The Bishop's procession, which had wavered, continued to lead the way; solemn chanting began; and, as the Bishop turned into the Cypress Walk he saw the flying figure of Mary Seraphine running among the trees in the orchard, trying to catch up, and to take her place again, unnoticed, among the rest.
The Bishop smiled, remembering his many talks with the Prioress concerning Seraphine, and the Knight's dismay when he feared they were foisting the wayward nun upon him.
Then he sighed as he realised that the control of the Convent had now passed into the able hands of Mother Sub-Prioress; and that, in these unusual circumstances, the task of selecting and appointing a new Prioress, fell to him.
Perhaps his conversations on this subject, first with the Prior, and later on with Mother Sub-Prioress, partly accounted for his extreme fatigue, now that he found himself at last alone in his library.
But the reward of those "whose strength is to sit still," had come to the Bishop.
Soon after he fixed his eyes upon the Gregorian and Gelasian
Sacramentaries, his eyelids gently began to droop. Sleep was already
upon him when he decided to let the Palace, the City, yea, even the
Cathedral go, if he might but keep the Prioress. And as he walked with
Mora up the golden stair, his mind was at rest; his weary body slept.
A very few minutes of sleep sufficed the Bishop.
He awoke as suddenly as he had fallen asleep; and, as he awoke, he seemed to hear himself say: "Nay, Hugh. None save the old lay-sister, Mary Antony."
He sat up, wondering what this sentence could mean; also when and where it had been spoken.
As he wondered, his eye fell upon the white stone which he had flung into the Severn, and which the Knight, diving from the parapet, had retrieved from the river bed. The stone seemed in some way connected with this chance sentence which had repeated itself in his brain.
The Bishop rose, walked over to his deed chest, took the white stone in his hand and stood motionless, his eyes fixed upon it, wrapped in thought. Then he passed out on to the lawn, and paced slowly to and fro between the archway leading from the courtyard, to the parapet overlooking the river.
Yes; it was here.
He had ridden in on Shulamite, from the heights above the town, whence he had watched the Prioress ride in the river meadow.
He had found Hugh d'Argent awaiting him, and together they had paced this lawn in earnest conversation.
Hugh had been anxious to hear every detail of his visit to the Convent and the scene in the Prioress's cell when he had shewn her the copy of the Pope's mandate, just received from Rome. In speaking of the possible developments which might take place in the course of the next few hours, Hugh had asked whether any in the Convent, beside Mora herself, knew of his presence in Worcester, or that he had managed to obtain entrance to the cloisters by the crypt passage, to make his way disguised to Mora's cell, and to have speech with her.
The Bishop had answered that none knew of this, save the old lay-sister Mary Antony, who was wholly devoted to the Prioress, made shrewd by ninety years of experience in outwitting her superiors, and could be completely trusted.
"How came she to know?" the Bishop seemed to remember that the Knight had asked. And he had made answer that he had as yet no definite information, but was inclined to suspect that when the Prioress had bidden the old woman begone, she had slipped into some place of concealment from whence she had seen and heard something of what passed in the cell.
To this the Knight had made no comment; and now, walking up and down the lawn, the white stone in his hand, the Bishop could not feel sure how far Hugh had taken in the exact purport of the words; yet well he knew that sentences which pass almost unnoticed when heard with a mind preoccupied, are apt to return later on, with full significance, should anything occur upon which they shed a light.
This then was the complication which had brought the Bishop out to pace the lawn, recalling each step in the conversation, there where it had taken place.
Sooner or later, Mora will tell her husband of Mary Antony's wondrous vision. If she reaches the conclusion, uninterrupted, all will be well. The Knight will realise the importance of concealing the fact of the old lay-sister's knowledge—by non-miraculous means—of his presence in the cell, and his suit to the Prioress. But should she preface her recital by remarking that none in the Community had knowledge of his visit, the Knight will probably at once say: "Nay, there you are mistaken! I have it from the Bishop that the old lay-sister, Mary Antony, knew of it, having stayed hidden where she saw and heard much that passed; yet being very faithful, and more than common shrewd, could—so said the Bishop—be most completely trusted."
Whereupon irreparable harm would be done; for, at once, Mora would realise that she had been deceived; and her peace of mind and calm of conscience would be disturbed, if not completely overthrown.
One thing seemed clear to the Bishop.
Hugh must be warned. Probably no harm had as yet been done. The vision was so sacred a thing to Mora, that weeks might elapse before she spoke of it to her husband.
With as little delay as possible Hugh must be put upon his guard.
CHAPTER XLII
THE WARNING
Alert, determined, all trace of lassitude departed, the Bishop returned to the library, laid the stone upon the deed chest, sat down at a table and wrote a letter. He had made up his mind as to what must be said, and not once did he pause or hesitate over a word.
While still writing, he lifted his left hand and struck upon a silver gong.
When his servant entered, the Bishop spoke without raising his eyes from the table.
"Request Brother Philip to come here, without loss of time."
When the Bishop, having signed his letter, laid down the pen, and looked up, Brother Philip stood before him.
"Philip," said the Bishop, "select a trustworthy messenger from among the stable men, one possessed of wits as well as muscle; mount him on a good beast, supply him with whatsoever he may need for a possible six days' journey. Bring him to me so soon as he is ready to set forth. He must bear a letter, of much importance, to Sir Hugh d'Argent; and, seeing that I know only the Knight's route and stopping places, on his northward ride, but not his time of starting, which may have been yesterday or may not be until to-morrow, my messenger must ride first to Warwick, which if the Knight has left, he must then follow in his tracks until he overtake him."
"My lord," said Brother Philip, "the sun is setting and the daylight fades. The messenger cannot now reach Warwick until long after nightfall. Would it not be safer to have all in readiness, and let him start at dawn. He would then arrive early in the day, and could speedily overtake the most worshipful Knight who, riding with his lady, will do the journey by short stages."
"Nay," said the Bishop, "the matter allows of no delay. Mount him so well, that he shall outdistance all dangers. He must start within half an hour."
Brother Philip, bowing low, withdrew.
The Bishop bent again over the table, and read what he had written. Glancing quickly through the opening greetings, he considered carefully what followed.
_"This comes to you, my son, by messenger, riding in urgent haste, because the advice herein contained is of extreme importance.
"On no account let Mora know that which I told you here, four days since, as we paced the lawn; namely: that the old lay-sister, Mary Antony, was aware of your visit to the Convent, and had, from some place of concealment, seen and heard much of what passed in Mora's cell. How far you realised this, when I made mention of it, I know not. You made no comment. It mattered little, then; but has now become a thing of extreme importance.
"On that morning, finding the old lay-sister knew more than any supposed, and was wholly devoted to the Prioress, I had chanced to remark to her as I rode out of the courtyard that the Reverend Mother would thrust happiness from her with both hands unless our Lady herself offered it, by vision or revelation.
"Whereupon, my dear Knight, that faithful old heart using wits she had prayed our Lady to sharpen, contrived a vision of her own devising, so wondrously contrived, so excellently devised, that Mora—not dreaming of old Antony's secret knowledge—could not fail to believe it true. In fact, my son, you may praise heaven for an old woman's wits, for, as you will doubtless some day hear from Mora herself, they gave you your wife!
"But beware lest any chance words of yours lead Mora to suspect the genuineness of the vision. It would cost HER her peace of mind. It might cost YOU her presence.
"Meanwhile the agèd lay-sister died yesterday, after having mystified the entire Community by locking herself into the Prioress's cell, and remaining there, from the time she found it empty when the nuns returned from Vespers, until I arrived on the following afternoon. She thus prevented any questionings concerning Mora's flight, and averted possible scandal. But the twenty-four hours without food or drink cost the old woman her life. A faithful heart indeed, and a most shrewd wit!
"Some day, if occasion permit, I will recount to you the full story of
Mary Antony's strategy. It is well worth the hearing.
"I trust your happiness is complete; and hers, Hugh, hers!
"But we must take no risks; and never must we forget that, in dealing with Mora, we are dealing with the heart of a nun.
"Therefore, my son, be wary. Heaven grant this may reach you without delay, and in time to prevent mischief."_
When the messenger, fully equipped for his journey, was brought before the Bishop by Brother Philip, this letter lay ready, sealed, and addressed to Sir Hugh d'Argent, at Warwick Castle in the first place, but failing there, to each successive stopping place upon the northward road, including Castle Norelle, which, the Bishop had gathered, was to be reached on the seventh day after leaving Warwick.
So presently the messenger swung into the saddle, and rode out through the great gates. In a leathern wallet at his belt, was the letter, and a good sum of money for his needs on the journey; and in his somewhat stolid mind, the Bishop's very simple instructions—simple, yet given with so keen a look, transfixing the man, that it seemed to the honest fellow he had received them from the point of a blue steel blade.
He was to ride to Warwick, without drawing rein; to wake the porter at the gate, and the seneschal within, no matter at what hour he arrived. If the Knight were still at the Castle, the letter must be placed in his hands so soon as he left his chamber in the morning. But had he already gone from Warwick, the messenger, after food and rest for himself and his horse, was to ride on to the next stage and, if needful, to the next, until he overtook Sir Hugh and delivered into his own hands, with as much secrecy as possible, the letter.
The Bishop passed along the gallery, after the messenger had left the library, mounted to the banqueting hall and watched him ride away, from that casement, overlooking the courtyard, from which Hugh had looked down upon the arrival of Roger de Berchelai, bringing the letter from Rome.
A great relief filled the mind of the Bishop as he heard the clattering hoofs of the fastest nag in his stables, ring on the paving stones without, and die away in the distance.
A serious danger would be averted, if the Knight were warned in time.
The Bishop prayed that his letter might reach Hugh's hands before Mora was moved to speak to him of Mary Antony's vision.
He blamed himself bitterly for not having sooner recalled that conversation on the lawn. How easy it would have been, after hearing Mora's story in the arbour, to have given Hugh a word of caution before leaving Warwick.
Just after sunset, one of the Bishop's men, who had remained behind at Warwick, reached the Palace, bringing news that the Knight, his Lady, and their entire retinue, had ridden out from Warwick in the afternoon of the previous day.
The Bishop chafed at the delay this must involve, yet rejoiced at the prompt beginning of the homeward journey, having secretly feared lest Hugh should find some difficulty in persuading his bride to set forth with him.
After all, they were but two days ahead of the messenger who, by fast riding, might overtake them on the morrow. Mistress Deborah, even on a pillion, should prove a substantial impediment to rapid progress.
But, alas, before noon on the day following, Brother Philip appeared in haste, with an anxious countenance.
The messenger had returned, footsore and exhausted, bruised and wounded, with scarce a rag to his back.
In the forest, while still ten miles from Warwick, overtaken by the darkness, he had met a band of robbers, who had taken his horse and all he possessed, leaving him for dead, in a ditch by the wayside. Being but stunned and badly bruised, when he came to himself he thought it best to make his way back to Worcester and there report his misadventure.
The Bishop listened to this luckless tale in silence.
When it was finished he said, gently: "My good Philip, thou art proved right, and I, wrong. Had I been guided by thee, I should not have lost a good horse, nor—which is of greater importance at this juncture—twenty-four hours of most precious time."
Brother Philip made a profound obeisance, looking deeply ashamed of his own superior foresight and wisdom, and miserably wishful that the Reverend Father had been right, and he, wrong.
"However," continued the Bishop, after a moment of rapid thought, "I must forgo the melancholy luxury of meditating upon my folly, until after we have taken prompt measures, so far as may be, to put right the mischief it has wrought.
"This time, my good Philip, you shall be the bearer of my letter. Take with you, as escort, two of our men—more, if you think needful. Ride straight from here, by the most direct route to Castle Norelle, the home of the noble Countess, lately wedded to Sir Hugh. I will make you a plan of the road.
"If, when you reach the place, Sir Hugh and his bride have arrived, ask to have speech with the Knight alone, and put the letter into his own hands. But if they are yet on the way, ride to meet them, by a road I will clearly indicate. Only be careful to keep out of sight of all save the Knight or his body-servant, Martin Goodfellow.
"The letter delivered, and the answer in thy hands, return, to me as speedily as may be, without overpressing men or steeds. How soon canst thou set forth?"
"Within the hour, my lord," said Brother Philip, joyfully, cured of his shame by this call to immediate service; "with an escort of three, that we may ride by night as well as by day."
"Good," said the Bishop; and, as the lay-brother, bowing low, hastened from the chamber, Symon of Worcester drew toward him writing materials, and penned afresh his warning to the Knight; not at such length as in the former missive, but making very clear the need for silence concerning Mary Antony's previous knowledge of his visit to the Nunnery, lest Mora should come to doubt the genuineness of the vision which had brought her to her great decision, and which in very truth had been wholly contrived by the loving heart and nimble wits of Mary Antony.
So once again the Bishop stood at the casement in the banqueting hall; and, looking down into the courtyard, saw faithful Philip, with an escort fully armed, ride out at the Palace gates.
No time had been lost in repairing the mistake. Yet there was heavy foreboding at the Bishop's heart, as he paced slowly down the hall.
Greatly he feared lest this twenty-four hours' delay should mean mischief wrought, which could never be undone.
Passing into the chapel, he kneeled long before the shrine of Saint Joseph praying, with an intense fervour of petition, that his warning might reach the Knight before any word had passed his lips which could shake Mora's belief in that which was to her the sole justification for the important step she had taken.
The Bishop prayed and fasted; fasted, prayed, and kept vigil. And all the night through, in thought, he followed Brother Philip and his escort as they rode northward, through the forests, up the glens, and over the moors, making direct for Mora's home, to which she and Hugh were travelling by a more roundabout way.
CHAPTER XLIII
MORA MOUNTS TO THE BATTLEMENTS
The moonlight, shining in at the open casement, illumined, with its clear radiance, the chamber which had been, during the years of her maidenhood, Mora de Norelle's sleeping apartment.
It held many treasures of childhood. Every familiar thing within it, whispered of the love and care of those long passed into the realm of silence and of mystery; a noble father, slain in battle; a gentle mother, unable to survive him, the call to her of the spirit of her Warrior, being more compelling than the need of the beautiful young daughter, to whom both had been devoted.
The chamber seemed to Mora full of tender and poignant memories.
How many girlish dreams had been dreamed while her healthy young body rested upon that couch, after wild gallops over the moors, or a long day's climbing among the rocky hills, searching for rare ferns and flowers to transplant into her garden.
In this room she had mourned her father, with her strong young arms wrapped around her weeping mother.
In this room she had wept for her mother, with none to comfort her, saving the faithful nurse, Deborah.
To this room she had fled in wrath, after the scene with, her half-sister, Eleanor, who had tried to despoil her of her heritage—the noble Castle and lands left to her by her father, and confirmed to her, with succession to her father's title, by the King. These Eleanor desired for her son; but neither bribes nor cajolery, threats, nor cruel insinuations, had availed to induce Mora to give up her rightful possession—the home of her childhood.
Before the effects of this storm had passed, Hugh d'Argent had made his first appearance upon the scene, riding into the courtyard as a King's messenger, but also making himself known to the young Countess as a near neighbour, heir to a castle and lands, not far distant, among the Cumberland hills.
With both it had been love at first sight. His short and ardent courtship had, unbeknown to him, required not so much to win her heart, as to overcome her maidenly resistance, rendered stubborn by the consciousness that her heart had already ranged itself on the side of her lover.
When at last, vanquished by his eager determination, she had yielded and become betrothed to him, it had seemed to her that life could hold no sweeter joy.
But he, hard to content, ever headstrong and eager, already having taken the cross, and being now called at once to join the King in Palestine, begged for immediate marriage that he might take her with him to the Court of the new Queen, to which his cousin Alfrida had already been summoned; or, if he must leave her behind, at least leave her, not affianced maid, but wedded wife.
Here Eleanor and her husband had interposed; and, assuming the position of natural guardians, had refused to allow the marriage to take place. This necessitated the consent of the King, which could not be obtained, he being in the Holy Land; and Hugh had no wish to make application to the Queen-mother, then acting regent during the absence of the King; or to allow his betrothed to be brought again into association with the Court at Windsor.
Mora—secretly glad to keep yet a little longer the sweet bliss of betrothal, with its promise of unknown yet deeper joys to come—resisted Hugh's attempts to induce her to defy Eleanor, flout her wrongful claim to authority, and wed him without obtaining the Royal sanction. Steeped in the bliss of having taken one step into an unimagined state of happiness, she felt no necessity or inclination hurriedly to take another.
Yet when, upheld by the ecstasy of those final moments together, she had let him go, as she watched him ride away, a strange foreboding of coming ill had seized her, and a restless yearning, which she could not understand, yet which she knew would never be stilled until she could clasp his head again to her breast, feel his crisp hair in her fingers, and know him safe, and her own.
This chamber then had witnessed long hours of prayer and vigil, as she knelt at the shrine in the nook between the casements, beseeching our Lady and Saint Joseph for the safe return of her lover.
Then came the news of Hugh's supposed perfidy; and from this chamber she had gone forth to hide her broken heart in the sacred refuge of the Cloister; to offer to God and the service of Holy Church, the life which had been robbed of all natural joys by the faithlessness of a man.
And this had happened eight years ago, as men count time. But as nuns count it? And lovers? A lifetime? A night?
It had seemed indeed a lifetime to the Prioress of the White Ladies, during the first days of her return to the world. But to the woman who now kneeled at the casement, drinking in the balmy sweetness of the summer night, looking with soft yearning eyes at the well-remembered landscape flooded in silvery moonlight, it seemed—a night.
A night—since she stood on the battlements, her lover's arms about her.
A night—since she said: "Thou wilt come back to me, Hugh. . . . My love will ever be around thee as a silver shield."
A night—since, as the last words he should hear from her lips, she had said: "Maid or wife, God knows I am all thine own. Thine, and none other's, forever."
Of all the memories connected with this chamber, the clearest to-night was of the hungry ache at her heart, when Hugh had gone. It had seemed to her then that never could that ache be stilled, until she could once again clasp his head to her breast. She knew now that it never had been stilled. Dulled, ignored, denied; called by other names; but stilled—never.
On this night it was as sweetly poignant as on that other night eight years ago, when she had slowly descended to this very room, from the moonlit battlements.
Yet to-night she was maid and wife. Moreover Hugh was here, under this very roof. Yet had he bidden her a grave good-night, without so much as touching her hand. Yet his dark eyes had said: "I love thee."
Kneeling at the casement, Mora reviewed the days since they rode forth from Warwick.
It had been a wondrous experience for her—she, who had been Prioress of the White Ladies—thus to ride out into the radiant, sunny world.
Hugh was ever beside her, watchful, tender, shielding her from any possible pain or danger, yet claiming nothing, asking nothing, for himself.
One night, not being assured of the safety of the place where they lodged, she found afterwards that he had lain all night across the threshold of the chamber within which she and Debbie slept.
Another night she saw him pacing softly up and down beneath her window.
Yet when each morning came, and they began a new day together, he greeted her gaily, with clear eye and unclouded brow; not as one chilled or disappointed, or vexed to be kept from his due.
And oh, the wonder of each new day! The glory of those rides over the mossy softness of the woodland paths, where the sunlight fell, in dancing patches, through the thick, moving foliage, and shy deer peeped from the bracken, with soft eyes and gentle movements; out on to the wild liberty of the moors, where Icon, snuffing the fresher air, would stretch his neck and gallop for pure joy at having left cobbled streets and paved courtyards far behind him. And ever they rode northward, and home drew nearer. Looking back upon those long hours spent alone together, Mora realised how simply and easily she had grown used to being with Hugh, and how entirely this was due to his unselfishness and tact. He talked with her constantly; yet never of his own feelings regarding her.
He told her of his adventures in Eastern lands; of the happenings in England during the past eight years, so far as he had been able to learn them; of his home and property; of hers, and of the welcome which awaited her from her people.
He never spoke of the Convent, nor of the eventful days through which he and she had so recently passed.
So successfully did he dominate her mind in this, that almost it seemed to her she too was returning home after a long absence in a foreign land.
Her mind awoke to unrestrained enjoyment of each hour, and to the keen anticipation of the traveller homeward bound.
Each day spent in Hugh's company seemed to wipe out one, or more, of the intervening years, so that when, toward evening, on the seventh day, the grey turrets of her old home came in sight, it might have been but yesterday they had parted, on those same battlements, and she had watched him ride away, until the firwood from which they were now emerging, had hidden him from view.
Kneeling at her casement, her mind seemed lost in a whirlpool of emotion, as she reviewed the hour of their arrival. The road up to the big gates—every tree and hillock, every stock and stone, loved and familiar, recalling childish joys and sorrows, adventure and enterprise. Then the passing in through the gates, the familiar faces, the glad greetings; Zachary—white-haired, but still rosy and stalwart—at the foot of the steps; and, in the doorway, just where loneliness might have gripped her, old Debbie, looking as if she had never been away, waiting with open arms. So this was the moment foreseen by Hugh when he had planned an early start, that morning, for Mistress Deborah, and a more roundabout ride for her.
She turned, with an impulsive gesture, holding out to him her left hand, that he might cross the threshold with her. But the Knight was stooping to examine the right forehoof of her palfrey, she having fancied Icon had trod tenderly upon it during the last half-mile; so she passed in alone.
Afterwards she overheard old Debbie say, in her most scolding tones: "She did stretch out her hand to you, Sir Hugh, and you saw it not!" But the Knight's deep voice made courteous answer: "There is no look or gesture of hers, however slight, good Mistress Deborah, which doth escape me." And at this her heart thrilled far more than if he had met her hand, responsive; knowing that thus he did faithfully keep his pledge to her, and that he could so keep it, only by never relaxing his stern hold upon himself.
Yet almost she began to wish him less stern and less faithful, so much did she long to feel for one instant the strong clasp of his arms about her. By his rigid adherence to his promise, she felt herself punished for having shuddered. Why had she shuddered? . . . Would she shudder now? This wonderful first evening had quickly passed, in going from chamber to chamber, walking in the gardens, and supping with Hugh in the dining-hall, waited on by Mark and Beaumont, with Zachary to supervise, pour the wine, and stand behind her chair.
Then a final walk on the terrace; a grave good-night upon the stairs; and, at last, this time of quiet thought, in her own chamber.
She could not realise that she was wedded to Hugh; but her heart awoke to the fact that truly she was betrothed to him. And she was happy—deeply happy.
Leaving the casement, she kneeled before the shrine of the Virgin—there where she had put up so many impassioned prayers for the safe return of her lover.
"Blessèd Virgin," she said, "I thank thee for sending me home."
Years seemed to roll from her. She felt herself a child again. She longed for her mother's understanding tenderness. Failing that, she turned to the sweet Mother of God.
The image before which she knelt, shewed our Lady standing, tall and fair and gracious, the Infant Saviour, seated upon her left hand, her right hand holding Him leaning against her, His baby arms outstretched. Neither the Babe nor His Mother smiled. Each looked grave and somewhat sad.
"Home," whispered Mora. "Blessèd Virgin I thank thee for sending me home."
"Nay," answered a voice within her. "I sent thee not home. I gave thee to him to whom thou didst belong. He hath brought thee home. What said the vision? 'Take her. She is thine own. I have but kept her for thee.'"
Yet Hugh knew naught of this gracious message—knew naught of the vision which had given her to him. Until to-night she had felt it impossible to tell him of it. Now she longed that he should share with her the wonder.
She sought her couch, but sleep would not come. The moonlight was too bright; the room too sweetly familiar. Moreover it seemed but yesterday that she had parted from Hugh, in such an ecstasy of love and sorrow, up on the battlements.
A great desire seized her to mount to those battlements, and to stand again just where she had stood when she bade him farewell.
She rose.
Among the garments put ready for her use, chanced to be the robe of sapphire velvet which she had worn on that night.
She put it on; with jewels at her breast and girdle. Then, with the mantle of ermine falling from her shoulders, and her beautiful hair covering her as a veil, she left her chamber, passed softly along the passage, found the winding stair, and mounted to the ramparts.
As she stepped out from the turret stairway, she exclaimed at the sublime beauty of the scene before her; the sleeping world at midnight, bathed in the silvery light of the moon; the shadows of the firs, lying like black bars across the road to the Castle gate.
"There I watched him ride away," she said, with a sweep of her arm toward the road, "watched, until the dark woods swallowed him. And here"—with a sweep toward the turret—"here, we parted."
She turned; then caught her breath.
Leaning against the wall with folded arms, stood Hugh.
CHAPTER XLIV
"I LOVE THEE"
Mora stood, for some moments, speechless; and Hugh did not stir. They faced one another, in the weird, white light.
At last: "Did you make me come?" she whispered.
"Nay, my belovèd," he answered at once; "unless constant thought of thee, could bring thee to me. I pictured thee peacefully sleeping."
"I could not sleep," she said. "It seemed to me our Lady was not pleased, because, dear Knight, I have failed, in all these days, to tell you of her wondrous and especial grace which sent me to you."
"I have wondered," said the Knight; "but I knew there would come a time when I should hear what caused thy mind to change. That it was a thing of much import, I felt sure. The Bishop counselled me to give up hope. But I had besought our Lady to send thee to me, and I could not lose my trust in prayer."
"It was indeed our blessèd Lady who sent me," said Mora, very softly. "Hugh, dare I stay and tell you the whole story, here and now? What if we are discovered, alone upon the ramparts, at this hour of the night?"
Hugh could not forbear a smile.
"Dear Heart," he said, "we shall not be discovered. And, if we were, methinks we have the right to be together, on the ramparts, or off them, at any hour of the day or night."
A low wooden seat ran along beneath the parapet.
Mora sat down and motioned the Knight to a place beside her.
"Sit here, Hugh. Then we can talk low."
"I listen better standing," said the Knight; but he came near, put one foot on the seat, leaned his elbow on his knee, his chin in his hand, and stood looking down upon her.
"Hugh," she said, "I withstood your pleadings; I withstood the Bishop's arguments; I withstood the yearnings of my own poor heart. I tore up the Pope's mandate, and set my foot upon it. I said that nothing could induce me to break my vows, unless our Lady herself gave me a clear sign that my highest duty was to you, thus absolving me from my vows, and making it evident that God's will for me was that I should leave the Cloister, and keep my early troth to you."
"And gave our Lady such a sign?" asked the Knight, his dark eyes fixed on Mora's face.
She lifted it, white and lovely; radiant in the moonlight.
"Better than a sign," she said. "Our Lady vouchsafed a wondrous vision, in which her own voice was heard, giving command and consent."
The Knight, crossing himself, dropped upon his knees, lifting his eyes heavenward in fervent praise and adoration. He raised to his lips a gold medallion, which he wore around his neck, containing a picture of the Virgin, and kissed it devoutly; then overcome by emotion, he covered his face with his hands and knelt with bowed head, reciting in a low voice, the Salve Regina.
Mora watched him, with deep gladness of heart. This fervent joy and devout thanksgiving differed so greatly from the half-incredulous, whimsically amused, mental attitude with which Symon of Worcester had received her recital of the miracle. Hugh's reverent adoration filled her with happiness.
Presently he rose and stood beside her again, expectant, eager.
"Tell me more; nay, tell me all," he said.
"The vision," began Mora, "was given to the old lay-sister, Mary
Antony."
"Mary Antony?" queried Hugh, with knitted brow. "'The old lay-sister, Mary Antony'? Why do I know that name? I seem to remember that the Bishop spoke of her, as we walked together in the Palace garden, the day following the arrival of the messenger from Rome. Methinks the Bishop said that she alone knew of my intrusion into the Nunnery; but that she, being faithful, could be trusted."
"Nay, Hugh," answered Mora, "you mistake. It was I who told you so, even before I knew you were the intruder, while yet addressing you as Sister Seraphine's 'Cousin Wilfred.' I said that you had been thwarted in your purpose by the faithfulness of the old lay-sister, Mary Antony, who never fails to count the White Ladies, as they go, and as they return, and who had reported to me that one more had returned than went. Afterward I was greatly perplexed as to what explanation I should make to Mary Antony; when, to my relief, she came and confessed that hers was the mistake, she having counted wrongly. Glad indeed was I to let it rest at that; so neither she, nor any in the Convent, knew aught of your entrance there or your visit to my cell. The Bishop, you, and I, alone know of it."
"Then I mistake," said the Knight. "But I felt certain I had heard the name, and that the owner thereof had some knowledge of my movements. Now, I pray thee, dear Heart, tell me all."
So sitting there on the ramparts of her old home, the stillness of the fragrant summer night all around, Mora told from the beginning the wondrous history of the trance of Mary Antony, and the blessèd vision then vouchsafed to her.
The Knight listened with glowing eyes. Once he interrupted to exclaim: "Oh, true! Most true! More true than thou canst know. Left alone in thy cell, I kneeled to our Lady, saying those very words: 'Mother of God, send her to me! Take pity on a hungry heart, a lonely home, a desolate hearth, and send her to me.' I was alone. Only our Lady whom I besought, heard those words pass my lips."
Again Hugh kneeled, kissed the medallion, and lifted to heaven eyes luminous with awe and worship.
Continuing, Mora told him all, even to each detail of her long night vigil and her prayer for a sign which should be given direct to herself, so soon granted by the arrival and flight of the robin. But this failed to impress Hugh, wholly absorbed in the vision, and unable to see where any element of hesitation or of uncertainty could come in. Hearing it from Mora, he was spared the quaint turn which was bound to be given to any recital, however sacred, heard direct from old Mary Antony.
The Knight was a Crusader. Many a fight he had fought for that cause representing the highest of Christian ideals. Also, he had been a pilgrim, and had visited innumerable holy shrines. For years, his soul had been steeped in religion, in that Land where true religion had its birth, and all within him, which was strongest and most manly, had responded with a simplicity of faith, yet with a depth of ardent devotion, which made his religion the most vital part of himself. This it was which had given him a noble fortitude in bearing his sorrow. This it was which now gave him a noble exultation in accepting his great happiness. It filled him with rapture, that his wife should have been given to him in direct response to his own earnest petition.
When at length Mora stood up, stretching her arms above her head and straightening her supple limbs:
"My belovèd," he said, "if the vision had not been given, wouldst thou not have come to me? Should I have had to ride away from Worcester alone?"
Standing beside him, she answered, tenderly:
"Dear Hugh, my most faithful and loyal Knight, being here—and oh so glad to be here—how can I say it? Yet I must answer truly. But for the vision, I should not have come. I could not have broken my vows. No blessing would have followed had I come to you, trailing broken vows, like chains behind me. But our Lady herself set me free and bid me go. Therefore I came to you; and therefore am I here."
"Tell me again the words our Lady said, when she put thy hand in mine."
"Our Lady said: 'Take her. She hath been ever thine. I have but kept her for thee.'"
Then she paled, her heart began to beat fast, and the colour came and went in her cheeks; for he had come very near, and she could hear the sharp catch of his breath.
"Mora, my belovèd," he said, "every fibre of my being cries out for thee. Yet I want thy happiness before my own; and, above and beyond all else, I want the Madonna in my home. Even at our Lady's bidding I cannot take thee. Not until thine own sweet lips shall say: 'Take me! I have been ever thine.'"
She lifted her eyes to his. In the moonlight, her face seemed almost unearthly, in its pure loveliness; and, as on that night so long ago, he saw her eyes, brighter than any jewels, shining with love and tears.
"Dear man of mine," she whispered, "to-night we are betrothed. But to-morrow I will ride home with thee. To-morrow shall be indeed our bridal day. I will say all—I will say anything—I will say everything thou wilt! Nay, see! The dawn is breaking in the east. Call it 'to-day'—TO-DAY, dear Knight! But now let me flee away, to fathom my strange happiness alone. Then, to sleep in mine own chamber, and to awake refreshed, and ready to go with thee, Hugh, when and where and how thou wilt."
The Knight folded his arms across his breast.
"Go," he said, softly, "and our Lady be with thee. Our spirits to-night have had their fill of holy happiness. I ask no higher joy than to watch the breaking of the day which gives thee to me, knowing thee to be safely sleeping in thy chamber below."
"I love thee!" she whispered; and fled.
Hugh d'Argent watched the dawn break—a silver rift in the purple sky.
His heart was filled with indescribable peace and gladness.
It meant far more to him that his bride should have come to him in obedience to a divine vision, than if his love had mastered her will, and she had yielded despite her own conscience.
Also he knew that at last his patient self-restraint had won its reward. The heart of a nun feared him no longer. The woman he loved was as wholly his as she had ever been.
As the sun began to gild the horizon, flecking the sky with little rosy clouds, Hugh turned into the turret archway, went down the steps, and sought his chamber. No sooner was he stretched upon his couch, than, for very joy, he fell asleep.
But—beyond the dark fir woods, and over the hills on the horizon, four horsemen, having ridden out from a wayside inn before the dawn, watched, as they rode, the widening of that silver rift in the sky, and the golden tint, heralding the welcome appearance of the sun.
So soundly slept Hugh d'Argent that, three hours later, be did not wake when a loud knocking on the outer gates roused the porter; nor, though his casement opened on to the courtyard, did he hear the noisy clatter of hoofs, as Brother Philip, with his escort of three mounted men, rode in.
Not until a knocking came on his own door did the Knight awake and, leaping from his bed, see—as in a strange, wild dream—Brother Philip, dusty and haggard, standing on the threshold, the Bishop's letter in his hand.
CHAPTER XLV
THE SONG OF THE THRUSH
The morning sun already poured into her room, when Mora opened her eyes, waking suddenly with that complete wide-awakeness which follows upon profound and dreamless slumber.
Even as she woke, her heart said: "Our bridal day! The day I give myself to Hugh! The day he leads me home."
She stretched herself at full length upon the couch, her hands crossed upon her breast, and let the delicious joy of her love sweep over her, from the soles of her feet to the crown of her head.
The world without lay bathed in sunshine; her heart within was flooded by the radiance of this new and perfect realisation of her love for Hugh.
She lay quite still while it enveloped her.
Ten days ago, our Lady had given her to Hugh.
Eight days ago, the Bishop, voicing the Church, had done the same.
But to-day she—she herself—was going to give herself to her lover.
This was the true bridal! For this he had waited. And the reward of his chivalrous patience was to be, that to-day, of her own free will she would say; "Hugh, my husband, take me home."
She smiled to remember how, riding forth from the city gates of Warwick, she had planned within herself that, once safely established in her own castle, she would abide there days, weeks, perhaps even, months!
She stretched her arms wide, then flung them above her head.
"Take me home," she whispered. "Hugh, my husband, take me home."
A thrush in the coppice below, whistled in liquid notes: "Do it now!
Do it now! Do it now!"
Laughing joyously, Mora leapt from her bed and looked out upon a sunny summer's day, humming with busy life, fragrant with scent of flowers, thrilling with songs of birds.
"What a bridal morn!" she cried. "All nature says 'Awake! Arise!' Yet I have slept so late. I must quickly prepare myself to find and to greet my lover."
"Do it now!" sang the thrush.
Half an hour later, fresh and fragrant as the morn, Mora left her chamber and made her way to the great staircase.
Hearing shouting in the courtyard, and the trampling of horses' feet, she paused at a casement, and looked down.
To her surprise she saw the well-remembered figure of Brother Philip, mounted; with him three other horsemen wearing the Bishop's livery, and Martin Goodfellow leading Hugh's favourite steed, ready saddled.
Much perplexed, she passed down the staircase, and out on to the terrace where she had bidden them to prepare the morning meal.
From the terrace she looked into the banqueting hall, and her perplexity grew; for there Hugh d'Argent, booted and spurred, ready for a journey, strode up and down.
For two turns she watched him, noting his knitted brows, and the heavy forward thrust of his chin.
Then, lifting his eyes as he swung round for the third time, he saw her, outside in the sunlight; such a vision of loveliness as might well make a man's heart leap.
He paused in his rapid walk, and stood as if rooted to the spot, making no move toward her.
For a moment, Mora hesitated.
"Do it now!" sang the thrush.
CHAPTER XLVI
"HOW SHALL I LET THEE GO?"
Mora passed swiftly into the banqueting hall.
"Hugh," she said, and came to him. "Hugh, my husband, this is our bridal day. Will you take me to our home?"
His eyes, as they met hers, were full of a dumb misery.
Then a fierce light of passion, a look of wild recklessness, flashed into them. He raised his arms, to catch her to him; then let them fall again, glancing to right and left, as if seeking some way of escape.
But, seeing the amazement on her face, he mastered, by a mighty effort, his emotion, and spoke with calmness and careful deliberation.
"Alas, Mora," he said, "it is a hard fate indeed for me on this day, of all days, to be compelled to leave thee. But in the early morn there came a letter which obliges me, without delay, to ride south, in order to settle a matter of extreme importance. I trust not to be gone longer than nine days. You, being safely established in your own home, amongst your own people, I can leave without anxious fears. Moreover, Martin Goodfellow will remain here representing me, and will in all things do your bidding."
"From whom is this letter, Hugh, which takes you from me, on such a day?"
"It is from a man well known to me, dwelling in a city four days' journey from here."
"Why not say at once: 'It is from the Bishop, written from his Palace in the city of Worcester'?"
Hugh frowned.
"How knew you that?" he asked, almost roughly.
"My dear Knight, hearing much champing of horses in my courtyard, I looked down from a casement and saw a lay-brother well known to me, and three other horsemen wearing the Bishop's livery. What can Symon of Worcester have written which takes you from me on this day, of all days?"
"That I cannot tell thee," he made answer. "But he writes, without much detail, of a matter about which I must know fullest details, without loss of time. I have no choice but to ride and see the Bishop, face to face. It is not a question which can be settled by writing nor could it wait the passing to and fro of messengers. Believe me, Mora, it is urgent. Naught but exceeding urgency could force me from thee on this day."
"Has it to do with my flight from the Convent?" she asked.
He bowed his head.
"Will you tell me the matter on your return, Hugh?"
"I know not," he answered, with face averted. "I cannot say." Then with sudden violence: "Oh, my God, Mora, ask me no more! See the Bishop, I must! Speak with him, I must! In nine days at the very most, I will be back with thee. Duty takes me, my belovèd, or I would not go."
Her mind responded instinctively to the word "duty," "Go then, dear Knight," she said. "Settle this business with Symon of Worcester. I have no desire to know its purport. If it concerns my flight from the Convent, surely the Pope's mandate is all-sufficient. But, be it what it may, in the hands of my faithful Knight and of my trusted friend, the Bishop, I may safely leave it. I do but ask that, the work accomplished, you come with all speed back to me."
With a swift movement he dropped on one knee at her feet.
"Send me away with a blessing," he said. "Bless me before I go."
She laid her hands on the bowed head.
"Alas!" she cried, "how shall I let thee go?"
Then, pushing her fingers deeper into his hair and bending over him, with infinite tenderness: "How shall thy wife bless thee?" she whispered.
He caught his breath, as the fragrance of the newly gathered roses at her bosom reached and enveloped him.
"Bless me," he said, hoarsely, "as the Prioress of the White Ladies used to bless her nuns, and the Poor at the Convent gate."
"Dear Heart," she said, and smiled. "That seems so long ago!" Then, as with bent head he still waited, she steadied her voice, lifting her hands from off him; then laid them back upon his head, with reverent and solemn touch. "The Lord bless thee," she said, "and keep thee; and may our blessèd Lady, who hath restored me to thee, bring thee safely back to me again."
At that, Hugh raised his head and looked up into her face, and the misery in his eyes stirred her tenderness as it had never been stirred by the vivid love-light or the soft depths of passion she had heretofore seen in them.
Her lips parted; her breath came quickly. She would have caught him to her bosom; she would have kissed away this unknown sorrow; she would have smothered the pain, in the sweetness of her embrace.
But bending swiftly he lifted the hem of her robe and touched it with his lips; then, rising, turned and left her without a word; without a backward look.
He left her standing there, alone in the banqueting hall. And as she stood listening, with beating heart, to the sound of his voice raised in command; to the quick movements of his horse's hoofs on the paving stones, as he swung into the saddle; to the opening of the gates and the riding forth of the little cavalcade, a change seemed to have come over her. She ceased to feel herself a happy, yielding bride, a traveller in distant lands, after long journeyings, once more at home.
She seemed to be again Prioress of the White Ladies. The calm fingers of the Cloister fastened once more upon her pulsing heart. The dignity of office developed her.
And wherefore?
Was it because, when her lips had bent above him in surrendering tenderness, her husband had chosen to give her the sign of reverent homage accorded to a prioress, rather than the embrace which would have sealed her surrender?
Or was it because he had asked her to bless him as she had been wont to bless the Poor at the Convent gate?
Or was it the unconscious action of his mind upon hers, he being suddenly called to face some difficulty which had arisen, concerning their marriage, or the Bishop's share in her departure from the Nunnery?
The clang of the closing gates sounded in her ears as a knell.
She shivered; then remembered how she had shivered at sound of the turning of the key in the lock of the crypt-way door. How great the change wrought by eight days of love and liberty. She had shuddered then at being irrevocably shut out from the Cloister. She shuddered now because the arrival of a messenger from the Bishop, and something indefinable in Hugh's manner, had caused her to look back.
She stood quite still. None came to seek her. She seemed to have turned to stone.
It was not the first time this looking back had had a petrifying effect upon a woman. She remembered Lot's wife, going forward led by the gentle pressure of an angel's hand, yet looking back the moment that pressure was removed.
She had gone forward, led by the sweet angel of our Lady's gracious message. Why should she look back? Rather would she act upon the sacred precept: "Forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before"—this, said the apostle Saint Paul, was the one thing to do. Undoubtedly now it was the one and only thing for her to do; leaving all else which might have to be done, to her husband and to the Bishop.
"This one thing I do," she said aloud; "this one thing I do." And moving forward, in the strength of that resolve, she passed out into the sunshine.
"Do it now!" sang the thrush, in the rowan-tree.
CHAPTER XLVII
THE BISHOP IS TAKEN UNAWARES
Symon of Worcester, seated before a table in the library, pondered a letter which had reached him the evening before, brought by a messenger from the Vatican.
It was a call to return to the land he loved best; the land of sunshine and flowers, of soft speech and courteous ways; the land of heavenly beauty and seraphic sounds; and, moreover, to return as a Cardinal of Holy Church.
His acceptance or refusal must be penned before night. The messenger expected to start upon his return journey early on the morrow.
Should he go? Or should he stay?
Was all now well for Mora? Or did she yet need him?
Surely never had Cardinal's hat hung poised for such a reason! How little would the Holy Father dream that a question affecting the happiness or unhappiness of a woman could be a cause of hesitancy.
Presently, with a quick movement, the Bishop lifted his head. The library was far removed from the courtyard; but surely he heard the clatter of horses' hoofs upon the raving stones.
He had hardly hoped for Brother Philip's return until after sunset; yet—with fast riding——
If the Knight's answer were in all respects satisfactory—If Mora's happiness was assured—why, then——
He sounded the silver gong.
His servant entered.
"What horsemen have just now ridden into the courtyard, Jasper?"
"My lord, Brother Philip has this moment returned, and with him——"
"Bid Brother Philip to come hither, instantly."
"May it please you, my lord——"
"Naught will please me," said the Bishop, "but that my commands be obeyed without parley or delay."
Jasper's obeisance took him through the door.
The Bishop bent over the letter from Rome, shading his face with his hand.
He could scarcely contain his anxiety; but he did not wish to give Brother Philip occasion to observe his tremulous eagerness to receive the Knight's reply.
He heard the door open and close, and a firm tread upon the floor. It struck him, even then, that the lay-brother had not been wont to enter his presence with so martial a stride, and he wondered at the ring of spurs. But his mind was too intently set upon Hugh d'Argent's letter, to do more than unconsciously notice these things.
"Thou art quickly returned, my good Philip," he said, without looking round. "Thou has done better than my swiftest expectations. Didst thou give my letter thyself into the hands of Sir Hugh d'Argent, and hast thou brought me back an answer from that most noble Knight?"
Wherefore did Brother Philip make no reply?
Wherefore did his breath come sharp and short—not like a stout lay-brother who has hurried; but, rather, like a desperate man who has clenched his teeth to keep control of his tongue?
The Bishop wheeled in his chair, and found himself looking full into the face of Hugh d'Argent—Hugh, haggard, dusty, travel-stained, with eyes, long strangers to sleep, regarding him with a sombre intensity.
"You!" exclaimed the Bishop, surprised out of his usual gentle calm.
"You? Here!"
"Yes, I," said the Knight, "I! Does it surprise you, my Lord Bishop, that I should be here? Would it not rather surprise you, in view of that which you saw fit to communicate to me by letter, that I should fail to be here—and here as fast as horse could bring me?"
"Naught surprises me," said the Bishop, testily. "I have lived so long in the world, and had to do with so many crazy fools, that human vagaries no longer have power to surprise me. And, by our Lady, Sir Knight, I care not where you are, so that you have left safe and well, her peace of mind undisturbed, the woman whom I—acting as mouthpiece of the Pope and Holy Church—gave, not two weeks ago, into your care and keeping."
The Knight's frown was thunderous.
"It might be well, my Lord Bishop, to leave our blessèd Lady's name out of this conversation. It hath too much been put to shameful and treacherous use. Mora is safe and well. How far her peace of mind can be left undisturbed, I am here to discover. I require, before aught else, the entire truth."
But the Bishop had had time to recover his equanimity. He rose with his most charming smile, both hands out-stretched in gracious welcome.
"Nay, my dear Knight, before aught else you require a bath! Truly it offends my love of the beautiful to see you in this dusty plight." He struck upon the gong. "Also you require a good meal, served with a flagon of my famous Italian wine. You did well to come here in person, my son. If naught hath been said to Mora, no harm is done; and together we can doubly safeguard the matter. I rejoice that you have come. But the strain of rapid travelling, when anxiety drives, is great. . . . Jasper, prepare a bath for Sir Hugh d'Argent in mine own bath-chamber; cast into it some of that fragrant and refreshing powder sent to me by the good brethren of Santa Maria Novella. While the noble Knight bathes, lay out in the ante-chamber the complete suit of garments he was wearing on the day when the sudden fancy seized him to have a swim in our river. I conclude they have been duly dried and pressed and laid by with sweet herbs? . . . Good. That is well. Now, my dear Hugh, allow Jasper to attend you. He will give his whole mind to your comfort. Send word to Brother Philip, Jasper, that I will speak with him here."
The Bishop accompanied the Knight to the door of the library; watched him stride along the gallery, silent and sullen, in the wake of the hastening Jasper; then turned and walked slowly back to the table, smiling, and gently rubbing his hands together as he walked.
He had gained time, and he had successfully regained his sense of supremacy. Taken wholly by surprise, he had not felt able to cope with this gaunt, dusty, desperately determined Knight. But the Knight would leave more than mere travel stains behind, in the scented waters of the bath! He would reappear clothed and in his right mind. A good meal and a flagon of Italian wine would further improve that mind, mellowing it and rendering it pliable and easy to convince; though truly it passed comprehension why the Knight should need convincing, or of what! Even more incomprehensible was it, that a man wedded to Mora, not two weeks since, should of his own free will elect to leave her.
The Bishop turned.
Brother Philip stood in the doorway, bowing low.
"Come in, my good Philip," said the Bishop; "come in, and shut the door. . . . I must have thy report with fullest detail; but, time being short, I would ask thee to begin from the moment when the battlements of Castle Norelle came into view."