by Hilda Lewis
“A gallows-bird.”
“Yet he had been a priest,” Samuel Fleming said, very gentle, “and yet he was able to pray with her. Do you not think, daughter—” and it was the first time he had called her that, “it might have been God’s way to show mercy to them both; to Margaret that saved her soul; and to the priest that, saving it, saved, perhaps, his own?”
“I could wish God less sparing of his tools.”
“The stone that the builders rejected; we have considered it before,” he reminded her. “And this priest whom men rejected, whom the Church even rejected, became the means of her salvation and his own.”
“It might be so. For certainly she was comforted when they took the priest away. And comfort was still in her when she went to her death. For, very soon, the turnkey was back again and bade my daughters follow him.
Margaret stood up, very quiet; but flinching as human flesh must do. Philip, for all her rags and dirt, carried herself like a queen.
‘Sister, Goodbye,’ Margaret said and stretched out her hand but Philip struck it aside. ‘It is indeed, Goodbye!’ she said. ‘I shall never see your white fool’s face again . . . until I see it frying upon coals.’
Margaret stood there and her hand was outstretched still. And then, priest, I saw it. I saw the thing that fell shining upon the upturned palm. She felt it drop and looked. And looked again. I saw the smile that trembled on her bloodless lips. For her a miracle had been worked. A tear. Her own tear. She was weeping; she who had not wept for six long years. God had forgiven her. He had sent her this sign.
Weeping her tears of joy she went across to Ellen and to Joan and to Ann; and, finger in the blessed dew, marked each one upon the forehead. It was as though she baptized them afresh.
‘That will not save you!’ Philip laughed; but laughter was choked by the storm of her fury. She moved to the door, turned and spat towards the pale faces that swam in the dark of the cell. ‘I look upon your coward’s faces for the last time . . . until I come to fetch you—all three—for your last journey.’ She laughed again and the turnkey laughed, too. ‘That will not be long,’ he said. ‘The gallows are wide.’
And now, Ann, seeing that they were taking Meg away, ran forward but the fellow thrust her back, saying, ‘No need of haste. Your turn will come soon enough.’ Meg looked at Joan and Ellen—a last, long look. ‘Take care of this little one,’ she said. ‘Let her not be too frightened. Pray, all three of you, Oh, pray. And, if you truly seek his mercy He will not turn away his face. Let us forgive each other now, that we may meet in heaven.’ And she reached up and kissed them, all three.
So they went out those two, together. Together . . . and all the space of heaven and hell between them.
I followed them down the narrow passage where there was no light save from the lantern the fellow carried—and that was little enough. They slithered and slipped and water slopped upwards upon their bare feet. And all about them were the terrible prison noises, and all about them the terrible prison smell . . . the smell of dirt and pain.
They came at last into the prison yard; and their feet though blue with cold yet stood firm upon clean cobbles. And the March wind stirred their hair and their rags; and the spring sun was sharp as a sword so that they were forced to close their eyes and walk like blind things after the dark prison.
And they reached the courthouse where they had faced the great judge and heard the sentence that was now to be fulfilled. And there they halted; for at the door stood my lord sheriff in his warm scarlet robes and his furs and his great gold chain—and his officers with him; snug men also in their good coats. And there was a priest with them but he made no sign of greeting to them that were to die, nor offered any word of prayer; and if he spoke of forgiveness, I did not hear it. And, before them all went a man with a great sword lifted high before his eyes; and beside him a man bearing a stout stick that he might help them if they faltered by the way.
But neither in Margaret nor in Philip was there any faltering. They took their places in the sad procession. Margaret walked with downcast head but Philip carried hers high. And, as they began to move, the priest began to chant; but he might have saved his breath since the words brought neither comfort nor any hope to them that were to die. But they carried within them their own comfort. For, low against the chanting, I heard Philip whispering. You might have thought she prayed; and, indeed, she did pray. Har Sathan, Sathan, come. Hail Master, Master save. Devil come, Devil save . . . come and save . . . save, save. There was no sign of fear. That was to come. I knew it must come and my naked soul trembled.
Margaret walked beside her. She was saved. And joy blunted her fear. God would receive her. It was a mercy she had not dared expect. Her dim eyes were dark with tears, but they were tears of gratitude. She, too, murmured beneath her breath. She was repeating the Lord’s Prayer; and when it was ended she started again. It was a treasure new-restored; she could not put it by.
And now the prison gate swung open. Their feet trod the world again where men and women go free about their business. But those two were not free; they were passing through this sweet world, they were going to their death.
And so the procession went its slow way; past the good comfortable houses of the good comfortable churchmen of the cathedral; where ladies peeped behind curtains to see the witches go by. But there was no need for the servants to peep; they were waiting with the rest down by the gallows-piece. And, as the procession passed the great minster that soars to the sky, Margaret halted and the procession with her.
She lifted her eyes all blinded with her tears—her blessed tears—and she crossed herself; and so stood and could not take her eyes away from this great symbol of God’s strength and his glory. But the man with the stick would have no more delay and thrust her on.
In the street where the shops are, there was no buying and selling this morning—every shop was shut; and the booths facing them, where the gaol ditch runs, was shut, too. For when a man hangs, why then your good folk make holiday. There they stood waiting in the dirt of the road, to go with the prisoners and miss nothing of the fun.
And fun there was! It was muddy, priest, for rain had fallen overnight; and when there is mud, the prisoners, like as not, will stumble and fall. And that is a sight that can never be relished too often! So there they waited, the good folk, ready with their lewd jests to those about to die. And who can blame them? Not you, Sir Priest-Magistrate, nor yet your judges. For is it not a rejoicing to see one’s fellows done to death—and your own hands clean?”
“Is it not a holiday and a rejoicing to know that when the agony is over the soul returns, forgiven, to God?”
“Was it so with them that shouted? As for forgiving—do you think God forgave Philip?”
“Not then. How could He forgive her when she hankered still after the Devil and his filthy lust?”
“And so in the noise and the shouting, in the whistling and the vile insults, the procession turned the corner and came upon the gallowspiece.
Philip walked as though she did not see what waited there; but Margaret lifted her head that had been bent low, and when she saw the high crosspiece and the uprights; and the tall, tall ladder and the dangling rope, she, being weak with fasting and with prayer, and her eyes all blinded with tears, stumbled and fell. Then the fellow with his stick pulled her roughly to her feet and she stood there stained with mud. And the people laughed; your good people, priest. And Philip laughed also. That was the worst thing of all . . . Philip laughed, also.
But Margaret gave no sign. She had seen the gallows and she had seen the cart and the eyes darkened in her head. But God gave her strength. She climbed into the cart—the death-cart, priest—and stood there patient. She put her hands together to pray but the men seized them and tied them with a cord. She made no offer to struggle; not even when they put the cloth about her eyes—and that is when the poor soul that is to hang strugg
les most. Nor did she stir when she felt the rope about her neck.
And when all was done and the fellow stood back satisfied, she spoke and her voice though low was clear. ‘May God forgive me and,’ she turned her bandaged eyes towards the executioner, ‘you, also. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.’ Then she stood very quiet—save for the great shaking of her body which was a thing she could not help—while the man on the high ladder tested the knot on the crossbeam.
But with Philip it was not so. Hers was a hard death. She ran lightly from her place and leaped within the cart; and, standing there, her head moved from right to left and back again. When they would have put the cloth about her head she stared so fierce and proud that they fell back. She let them put the rope about her neck—her little neck, and still her eyes went searching. Then one of the wags in your crowd of righteous folk cried out, She looks for her lover. She looks for the Devil to save her!
The crowd laughed. And she laughed, too—but not for long . . . not for long.
She lifted her head and saw the hangman testing the length of the rope and looking to the knot. Her laughter wavered and died. And I saw her face; the way the blood drained away, and how her eyes widened and darkened with horror. I have seen death, priest, and I have seen horror—this was not my first hanging. But such fear, such horror, I had never seen before. She cried out; but there were no words. Only the first shocking cry and then the long and fearful wailing.
And then I saw Margaret—Margaret, the despised, the coward, the fool. She turned her bandaged head and she lifted her pinioned hands, and, as best she might, made the sign of the cross towards her sister.
And the cart began to move . . . and I could look no more.
For though I was a witch, priest, that had delighted in evil, yet these were my daughters I had carried within the womb and brought forth in pain . . . and they were dying the death to which I had brought them. And though one had come to the end of her wanderings and was gathered to God’s mercy, still, hanging is no sweet matter. And for the other—what a death was that! Cast-off and betrayed; and the power of the Master nothing. For either He could not or He would not.
In those last moments of her agony she knew the worth of the Master’s words. She was indeed bound for Hell; but it was not the Hell of the Master’s promise, it was the Christian Hell . . . eternal Pit, eternal pain.”
Joan Flower’s voice broke sharply; the quiet room was full of sorrow, full of pain. He dared not stir the sorrow with his words; he could not assuage the pain. And then, into the silence she spoke at last.
“There was a thing you said before, priest. I asked, Could God forgive Philip? And you said, Not then.
Not then. And her voice held wonder. “Do you think even such as she shall come to Him at the last?”
“Who shall understand the Mystery of God or measure his compassion? Not I. Not you. But this I believe—there is no end to his mercy.”
“Then there is hope for her, even for her; and for me, also . . . if you are right. And I pray you may be right. For I weary of wandering the eternal loneliness. And this house may receive me no more, nor any place where we have met and spoken one with the other. The tale is finished.”
“Why did you come at all, Joan Flower? And who was it gave you leave?”
“Priest, do we end as we began—the same question, the same answer? I came because you called me, because you would not let me rest with your eternal questioning. Yet the answer is no longer so simple; I know that, now we have talked together. I know now I came also that you might understand the cruelty you have done, you and your good men with you. And that you now understand very well. For with all your faults and with all your blindness, you are certainly God’s priest. And you, who believe in the everlasting mercy of God, know that man must show mercy also.
And for one more thing—and that I did not tell you before.
I think you loved me . . . once . . . a little. And because of that God let me come since he is a God of love. He knows well that where there is love, be it never so little, the Devil’s way must turn in the end to God’s way. And there are your questions answered.
And since all is finished now, and this is the last time I shall come, will you, priest, answer one last question for me. If God is as merciful as you say, shall we, in the end, meet before his throne?”
“I doubt I shall get so far,” he said, humble.
“You will get there; and you will get there soon. But you will wait long and long enough for me. For you purposed much good and did a little evil; and I purposed much evil and did a little good. And God, I think, is not only merciful; He is just. I am the stone the builders rejected—for my Master will have none of me. And, though I cannot hope to be a cornerstone in heaven, yet in the end God may make use of me . . . even of me.
And, priest, I believe we shall meet again and know each other. And however long that time may be, still you will not forget me, not though human time falls broken before the patience of God. For you loved me once, a little; and you might have loved me more . . . had things been different. But you are a gentleman and I was not a lady and did not know the ways of gentlefolk. Yet, even then, I might have been your wife, for I was quick to learn. Ah well, that is all guessing, since you were a priest and I was a witch. But, because you might have loved me—did, indeed, love me that little—let us say Goodbye as lovers use.”
He felt a touch upon his lips cold as death. It was a coldness that set him shivering so that he thought he must die of it. He saw the outline of her body begin to thin, to melt. He was touched with an acute sense of loss and put out a hand as though to hold her back; but she shook her sorrowful head.
And now, the door opened; and through the thinning mist of her body, he looked across at Hester. She turned her head this way and that, calling softly. “I cannot find the cat,” she said, “I have searched and searched but I cannot find her anywhere.”
“I think you will not find her ever again,” he said, gently, and saw the all-but vanished spirit nod. “Well, it was a little wild thing and we must find you another.”
She shook her head. “But still I must look. He is a clever little cat and good company. Puss, puss . . .” She went out of the door; he heard her voice grow faint along the passage.
It is cold, he thought, cold. But, Poor folk are always cold in winter . . . sometimes they die of the cold. She had said that—Joan Flower. And now, her kiss upon his lips, he thought, It is coldest of all when you are dead . . . and remembered the unfinished will. He was reluctant to rise, all cold as he was; but the unfinished will reproached him.
He climbed stiffly from the bed, and, bedgown about him, made the careful descent of the stairs. Now he stood in the dark study and his hands were so cold they scarcely obeyed him; yet he managed to light the candles upon the table. The wicks caught and the flames lengthened. He thought, surprised, It should be lighter in the room; and put out a hand to the drawer. It was so heavy in his hand, he could hardly move it and that surprised him, too. But for all that he managed to pull it open. He took out the will and spread it upon the table.
Dim eyes screwed against the candleflame, he made out what he had written.
. . . and maintaining of a hospice for four poor women of this parish . . .
He lifted the pen and driving stiff fingers to their task, slowly and with difficulty, wrote,
. . . together with such allowances of coal . . .
He stopped and considered . . . Coals to warm old bones in the pious evening of their lives. Or—he smiled a little—the not so pious evening. All human flesh, good and bad alike, is subject to wind and to cold.
His fingers tightened about the pen, drove on to the end.
Samuel Fleming, he wrote; and laid down the pen.
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