“Is there a thing that thou wouldst keep from Him?—a thing that thou lovest more than thou lovest Him? Then it will be no marvel that thou shouldst lose the same. Trust me, if His heart be set on thee, He will either have thy heart away from it by thy good will, or will have it away from thy heart by bitter rending and sorrow. And alas for that man who hath no portion in Christ His heart!”
Richard answered almost in a whisper, and bent forward to take Margery’s hand as he did so. The spell was fully broken now.
“There was only one thing, and He hath taken it. Margery, I loved you. I had given readily all else but you. And I trow you will count it but a sorry (poor, unworthy) giving, wherein the heart goeth not with the hands.”
She turned her head hastily away, and made no answer; but he felt her hand grow deathly cold in his own. He dropped it, and rose—and so did she. She went with him to the door; and there, as she offered her hand for a farewell greeting, she spoke—
“Richard, God hath parted thee and me, and whatsoever God doth He doth wed. If it were as thou sayest, there was need thereof. When children come home to their father’s house from afar, I trow they fall not a-bewailing that they had not leave to come in company. And if only we may clasp hands at the gate of the Urbs Beata, I trow well that we shall count it no great matter, good friend, that we saw but little the one of the other on the journey!”
Richard kissed her hand, and then she drew it from him, and softly passed into her darkened nursery. For a moment he stood looking after her. “Please God, we will, Margery!” he said to himself, at length. Then he ran lightly down the stairs, and old Christopher rose at the sound of his step to open the door for him.
And so Richard Pynson and Margery Marnell parted, never more to speak to each other on this side of the Happy City.
Note 1. Any reader acquainted with mediaeval hymns will recognise in this—
“Urbs coelestis! urbs beata! Super petram collocata.”