead," said Dorothy, "and I am alone. Here
in the wood I will find me a hollow tree, and thou shalt but call to
have me by thee, and but lift a finger to see me no more."
"Why wouldst thou do this for me?" asked Waldo, wondering at her
persistency.
"Ah, brother, I know thy suffering and I love thy songs."
"And dost thou not shudder at this horror that is upon me, and dread
lest the like befall thee too?"
Then Dorothy laughed low and softly to herself, and answered only so.
In this wise the maiden came to minister to the poor recluse, and so
gracious was she and humble, so prudent and yet so tender, that in his
suffering she was great solace to him, bringing his food from the
boulder and his drink from the brook, cleaning his cell and freshening
it with fragrant herbs; and about the cell she made a garden of
wholesome plants and wild flowers, and all kindly service that was
within her power she did for him.
So beautiful was she and of such exceeding sweetness, that when his
eyes rested upon her, he questioned in his mind whether she was a true
woman and not an Angel sent down to console him in his dereliction.
And that doubt perplexed and troubled him, for so little are we Angels
yet that in our aches and sorrows of the flesh it is not the comfort of
Angels but the poor human pitiful touch of the fellow-creature that we
most yearn for. Once, indeed, he asked her fretfully, "Tell me truly
in the name of God, art thou a very woman of flesh and blood?"
"Truly then, brother," she answered, smiling, "I am of mortal flesh and
blood even as thou art, and time shall be when this body that thou
seest will be mingled with the dust of the earth."
"Is it then the way of women to sacrifice so much for men as thou hast
done for me?"
"It is the way of women who love well," said Dorothy.
"Then needs must I thank thy namesake and my patroness in heaven,"
rejoined Waldo.
"Yea, and is St. Dorothea thy patroness?" asked the maiden.
Waldo told her that so it was, and rapturously he spoke of the young
and beautiful saint done to death in Caesarea, and of the fruit and
flowers of Paradise which she sent to Theophilus. "And I would," he
sighed under his breath, "that she would send such a gift to me."
"All this I know," said Dorothy, "for I have learnt thy song of Golden
Apples and Roses Red, and I love it most of all thy songs, though these
be many and sung all about the world, I think. And this I will tell
thee of thy songs, that I saw in a dream once how they were not mere
words and melody, but living things. Like the bright heads of baby
Angels were they, and they were carried on wings as it were of
rose-leaves, and they fluttered about the people who loved them and
sang them, leading them into blessed paths and whispering to them holy
and happy thoughts."
"God be blessed and praised for ever, if it be so," said Waldo; "but
this was no more than a maiden's dream."
For two winters Dorothy ministered to the poor leper, and during this
while no one save Waldo knew of her being in the woods, and no other
man set eyes on her. The fourth year of his exile was now drawing to a
close, and Waldo had fallen into extreme weakness by reason of his
malady, and over his face he wore a mask of grey cloth, with two holes
for his great piteous eyes. It was in the springtide, and one night as
he lay sleepless in the dark, listening to the long murmur of the wind
in the swaying pines, he heard overhead sharp cries and trumpetings,
and the creaking and winnowing of wings innumerable.
Rising from his bed, he went out of doors, and looked up into the dark
heavens; and high and spectral among the clouded stars he saw the
home-coming of the cranes. He sat on the bench beside his door, and
watched them sail past in thousands, filling the night with a fleeting
clamour and eerie sounds. As he sat he mused on the strange longing
which brought these birds over land and sea back home, year by year,
with the returning spring, and he marvelled that the souls of men,
which are but birds of passage in these earthly fields, should be so
slow to feel that longing for their true home-land.
That day when Dorothy came to the hut, he said to her: "It is well to
be glad, for, though the air is still keen, the spring is here. I
heard the cranes returning in the night."
"And I too heard them; and I heard thee rejoicing, playing on thy harp
and singing."
"That could not be, sister," said Waldo, "unless in a dream. No longer
can I touch harp-string, as thou knowest."
"In truth I was awake and heard," said Dorothy; "and the song thou wast
singing was of birds of passage, and of the longing of exiles to go
home, and of the dark wherethrough we must pass, with cries and beating
wings, ere we can find our way back to our true home-land.'"
"Nay, it must have been a dream," said Waldo, "for as I sat with my
hands hidden in my gown I did but play an imaginary harp, making still
music in my heart, and no song came from my lips."
"The more strange that I should hear!" replied Dorothy, smiling as she
went her way.
In a little while from this the poor brother felt that the end of his
martyrdom drew nigh; and as he lay feeble and faint in the shadow of
the hut (for the day was clement), sighing for the hour of his
deliverance, Dorothy came from the woods. In her hand she carried a
basket, and as she stood over him she said, "See what I have brought
for thee."
Lifting his head weakly, and looking through the eyelets of his grey
mask, Waldo saw that the basket contained three golden apples and three
red roses, though still it was but early days in spring. At sight of
them he uttered a cry of gladness (for all it was a cry hollow and
hoarse), and strove to rise and throw himself at her feet.
"Nay, brother," she said, "refrain; lie still and breathe the sweetness
of the roses and taste of the fruit."
She gave him one of the apples, and putting it to his mouth he tasted
it and sighed deeply. In a moment all pain and suffering had left him,
and his spirit was light and gladsome. His eyes too were opened, so
that he knew that Dorothy had no way deceived him, but was truly a
living woman of flesh and blood like himself. Then a heavenly peace
descended upon him like a refreshing dew, and he closed his eyes for
the great ease he felt.
While these things were happening, came from Three Fountains the
lay-brother who brought Waldo his provisions. Crossing the brook to
set his budget on the boulder, he saw the poor recluse lying in the lee
of the hut, and Dorothy leaning over him. Wherefore he hastened across
the wood-lawn, but in an instant the fair woman vanished before his
eyes, and when he came to the hut he saw that Waldo was dead. He
carried the basket of flowers and fruit to the Priory, and told what he
had seen; and the Prior, marvelling greatly, came to the place and gave
the poor leper brother a blessed burial.
Now at this time a wondrous strange occurrence was the talk of Rome.
The year wherein Waldo died was that seventh year in which the shrine
of St. Dorothea is opened in her church beyond Tiber; and the day on
which it is opened fell a little while before the death of Waldo.
Behold, then, when on the vigil of that feast the priests unlocked the
shrine, the place where aforetime the holy body of the martyr had lain
was empty. Great was the dismay, loud the lamentation, grievous the
suspicion. The custodians of the church and the shrine were seized and
cast into prison, where they lay till the day of their trial. On the
morning of that day the church of St. Dorothea was filled with a divine
fragrance, which seemed to transpire from the empty shrine as from a
celestial flower. Wherefore once again the shrine was opened, and
there, even such as they had been seen by many of the faithful seven
years before, lay the relics of the Saint in their old resting-place.
Now to all poor souls God grant a no less happy end of days than this
which He vouchsafed to the poor leper-singer Waldo of the Priory of
Three Fountains.