The White Ladies of Worcester A Romance of the Twelfth Century

CHAPTER XIV

FAREWELL--HERE, AND NOW

When the Pri­oress, a light­ed lantern in her hand, opened the door of her cham­ber, a tall fig­ure in the dress of the White Ladies of Worces­ter stood mo­tion­less against the wall, fac­ing the door.

“Come!” she whis­pered, beck­on­ing; and, noise­less­ly, it stood be­side her. Then she closed the door and, us­ing her mas­ter-​key, locked it be­hind her.

Silent­ly the two white fig­ures passed along the pas­sage, through the clois­ter, and down the flight of steps in­to the Con­vent crypt. The Pri­oress un­locked the door and stoop­ing they passed un­der the arch, and en­tered the sub­ter­ranean way.

Plac­ing the lantern on the ground, the Pri­oress drew out the key, closed the door, and locked it on the in­side.

She turned, and lift­ing the lantern, saw that the Knight had rid him­self of his dis­guise, and now stood be­fore her, very straight and tall, just with­in the cir­cle of light cast by her lantern.

With the clos­ing and lock­ing of the door a strange sense came over them, as of stand­ing to­geth­er in a third world--nei­ther his nor hers--tomb­like in its com­plete iso­la­tion and dark­ness; heavy with a smell of earth and damp stones; the slight­est sound re­ver­ber­at­ing in hol­low ex­ag­ger­ation; yet, in it­self, silent as the grave.

This tomb­like qual­ity in their sur­round­ings seemed to make their own vi­tal­ity stronger and more pal­pi­tat­ing.

The sec­onds of si­lence, af­ter the grat­ing of the key in the lock ceased, seemed hours.

Then the Knight spoke.

“Give me the lantern,” he said.

She met his eyes. Again the dig­ni­ty of her Of­fice slipped from her. Again it was sweet to obey.

He held the lantern so that its light il­lu­mined her face and his.

“Mo­ra,” he said, "it is long since thou and I last walked to­geth­er over the sun­ny fields, amid but­ter­cups and cowslips, and the sweet-​smelling clover. To-​night we walk be­neath the fields in­stead of through them. We are un­der the grass, my sweet. I seem to stand be­side thee in the grave. And tru­ly my hopes lie slain; the promise of our love is dead, and shall soon be buried. Yet thou and I still live, and now must walk to­geth­er side by side, the sad ghosts of our for­mer selves.

“So now I ask thee, Mo­ra, for the sake of those past walks among the flow­ers, to lay thy hand with­in my arm and walk with me in gen­tle fel­low­ship, here in this place of gloom and dark­ness, as, long ago, we walked among the flow­ers.”

His dark eyes searched her face. An al­most youth­ful ea­ger­ness vi­brat­ed in his voice.

She hes­itat­ed, lift­ing her eyes to his. Then slow­ly moved to­ward him and laid her hand with­in his arm.

Then, side by side, they paced on through the dark­ness; he, in his right hand, hold­ing the lantern, swing­ing low, to light their feet; she, lean­ing on his left arm, keep­ing slow pace with him.

Over their heads, in the mead­ows, walked lovers, arm in arm; young men and maid­ens out in the gath­er­ing twi­light. All na­ture, re­freshed, poured forth a fra­grant sweet­ness. But the rose, with its dewy petals, seemed to the youth less sweet than the lips of the maid. This, he shy­ly ven­tured to tell her; where­upon, as she bent to its fra­grance, her cheeks re­flect­ed the crim­son of those del­icate folds.

So walked and talked young lovers in the Worces­ter mead­ows; lit­tle dream­ing that, be­neath their hap­py feet, the Knight and the Pri­oress paced slow­ly, side by side, through the dark­ness.

No word passed be­tween them. With, her hand up­on his arm, her face so near his shoul­der, his arm press­ing her hand clos­er and clos­er against his heart, si­lence said more than speech. And in si­lence they walked.

They passed be­neath the city wall, un­der the Fore­gate.

The Sher­iff rode home to sup­per, well pleased with a stroke of busi­ness ac­com­plished in a house in which he had chanced to shel­ter dur­ing the storm.

The good peo­ple of Worces­ter bought and sold in the mar­ket. Men whose day's work was over, has­tened to reach the rest and com­fort of wife and home. Crowds jos­tled gai­ly through the streets, lit­tle dream­ing that be­neath their hur­ry­ing, busy feet, the Knight and the Pri­oress paced slow­ly, side by side, through the dark­ness.

Had the Knight spo­ken, her mind would have been up in arms to re­sist him. But, be­cause he walked in si­lence, her heart had leisure to re­mem­ber; and, re­mem­ber­ing, it grew sore­ly ten­der.

At length they reached the door­way lead­ing in­to the Cathe­dral crypt.

The Pri­oress car­ried the key in her left hand. Free­ing her right from the grip of his arm, she slipped the key noise­less­ly in­to the lock; but, leav­ing it there un­turned, she paused, and faced the Knight.

“Hugh,” she said, “I beg you, for my sake and for the sake of all whose fair fame is un­der my care, to pass through quick­ly in­to the crypt, and to go from thence, if pos­si­ble, un­seen, or in such man­ner as shall pre­vent any sus­pi­cion that you come from out this hid­den way. Tales of wrong are told so read­ily, and so quick­ly grow.”

“I will ob­serve the ut­most cau­tion,” said the Knight.

“Hugh,” she said, “I grieve to have had, per­force, to dis­ap­point you.” The brave voice shook. “This is our fi­nal farewell. Do you for­give me, Hugh? Will you think kind­ly, if you ev­er think on me?”

The Knight held the lantern so that its rays il­lu­mined both her face and his.

“Mo­ra,” he said, "I can­not as yet take thine an­swer as fi­nal. I will re­turn no more, nor try to speak with thee again. But five days longer, I shall wait. I shall have plans made with the ut­most care, to bear thee, in safe­ty and un­seen, from the Cathe­dral. I know the doors are watched, and that all who pass in and out are not­ed and ob­served. But, if thou wilt but come to me, belovèd, trust me to know how to guard mine own. . . . Nay, speak not! Hear me out.

“Dai­ly, af­ter Ves­pers, I shall stand hid­den among the pil­lars, close to the wind­ing stair. One step aside--on­ly one step--and my arm will be around thee. A new life of love and home will lie be­fore us. I shall take thee, safe­ly con­cealed, to the hos­tel where I and my men now lodge. There, hors­es will stand ready, and we shall ride at once to War­wick. At War­wick we shall find a priest--one in high favour, both in Church and State--who knows all, and is pre­pared to wed us with­out de­lay. Af­ter which, by easy stages, my wife, I shall take thee home.”

He swung the lantern high. She saw the love­light and the tri­umph, in his eyes. “I shall take thee home!” he said.

She stepped back a pace, lift­ing both hands to­ward him, palms out­ward, and stood thus gaz­ing, with eyes full of sor­row.

“My poor Hugh,” she whis­pered; “it is use­less to wait. I shall not come.”

“Yet five days,” said the Knight, “I shall tar­ry in Worces­ter. Each day, af­ter Ves­pers, I shall be here.”

“Go to-​day, dear Hugh. Ride to War­wick and tell thy priest, that which in­deed he should know with­out the telling: that a nun does not break her vows. This is our fi­nal farewell, Hugh. Thou hadst best be­lieve it, and go.”

“Our last farewell?” he said.

“Our last.”

“Here and now?”

“Here and now, dear Hugh.”

Look­ing in­to that calm face, so love­ly in its sad­ness, he saw that she meant it.

Of a sud­den he knew he had lost her; he knew life's way stretched lone­ly be­fore him, ev­er­more.

“Yes,” he said, “yes. It is in­deed farewell--here and now--for­ev­er.”

The dull de­spair in the voice which, but a few mo­ments be­fore, had vi­brat­ed with love and hope, wrung her heart.

She still held her hands be­fore her, as if to ward him off.

“Ah, Hugh,” she cried, sharply, “be mer­ci­ful, and go! Spare me, and go quick­ly.”

The Knight heard in her voice a tone it had not hith­er­to held. But he loved her loy­al­ly; there­fore he kept his own an­guish un­der strong con­trol.

Plac­ing the lantern on the ground, he knelt on one knee be­fore her.

“Farewell, my Love,” he said. “Our La­dy com­fort thee; and may Heav­en for­give me, for that I have dis­turbed thy peace.”

With which he lift­ed the hem of her robe, and pressed his lips up­on it.

Thus he knelt, for a space, his dark head bent.

Slow­ly, slow­ly, the Pri­oress let drop her hands un­til, light­ly as the fall of au­tumn leaves,--sad au­tumn leaves--they rest­ed up­on his head, in bless­ing and farewell.

But feel­ing his hair be­neath her hands, she could not keep from soft­ly smooth­ing it, nor from pass­ing her fin­gers gen­tly in and out of its crisp thick­ness.

Then her heart stood still, for of a sud­den, in the si­lence, she heard a shud­der­ing sob.

With a cry, she bent and gath­ered him to her, hold­ing his head first against her knees, then stoop­ing low­er to clasp it to her breast; then as his strong arms were flung around her, she loosed his head, and, as he rose to his feet, slipped her arms about his neck, and sur­ren­dered to his em­brace.

His lips sought hers, and at once she yield­ed them. His strong hands held her, and she, feel­ing the force of their con­straint, did but clasp him clos­er.

Long they stood thus. In that em­brace a life-​time of pain passed from them, a life-​time of bliss was born, and came with a rush to ma­tu­ri­ty, bring­ing with it a sense of ut­ter com­plete­ness. A world of sweet­est trust and cer­tain­ty filled them; a joy so per­fect, that the lone­ly vista of fu­ture years seemed, in that mo­ment, to mat­ter not at all.

All about them was dark­ness, si­lence as of the tomb; the heavy smell of earth; the dank chill of the grave.

Yet theirs was life more abun­dant; theirs, joy un­dreamed of; theirs, love be­yond all imag­in­ing, while those mo­ments last­ed.

Then----

The hands about his neck loos­ened, un­clasped, fell gen­tly away.

He set free her lips, and they took their lib­er­ty.

He un­locked his arms, and step­ping back she stood erect, like a fair white lily, need­ing no prop nor stay.

So they stood for a space, look­ing up­on one an­oth­er in si­lence. This thing which had hap­pened, was too won­der­ful for speech.

Then the Pri­oress turned the key in the lock.

The heavy door swung open.

A dim, grey light, like a pearly dawn at sea, came down­wards from the crypt.

With­out a word the Knight, bend­ing his head, passed un­der the arch­way, mount­ed the steps, and was lost to view among the many pil­lars.

She closed the door, locked it, and with­draw­ing the key, stood alone where they had stood to­geth­er.

Then, sink­ing to the ground, she laid her face in the dust, there where his feet had been.

It was farewell, here and now; farewell for­ev­er.

* * * * * *

Af­ter a while the Pri­oress rose, took up the lantern, and start­ed up­on her lone­ly jour­ney, back to the clois­ter door.