CHAPTER LXXXVII
The Cloister and The Hearth
THE sermon had begun when Margaret entered the great church of St.Laurens. It was a huge edifice, far from completed. Churches were notbuilt in a year. The side aisles were roofed, but not the mid aisle northe chancel; the pillars and arches were pretty perfect, and some ofthem whitewashed. But only one window in the whole church was glazed;the rest were at present great jagged openings in the outer walls.
But to-day all these uncouth imperfections made the church beautiful. Itwas a glorious summer afternoon, and the sunshine came broken intomarvellous forms through those irregular openings, and played bewitchingpranks upon so many broken surfaces.
It streamed through the gaping walls, and clove the dark cool sideaisles with rivers of glory, and dazzled and glowed on the white pillarsbeyond.
And nearly the whole central aisle was chequered with light and shade inbroken outlines; the shades seeming cooler and more soothing than evershade was, and the light like patches of amber diamond, animated withheavenly fire. And above, from west to east the blue sky vaulted thelofty aisle, and seemed quite close.
The sunny caps of the women made a sea of white contrasting exquisitelywith that vivid vault of blue.
For the mid aisle huge as it was, was crammed, yet quite still. Thewords and the mellow, gentle, earnest voice of the preacher held themmute.
Margaret stood spell-bound at the beauty, the devotion, "the greatcalm." She got behind a pillar in the north aisle; and there, though shecould hardly catch a word, a sweet devotional languor crept over her atthe loveliness of the place and the preacher's musical voice: and balmyoil seemed to trickle over the waves in her heart and smooth them. Soshe leaned against the pillar with eyes half closed, and all seemed softand dreamy. She felt it good to be there.
Presently she saw a lady leave an excellent place opposite, to get outof the sun, which was indeed pouring on her head from the window.Margaret went round softly but swiftly; and was fortunate enough to getthe place. She was now beside a pillar of the south aisle, and not abovefifty feet from the preacher. She was at his side, a little behind him,but could hear every word.
Her attention however was soon distracted by the shadow of a man's headand shoulders bobbing up and down so drolly she had some ado to keepfrom smiling.
Yet it was nothing essentially droll.
It was the sexton digging.
She found that out in a moment by looking behind her, through thewindow, to whence the shadow came.
Now as she was looking at Jorian Ketel digging, suddenly a tone of thepreacher's voice fell upon her ear and her mind so distinctly, it seemedliterally to strike her, and make her vibrate inside and out.
Her hand went to her bosom, so strange and sudden was the thrill. Thenshe turned round and looked at the preacher. His back was turned andnothing visible but his tonsure. She sighed. That tonsure being all shesaw, contradicted the tone effectually.
Yet she now leaned a little forward with downcast eyes, hoping for thataccent again. It did not come. But the whole voice grew strangely uponher. It rose and fell as the preacher warmed: and it seemed to wakenfaint echoes of a thousand happy memories. She would not look to dispelthe melancholy pleasure this voice gave her.
Presently, in the middle of an eloquent period, the preacher stopped.
She almost sighed; a soothing music had ended. Could the sermon be endedalready? No: she looked around; the people did not move.
A good many faces seemed now to turn her way. She looked behind hersharply. There was nothing there.
Startled countenances near her now eyed the preacher. She followed theirlooks; and there, in the pulpit, was a face of a staring corpse. Thefriar's eyes, naturally large, and made larger by the thinness of hischeeks, were dilated to supernatural size, and glaring, her way, out ofa bloodless face.
She cringed and turned fearfully round; for she thought there must besome terrible thing near her. No: there was nothing; she was the outsidefigure of the listening crowd.
At this moment the church fell into commotion. Figures got up all overthe building, and craned forward; agitated faces by hundreds gazed fromthe friar to Margaret, and from Margaret to the friar. The turning toand fro of so many caps made a loud rustle. Then came shrieks of nervouswomen, and buzzing of men: and Margaret, seeing so many eyes levelled ather, shrank terrified behind the pillar, with one scared, hurried glanceat the preacher.
Momentary as that glance was, it caught in that stricken face anexpression that made her shiver.
She turned faint and sat down on a heap of chips the workmen had left,and buried her face in her hands. The sermon went on again. She heardthe sound of it; but not the sense. She tried to think, but her mind wasin a whirl. Thought would fix itself in no shape but this: that on thatprodigy-stricken face she had seen a look stamped. And the recollectionof that look now made her quiver from head to foot.
For that look was "RECOGNITION."
The sermon, after wavering some time, ended in a strain of exalted, nay,feverish eloquence, that went far to make the crowd forget thepreacher's strange pause and ghastly glare.
Margaret mingled hastily with the crowd, and went out of the church withthem.
They went their ways home. But she turned at the door, and went into thechurchyard; to Peter's grave. Poor as she was, she had given him a slaband a headstone. She sat down on the slab, and kissed it. Then threw herapron over her head that no one might distinguish her by her hair.
"Father," she said, "thou hast often heard me say I am wading in deepwaters; but now I begin to think God only knows the bottom of them. I'llfollow that friar round the world, but I'll see him at arm's length. Andhe shall tell me why he looked towards me like a dead man wakened: andnot a soul behind me. Oh father; you often praised me here: speak a wordfor me _there_. For I am wading in deep waters."
Her father's tomb commanded a side view of the church door.
And on that tomb she sat, with her face covered, waylaying the holypreacher.
The Cloister and the Hearth: A Tale of the Middle Ages Page 89