CHAPTER XXI.
THE DAMSEL WHICH FELL SICK.
From within the great fortress, like the rough husk whence the greenlobe of a living tree was about to break forth, a lovely child-soul,that knew neither of war nor ambition, knew indeed almost nothing savelove and pain, was gently rising as from the tomb. The bonds of theearthly life that had for ever conferred upon it the rights andprivileges of humanity were giving way, and little, white-faced,big-eyed Molly was leaving father and mother and grandfather andspouting horse and all, to find--what?--To find what she wanted, andwait a little for what she loved.
One sultry evening in the second week of June, the weather had again gotinside the inhabitants of the castle, forming different combinationsaccording to the local atmosphere it found in each. Clouds had beenslowly steaming up all day from several sides of the horizon, and as thesun went down, they met in the zenith. Not a wing seemed to be abroadunder heaven, so still was the region of storms. The air was hot andheavy and hard to breathe--whether from lack of life, or too much of it,oppressing the narrow and weak recipients thereof, as the sun oppressesand extinguishes earthly fires, I at least cannot say. It was weatherthat made SOME dogs bite their masters, made most of the maidsquarrelsome, and all the men but one or two more or less sullen, madeDorothy sad, Molly long after she knew not what, her mother weep, hergrandfather feel himself growing old, and the hearts of all the lovers,within and without the castle, throb for the comfort of each other'slonely society. The fish lay still in the ponds, the pigeons satmotionless on the roof-ridges, and the fountains did not play; forDorothy's heart was so heavy about Molly, that she had forgotten them.
The marquis, fond of all his grandchildren, had never taken specialnotice of Molly beyond what she naturally claimed as youngest. But whenit appeared that she was one of the spring-flowers of the human family,so soon withdrawing thither whence they come, he found that she began topull at his heart, not merely with the attraction betwixt childhood andage, in which there is more than the poets have yet sung, but with thedearness which the growing shadow of death gives to all upon whom itgathers. The eyes of the child seemed to nestle into his bosom. Everymorning he paid her a visit, and every morning it was clear that littleMolly's big heart had been waiting for him. The young as well as the oldrecognize that they belong to each other, despite the unwelcomeintervention of wrinkles and baldness and toothlessness. Molly's eyesbrightened when she heard his steps at the door, and ere he had comewithin her sight, where she lay half-dressed on her mother's bed, tentedin its tall carved posts and curtains of embroidered silk, the figureson which gave her so much trouble all the half-delirious night long, herarms would be stretched out to him, and the words would be trembling onher lips, 'Prithee, tell me a tale, sir.'
'Which tale wouldst thou have, my Molly?' the grandsire would say: itwas the regular form of each day's fresh salutation; and the little onewould answer, 'Of the good Jesu,' generally adding, 'and of the damselwhich fell sick and died.'
Torn as the country was, all the good grandparents, catholic andprotestant, royalist and puritan, told their children the same talesabout the same man; and I suspect there was more then than there is nowof that kind of oral teaching, for which any amount of books written forchildren is a sadly poor substitute.
Although Molly asked oftenest for the tale of the damsel who came aliveagain at the word of the man who knew all about death, she did not limither desires to the repetition of what she knew already; and in order tokeep his treasure supplied with things new as well as old, the marquiswent the oftener to his Latin bible to refresh his memory for Molly'suse, and was in both ways, in receiving and in giving, a gainer. Whenthe old man came thus to pour out his wealth to the child, lady Margaretthen first became aware what a depth both of religious knowledge andfeeling there was in her father-in-law. Neither sir Toby Mathews, norDr. Bayly, who also visited her at times, ever, with the torch of theirtalk, lighted the lamps behind those great eyes, whose glass was growingdull with the vapours from the grave; but her grandfather's voice, themoment he began to speak to her of the good Jesu, brought her soul toits windows.
This sultry evening Molly was restless. 'Madam! madam!' she kept callingto her mother--for, like so many of such children, her manners and modesof speech resembled those of grown people, 'What wouldst thou, chicken?'her mother would ask. 'Madam, I know not,' the child would answer.Twenty times in an hour, as the evening went on, almost the same wordswould pass between them. At length, once more, 'Madam! madam!' cried thechild. 'What would my heart's treasure?' said the mother; and Mollyanswered, 'Madam, I would see the white horse spout.'
With a glance and sign to her mistress. Dorothy rose and crept from theroom, crossed the court and the moat, and dragged her heavy heart up thelong stair to the top of the keep. Arrived there, she looked downthrough a battlement, and fixed her eyes on a certain window, whencepresently she caught the wave of a signal-handkerchief.
At the open window stood lady Margaret with Molly in her arms. The nightwas so warm that the child could take no hurt; and indeed what couldhurt her, with the nameless fever-moth within, fretting a passage forthe new winged body which, in the pains of a second birth, struggled tobreak from its dying chrysalis.
'Now, Molly, tell the horse to spout,' said lady Margaret, with suchwell-simulated cheerfulness as only mothers can put on with hearts readyto break.
'Mother Mary, tell the horse to spout,' said Molly; and up went thewatery parabolas.
The old flame of delight flushed the child's cheek, like the flush inthe heart of a white rose. But it died almost instantly, and murmuring,'Thanks, good madam!' whether to mother Mary or mother Margaret littlemattered, Molly turned towards the bed, and her mother knew at her heartthat the child sought her last sleep--as we call it, God forgive us ourlittle faith! 'Madam!' panted the child, as she laid her down.'Darling?' said the mother. 'Madam, I would see my lord marquis.' 'Iwill send and ask him to come.' 'Let Robert say that Molly isgoing--going--where is Molly going, madam?' 'Going to mother Mary,child,' answered lady Margaret, choking back the sobs that would havekept the tears company. 'And the good Jesu?' 'Yes.'--'And the good Godover all?' 'Yes, yes.' 'I want to tell my lord marquis. Pray, madam, lethim come, and quickly.'
His lordship entered, pale and panting. He knew the end was approaching.Molly stretched out to him one hand instead of two, as if her hold uponearth were half yielded. He sat down by the bedside, and wiped hisforehead with a sigh.
'Thee tired too, marquis?' asked the odd little love-bird.
'Yes, I am tired, my Molly. Thou seest I am so fat.'
'Shall I ask the good mother, when I go to her, to make thee spare likeMolly?'
'No, Molly, thou need'st not trouble her about that. Ask her to make megood.'
'Would it then be easier to make thee good than to make thee spare,marquis?'
'No, child--much harder, alas!'
'Then why--?' began Molly; but the marquis perceiving her thought, madehaste to prevent it, for her breath was coming quick and weak.
'But it is so much better worth doing, you see. If she makes me good,she will have another in heaven to be good to.'
'Then I know she will. But I will ask her. Mother Mary has so many tomind, she might be forgetting.'
After this she lay very quiet with her hand in his. All the windows ofthe room were open, and from the chapel came the mellow sounds of theorgan. Delaware had captured Tom Fool and got him to blow the bellows,and through the heavy air the music surged in. Molly was dozing alittle, and she spoke as one that speaks in a dream.
'The white horse is spouting music,' she said. 'Look! See how it goes upto mother Mary. She twists it round her distaff and spins it with herspindle. See, marquis, see! Spout, horse, spout.'
She lay silent again for a long time. The old man sat holding her hand;her mother sat on the farther side of the bed, leaning against one ofthe foot-posts, and watching the white face of her darling with eyes inwhich love ruled distraction. Dorothy sat in one
of the window-seats,and listened to the music, which still came surging in, for still thefool blew the bellows, and the blind youth struck the keys. And stillthe clouds gathered overhead and sunk towards the earth; and still thehorse, which Dorothy had left spouting, threw up his twin-fountain,whose musical plash in the basin as it fell mingled with the sounds ofthe organ.
'What is it?' said Molly, waking up. 'My head doth not ache, and myheart doth not beat, and I am not affrighted. What is it? I am nottired. Marquis, are you no longer tired? Ah, now I know! He cometh! Heis here!--Marquis, the good Jesu wants Molly's hand. Let him have it,marquis. He is lifting me up. I am quite well--quite--'
The sentence remained broken. The hand which the marquis had yielded,with the awe of one in bodily presence of the Holy, and which he sawraised as if in the grasp of one invisible, fell back on the bed, andlittle Molly was quite well.
But she left sick hearts behind. The mother threw herself on the bed,and wailed aloud. The marquis burst into tears, left the room, andsought his study. Mechanically he took his Confessio Amantis, and satdown, but never opened it; rose again and took his Shakespere, openedit, but could not read; rose once more, took his Vulgate, and read:
'Quid turbamini, et ploratis? puella non est mortua, sed dormit.'
He laid that book also down, fell on his knees, and prayed for her whowas not dead but sleeping.
Dorothy, filled with awe, rather from the presence of the mother of thedead than death itself, and feeling that the mother would rather bealone with her dead, also left the room, and sought her chamber, whereshe threw herself upon the bed. All was still save the plashing of thefountain, for the music from the chapel had ceased.
The storm burst in a glare and a peal. The rain fell in straight linesand huge drops, which came faster and faster, drowning the noise of thefountain, till the sound of it on the many roofs of the place was likethe trampling of an army of horsemen, and every spout was gurglingmusically with full throat. The one court was filled with a clashingupon its pavement, and the other with a soft singing upon its grass,with which mingled a sound as of little castanets from the broad leavesof the water-lilies in the moat. Ever and anon came the lightning, andthe great bass of the thunder to fill up the psalm.
At the first thunderclap lady Margaret fell on her knees and prayed inan agony for the little soul that had gone forth into the midst of thestorm. Like many women she had a horror of lightning and thunder, and itnever came into her mind that she who had so loved to see the horsespout was far more likely to be revelling in the elemental tumult, withall the added ecstasy of new-born freedom and health, than to betrembling like her mortal mother below.
Dorothy was not afraid, but she was heavy and weary; the thunder seemedto stun her and the lightning to take the power of motion from the shuteyelids through which it shone. She lay without moving, and at lengthfell fast asleep.
To the marquis alone of the mourners the storm came as a relief to hisovercharged spirit. He had again opened his New Testament, and tried toread; but if the truths which alone can comfort are not at such a timepresent to the spirit, the words that embody them will seldom be of muchavail. When the thunder burst he closed the book and went to the window,flung it wide, and looked out into the court. Like a tide from theplains of innocent heaven through the sultry passionate air of theworld, came the coolness to his brow and heart. Oxygen, ozone, nitrogen,water, carbonic acid, is it? Doubtless--and other things, perhaps, whichchemistry cannot detect. Nevertheless, give its parts what names youwill, its whole is yet the wind of the living God to the bodies of men,his spirit to their spirits, his breath to their hearts. When I learnthat there is no primal intent--only chance--in the unspeakable joy thatit gives, I shall cease to believe in poetry, in music, in woman, inGod. Nay, I must have already ceased to believe in God ere I couldbelieve that the wind that bloweth where it listeth is free because Godhath forgotten it, and that it bears from him no message to me.