By and by—it seemed to her that it must be very late—the storm passed over. She went to the door. The clouds were lifting, and far away the sea was glimmering faintly in the last rays of a hidden and setting moon. Below a mass of dark clouds, and just above the softly-lighted sea, shone out a large white star. Across the water, heaving heavily like one who has fallen asleep after violent weeping, and still sobs in slumber, came to her the sound of the clock striking midnight; and then all the chimes rang sweetly, and she knew that the Mass she had longed for had begun.
“I cannot bear it!” she cried; then felt the child stir on her breast, and, gathering it closer to her, she said slowly: “God understands. His way must be best.” And she tried to join in spirit with those in church who greeted the coming of the Lord.
Surely there was some reason for her great disappointment and for her suffering that night. Reason? Was it not enough to be permitted thus to share His first night of deprivation? And presently she began to plan for herself God’s plan—how the man would return, and find her there wet and cold and hungry, and would learn why she had done it, and would never doubt God again. She fancied them all at home with her, employed by her, brought back to a happy, holy life; and she prayed long and earnestly for each.
He did come, as soon as the gray morning twilight broke—came with haste, bade his wife rise, and take her child and follow him. He gave no time for the words Jane wished to speak; but when the woman said that she must return the garments which had kept her warm, and perhaps alive, that night, Jane cried “No, no! It is as if I had kept our Lady warm for once, and carried her Child, not yours.” And she clasped the baby passionately, kissing it again and again.
The man stood doubtful, then tore the rich cloak from his wife’s shoulders, seized the mean one which it had replaced, wrapped her in it, hiding thus the costly attire, that might have caused suspicion, then looked about the room.
“The crucifix?” he said.
“Is it not mine?” Jane asked.
He pointed to the woman. “It’s her bit o’ comfort,” he said. “Gie it to her, miss. Plenty ye’s got, I wot. I’ll ne’er harm ’un again.”
There was no more farewell than that; no more promise of better things. In a few minutes they had disappeared among the pines; and cold, suffering, disheartened, Jane made her way homeward. To her truest home first; for bells were ringing for first Mass, and Jane stole into church, and, clad in beggar’s rags beneath her velvet cloak, knelt in real humility to receive her Lord. “I do not understand,” she said to him, sobbing softly. “Nothing that I do succeeds as I like. But, my Jesus, I am sure thy will is best, only I wanted so much to help them for thee. Why was it, my Jesus?”
But the years went by, and though Christmas after Christmas Jane remembered with a pang that great disappointment, her longings and her questions remained unanswered.