Volume II Part 92 (1/2)
Not till I saw before me in the lane The pedlar and my uncle did I halt And look at that which clasped my finger still As with a band of ice.
My hand was bare!
I stared at it and rubbed it. Then I thought I had been dreaming. There had been no ring!
The poor man I had left there in the porch, Being a Frenchman, talked a little wild; But only wished to look upon her grave.
And I--I was the madman! So I said Nothing. But all the same, for all my thoughts, I'd not go back that night to find the keys, No, not for all the rubies in the crown Of Prester John.
The high State Funeral Was held on Lammas Day. A wondrous sight For Peterborough! For myself, I found Small satisfaction in a catafalque That carried a dummy coffin. None the less, The pedlar thought that as a Solemn Masque, Or Piece of Purple Pomp, the thing was good, And worthy of a picture in his rhymes; The more because he said it shadowed forth The ironic face of Death.
The Masque, indeed Began before we buried her. For a host Of Mourners--Lords and Ladies--on Lammas eve Panting with eagerness of pride and place, Arrived in readiness for the morrow's pomp, And at the Bishop's Palace they found prepared A mighty supper for them, where they sat All at one table. In a Chamber hung With 'scutcheons and black cloth, they drank red wine And feasted, while the torches and the Queen Crept through the darkness of Northampton lanes.
At seven o'clock on Lammas Morn they woke, After the Queen was buried; and at eight The Masque set forth, thus pictured in the rhymes With tolling bells, which on the pedlar's lips Had more than paid his lodging: Thus he spake it, Slowly, sounding the rhymes like solemn bells, And tolling, in between, with lingering tongue:--
_Toll!_--From the Palace the Releevants creep,-- A hundred poor old women, nigh their end, Wearing their black cloth gowns, and on each head An ell of snow-white holland which, some said, Afterwards they might keep, --_Ah, Toll!_--with nine new s.h.i.+llings each to spend, For all the trouble that they had, and all The sorrow of walking to this funeral.
_Toll!_--And the Mourning Cloaks in purple streamed Following, a long procession, two by two, Her Household first. With these, Monsieur du Preau Her French Confessor, unafraid to show The golden Cross that gleamed About his neck, warned what the crowd might do Said _I will wear it, though I die for it!_ So subtle in malice was that Jesuit.
_Toll!_--Sir George Savile in his Mourner's Gown Carried the solemn Cross upon a Field Azure, and under it by a streamer borne Upon a field of Gules, an Unicorn Argent and, lower down, A scrolled device upon a blazoned s.h.i.+eld, Which seemed to say--I AM SILENT TILL THE END!-- _Toll! Toll!_--IN MY DEFENCE, G.o.d ME DEFEND!
_Toll!_--and a hundred poor old men went by, Followed by two great Bishops.--_Toll, ah toll!_-- Then, with White Staves and Gowns, four n.o.ble lords; Then sixteen Scots and Frenchmen with drawn swords; Then, with a Bannerol, Sir Andrew Noel, lifting to the sky The Great Red Lion. Then the Crown and Crest Borne by a Herald on his glittering breast.
And now--ah now, indeed, the deep bell tolls-- That empty Coffin, with its velvet pall, Borne by six Gentlemen, under a canopy Of purple, lifted by four knights, goes by.
The Crown Imperial Burns on the Coffin-head. Four Bannerols On either side, uplifted by four squires, Roll on the wind their rich heraldic fires.
_Toll!_ The Chief Mourner--the fair Russell!--_toll!_-- Countess of Bedford--_toll!_--they bring her now, Weeping under a purple Cloth of State, Till, halting there before the Minister Gate, Having in her control The fair White Staves of office, with a bow She gives them to her two great Earls again, Then sweeps them onward in her mournful train.
_Toll!_ At the high Cathedral door the Quires Meet them and lead them, singing all the while A mighty _Miserere_ for her soul!
Then, as the rolling organ--_toll, ah toll!_-- Floods every glimmering aisle With ocean-thunders, all those knights and squires Bring the false Coffin to the central nave And set it in the Catafalque o'er her grave.
The Catafalque was made in Field-bed wise Valanced with midnight purple, fringed with gold: All the Chief Mourners on dark thrones were set Within it, as jewels in some huge carcanet: Above was this device IN MY DEFENCE, G.o.d ME DEFEND, inscrolled Round the rich Arms of Scotland, as to say ”Man judged me. I abide the Judgment Day.”
The s.e.xton paused anew. All looked at him, And at his wrinkled, grim, earth-coloured hand, As if, in that dim light, beclouded now With blue tobacco-smoke, they thought to see The smouldering ruby again.
”Ye know,” he said, ”How master William Wickham preached that day?”
Ford nodded. ”I have heard of it. He showed Subtly, O very subtly, after his kind, That the white Body of Beauty such as hers Was in itself Papistical, a feast, A fast, an incense, a burnt-offering, And an Abomination in the sight Of all true Protestants. Why, her very name Was Mary!”
”Ay, that's true, that's very true!”
The s.e.xton mused. ”Now that's a strange deep thought!
The Bishop missed a text in missing that.
Her name, indeed, was Mary!”
”Did you find Your keys again?” ”Ay, Sir, I found them!” ”Where?”
”Strange you should ask me that! After the throng Departed, and the n.o.bles were at feast, All in the Bishop's Palace--a great feast And worthy of their sorrow--I came back Carrying my uncle's second bunch of keys To lock the doors and search, too, for mine own.
'Twas growing dusk already, and as I thrust The key into the lock, the great grey porch Grew cold upon me, like a tomb.
I pushed Hard at the key--then stopped--with all my flesh Freezing, and half in mind to fly; for, sirs, The door was locked already, and--_from within_!
I drew the key forth quietly and stepped back Into the Churchyard, where the graves were warm With sunset still, and the blunt carven stones Lengthened their homely shadows, out and out, To Everlasting. Then I plucked up heart, Seeing the footprints of that mighty Masque Along the pebbled path. A queer thought came Into my head that all the world without Was but a Masque, and I was creeping back, Back from the Mourner's Feast to Truth again.
Yet--I grew bold, and tried the Southern door.
'Twas locked, but held no key on the inner side To foil my own, and softly, softly, click, I turned it, and with heart, sirs, in my mouth, Pushed back the studded door and entered in ...
Stepped straight out of the world, I might have said, Out of the dusk into a night so deep, So dark, I trembled like a child....
And then I was aware, sirs, of a great sweet wave Of incense. All the gloom was heavy with it, As if her Papist Household had returned To pray for her poor soul; and, my fear went.
But either that strange incense weighed me down, Or else from being sorely over-tasked, A languor came upon me, and sitting there To breathe a moment, in a velvet stall, I closed mine eyes.
A moment, and no more, For then I heard a rustling in the nave, And opened them; and, very far away, As if across the world, in Rome herself, I saw twelve tapers in the solemn East, And saw, or thought I saw, cowled figures kneel Before them, in an incense-cloud.
And then, Maybe the sunset deepened in the world Of masques without--clear proof that I had closed Mine eyes but for a moment, sirs, I saw As if across a world-without-end tomb, A tiny jewelled glow of crimson panes Darkening and brightening with the West.