CHAPTER LIII
ON THE HOLY MOUNT
On the ninth day since Hugh's departure, the day when fast riding might make his return possible before nightfall, Mora rose early.
At the hour when she had been wont to ring the Convent bell, she was walking swiftly over the moors and climbing the heather-clad hills.
She had remembered a little chapel, high up in the mountains, where dwelt a holy Hermit, held in high repute for his saintliness of life, his wisdom in the giving of spiritual counsel, and his skill in ministering to the sick.
It had come to Mora, as she prayed and pondered during the night, that if she could make full confession to this holy man, he might be able to throw some clear beam of light upon the dark tangle of her perplexity.
This hope was strongly with her as she walked.
"Lighten my darkness! Lead me in a plain path!" was the cry of her bewildered soul.
It seemed to her that she had two issues to consider. First: the question as to whether Hugh, guided by the Bishop, would keep silence; thus making himself a party to her deception. Secondly: the position in which she was placed by the fact that she had left the Convent, owing to that deception. But, for the moment the first issue was so infinitely the greater, that she found herself thrusting the second into the background, allowing herself to be conscious of it merely as a question to be faced later on, when the all-important point of Hugh's attitude in the matter should be settled.
She walked forward swiftly, one idea alone possessing her: that she hastened toward possible help.
She did not slacken speed until the chapel came into view, its grey walls glistening in the morning light, a clump of feathery rowan trees beside it; at its back a mighty rock, flung down in bygone centuries from the mountain which towered behind it. From a deep cleft in this rock sprang a young oak, dipping its fresh green to the roof of the chapel; all around it, in every crack and cranny, parsley fern, hare-bells on delicate, swaying stalks, foxgloves tall and straight, and glorious bunches of purpling heather.
Nearby was the humble dwelling of the Hermit. The door stood ajar.
Softly approaching, Mora lifted her hand, and knocked.
No voice replied.
The sound of her knock did but make evident the presence of a vast solitude.
Pushing open the door, she ventured to look within.
The Hermit's cell was empty. The remains of a frugal meal lay upon the rough wooden table. Also an open breviary, much thumbed and worn. At the further end of the table, a little pile of medicinal herbs heaped as if shaken hastily from the wallet which lay beside them. Probably the holy man, even while at an early hour he broke his fast, had been called to some sick bedside.
Mora turned from the doorway and, shading her eyes, scanned the landscape.
At first she could see only sheep, slowly moving from tuft to tuft as they nibbled the short grass; or goats, jumping from rock to rock, and suddenly disappearing in the high bracken.
But soon, on a distant ridge, she perceived two figures and presently made out the brown robe and hood of the Hermit, and a little, barefoot peasant boy, running to keep up with his rapid stride. They vanished over the crest of the hill, and Mora—alone in this wild solitude—realised that many hours might elapse ere the Hermit returned.
This check to the fulfilment of her purpose, instead of disappointing her, flooded her heart with a sudden sense of relief.
The interior of the Hermit's cell had recalled, so vividly, the austerities of the cloistered life.
The Hermit's point of view would probably have been so completely from within.
It would have been impossible that he should comprehend the wonder—the growing wonder—of these days, since she and Hugh rode away from Warwick, culminating in that exquisite hour on the battlements when she had told him of the vision, whispered her full surrender, and yet he—faithful and patient even then—had touched her only with his glowing eyes.
How could a holy Hermit, dwelling alone among great silent hills, realise the tremendous force of a strong mutual love, the glow, the gladness, the deep, sweet unrest, the call of soul to soul, the throb of hearts, filling the purple night with the soft beat of angels' wings?
How could a holy Hermit understand the shock to Hugh, how fathom the maddening torment of suspense, the abyss of hope deferred, into which the Bishop's letter must have plunged him, coming so soon after he had said: "I ask no higher joy, than to watch the breaking of the day which gives thee to my home"? But the breaking of the day had brought the stern necessity which took him from her.
Yet why? How much was in that second letter? Was it less detailed than the first? Had Hugh ridden south to learn the entire truth? Or had he ridden south to arrange with the Bishop for her complete and permanent deception?
Standing on this mountain plateau—the morning breeze blowing about her, the sun mounting triumphant in the heavens "as a bridegroom coming out of his chamber," and all around the scent of heather, the hum of bees, the joyful trill of the soaring lark; her own body bounding with life after the swift climb—it seemed to Mora impossible that Hugh should withstand the temptation to hold to his happiness, at all costs. And how could a saintly Hermit judge him as mercifully as she—the woman who loved him—knew that he should be judged?
She felt thankful for the good man's absence, yet baffled in her need for help.
Looking back toward the humble dwelling, she perceived a rough device of carved lettering on a beam over the doorway. She made out Latin words, and going nearer she, who for years had worked so continuously at copying and translating, read them without difficulty.
"WITH HIM, IN THE HOLY MOUNT," was inscribed across the doorway of the
Hermit's dwelling.
Mora repeated the words, and again repeated them; and, as she did so there stole over her the sense of an Unseen Presence in this solitude.
"With Him, in the Holy Mount."
She turned to the chapel. Over that doorway also were carven letters.
Moving closer, she looked up and read them.
"AND WHEN THEY HAD LIFTED UP THEIR EYES, THEY SAW NO MAN, SAVE JESUS ONLY."
Mora opened the door and entered the tiny chapel. At first, coming in from the outer brightness it seemed dark; but she had left the door standing wide, and light poured in behind her.
Then she lifted up her eyes and saw; and seeing, understood the meaning of the legend above the entrance.
In that little chapel was one Figure, and one Figure only. No pictured saints were there. No image of our Lady. No crucifix hung on the wall.
But, in a niche above the altar, stood a wondrous figure of the Christ; not dying, not dead; not glorified and ascending; but the Christ as very man, walking the earth in human form, yet calmly, unmistakably, triumphantly Divine. The marble form was carved by the same hand as the Madonna which the Bishop had brought from Rome, and placed in Mora's cell at the Convent. It had been his gift to his old friend the Hermit. At first sight of it, Mora remembered hearing it described by the Bishop himself. Then the beauty of the sculpture took hold upon her, and she forgot all else.
It lived! The face wore a look of searching tenderness; on the lips, a smile of loving comprehension; in the out-stretched hands, an attitude of infinite compassion.
Mora fell upon her knees. Instinctively she recalled the earnest injunction of Father Gervaise to his penitents that, when kneeling before the crucifix, they should repeat: "He ever liveth to make intercession for us." And, strangely enough, there came back with this the remembrance of the wild voice of Mary Seraphine, shrieking, when told to contemplate the dying Redeemer: "I want life—not death!"
Here was Life indeed! Here was the Saviour of the world, in mortal guise, the Word made manifest.
Mora lifted her eyes and read the words, illumined in letters of gold around the arch of the niche, gleaming in the sunlight above the patient head of the Man Divine.
"IN ALL POINTS TEMPTED LIKE AS WE ARE, YET WITHOUT SIN."
And higher still, above the arch:
"A GREAT HIGH PRIEST. . . . PASSED INTO THE HEAVENS."
In the silence and stillness of that utter solitude, she who had so lately been Prioress of the White Ladies kneeled and worshipped.
The Unseen Presence drew nearer.
She closed her eyes to the sculptured form.
The touch of her Lord was upon her heart.
She had prayed in her cell that His piercèd feet nailed to the wood might become as dear to her as the Baby feet on the Virgin Mother's knees. In her anguish of cloistered sorrow, that prayer had been granted.
But out in the world of living men and things, she needed more. She needed Feet that walked and moved, passed in and out of house and home; paused by the hearth; went to the wedding feast; moved to the fresh closed grave; Feet that had sampled the dust of life's highway; Feet that had trod rough places, yet never tripped nor stumbled.
"Tempted in all points." . . . Then here was One Who could understand Hugh's hard temptation; Who could pity, if Hugh fell. Here was One Who would comprehend the breaking of her poor human heart if, loving Hugh as she now loved, she yet must leave him.
"A great High Priest." . . . What need of any other priest, while "with Him in the Holy Mount"? Passed into the heavens, yet ever living to make intercession for us.
Deep peace stole into her heart, as she knelt in absorbed communion in this sacred place, where, for the first time, in her religious life, she had found herself with "Jesus only."
"Ah, blessèd Lord!" she cried at length, "Thou Who knowest the heart of a man, and canst divine the heart of a woman, grant unto me this day a true vision; a vision which shall make clear to me, without any possibility of doubt, what is Thy will for me."
CHAPTER LIV
THE UNSEEN PRESENCE
The world was a new and a wonderful world as, leaving the chapel, Mora turned her steps homeward. She had been wont to regard temptation itself as sinful, but now this sacred fact "in all points tempted like as we are" seemed to sanctify the state of being tempted, providing she could add the three triumphant words: "Yet without sin."
As she walked, with springy step, down the grassy paths among the heather, the Unseen Presence moved beside her.
It seemed strange that she should have found in the world this sweet secret of the Perpetual Presence, which had evaded her in the Nunnery. Often when her duties had taken her elsewhere in the Convent, or during the walk through the underground way on the return from the Cathedral, or even when walking for refreshment in the Convent garden, she would yearn for the holy stillness of the chapel, or to be back in her cell that she might kneel at the shrine of the Virgin and there realise the adorable purity of our blessèd Lady's heart; or, prostrating herself before the crucifix, gaze upon those piercèd feet, then slowly lift her eyes to the other sacred wounds, and force her mind to realise and her cold heart to receive the mighty fact that the Divine Redeemer thus hung and suffered for her sins.
Transports of realisation had come to her in her cell, or when she kept vigil in the Convent chapel, or when from the height of the Cathedral clerestory she gazed down upon the High Altar, the lighted candles, the swinging censers, and heard the chanting of the monks, and the tinkle of the silver bell. But these transports had resulted from her own determination to realise and to respond. The mental effort over, they faded, and her heart had seemed colder than before, her spirit more dead, her mind more prone to apathy. The greater the effort to force herself to apprehend, the more complete had been the reaction of non-realisation.
But now, in this deep wonder of new experience, there was no effort. She had but waited with every inlet of her being open to receive. And now the power was a Real Presence within, revealing an equally Real Presence without. The Risen Christ moved beside her as she walked. Her eyes were no longer holden that she should not know Him, for the promised Presence of the Paracletos filled her, unveiling her spiritual vision, whispering within her glowing heart; "It is the Lord!"
"Which Voice we heard," wrote Saint Peter, "when we were with Him in the Holy Mount." She, too, had first heard it there; but, as she descended, it was with her still. The songs of the birds, the rush of the stream, the breeze in the pines, the bee on the wing, all Nature seemed to say: "It is the Lord!"
Sorrow, suffering, disillusion might await her on the plain; but, with the Presence beside her, and the Voice within, she felt strong to face them, and to overcome.
Noon found her in her garden, calm and serene; yet wondering, with quickening pulses, whether at nightfall or even at sunset, Hugh would ride in; and what she must say if, giving some other reason for his journey to Worcester, he deceived her as others had deceived; failed her as others had failed.
And wondering thus, she rose and moved with slow step to the terrace.
For a while she stood pondering this hard question, her eyes lifted to the distant hills.
Then something impelled her to turn and glance into the banqueting hall, and there—on the spot where he had knelt that she might bless him at parting—stood Hugh, his arms folded, his eyes fixed upon her, waiting till she should see him.
CHAPTER LV
THE HEART OF A WOMAN
For a space, through the casement, they looked into one another's eyes; she, standing in the full glory of the summer sunshine, a radiant vision of glowing womanhood; he, in the shade of the banqueting-hall, gaunt and travel-stained, yet in his eyes the light of that love which never faileth. But, even as she looked, those dark eyes wavered, shifted, turned away, as if he could not bear any longer to gaze upon her in the sunlight.
An immense pity filled Mora's heart. She knew he was going to fail her; yet the pathos of that failure lay in the fact that it was the very force of his love which rendered the temptation so insuperable.
Swiftly she passed into the banqueting hall, went to him where he stood, put up her arms about his neck, and lifted her lips to his.
"I thank God, my belovèd," she said, "that He hath brought thee in safety back to me."
Hugh's arms, flung around her, strained her to him. But he kept his head erect. The muscles of his neck were like iron bands under her fingers. She could see the cleft in his chin, the firm curve of his lips. His eyes were turned from her.
She longed to say: "Hugh, the Bishop's first letter, lost on its way, hath reached my hands. Already I know the true story of the vision."
Yet instead she clung to his neck, crying: "Kiss me, Hugh! Kiss me!"
She could not rob her man of his chance to be faithful. Also, if he were going to fail her, it were better he should fail and she know it, than that she should forever have the torment of questioning: "Had I not spoken, would he have kept silence?"
Yet, while he was still hers, his honour untarnished, she longed for the touch of his lips.
"Kiss me," she whispered again, not knowing how ten-fold more hard she thus made it for him.
But loosing his arms from around her, he took her face between his hands, looking long into her eyes, with such a yearning of hunger, grief, and regret, that her heart stood still. Then, just as, rendered dizzy by his nearness, she closed her eyes, she felt his lips upon her own.
For a moment she was conscious of nothing save that she was his.
Then her mind flew back to the last time they had stood, thus. Again the underground smell of damp earth seemed all about them; again her heart was torn by love and pity; again she seemed to see Hugh, passing up from the darkness into that pearly light which came stealing down from the crypt—and she realised that this second kiss held also the anguish of parting, rather than the rapture of reunion.
Before she could question the meaning of this, Hugh released her, gently loosed her hands from about his neck, and led her to a seat.
Then he thrust his hand into his breast, and when he drew it forth she saw that he held something in his palm, which gleamed as the light fell upon it.
Standing before her, his eyes bent upon that which lay in his hand,
Hugh spoke.
"Mora, I have to tell thee a strange tale, which will, I greatly fear, cause thee much sorrow and perplexity. But first I would give thee this, sent to thee by the Bishop with his most loving greetings; who also bids me say that if, after my tale is told, thy choice should be to return to Worcester, he himself will meet thee, and welcome thee, conduct thee to the Nunnery and there reinstate thee Prioress of the White Ladies, with due pomp and highest honour. I tell thee this at once to spare thee all I can of shock and anguish in the hearing of that which must follow."
Kneeling before her, Hugh laid her jewelled cross of office on her lap.
"My wife," he said simply, speaking very low, with bent head, "before I tell thee more I would have thee know thyself free to go back to the point where first thy course was guided by the vision of the old lay-sister, Mary Antony. Therefore I bring thee thy cross of office as Prioress of the White Ladies."
She laughed aloud, in the great gladness of her relief; in the rapture of her pride in him.
"How can thy wife be Prioress of the White Ladies?" she cried, and caught his head to her breast, there where the jewelled cross used to lie, raining tears and kisses on his hair.
For a moment he yielded, speaking, with his face pressed against her, words of love beyond her imagining.
Then he regained control.
"Oh, hush, my belovèd!" he said. "Hold me not! Let me go, or our Lady knoweth I shall even now fail in the task which lies before me."
"Our Lord, Who knoweth the heart of a man," she said, "hath made my man so strong that he will not fail."
But she let him go; and rising, the Knight stood before her.
"The letter brought to me by Brother Philip," he began, "told me something of that which I am about to tell thee. But I could not speak of it to thee until I knew it in fullest detail, and had consulted with the Bishop concerning its possible effect upon thy future. Hence my instant departure to Worcester. That which I now shall tell thee, I had, in each particular, from the Bishop in most secret conversations. He and I, alone, know of this matter."
Then with his arms folded upon his breast, his eye fixed upon the sunny garden, beyond the window, deep sorrow, compunction, and, at times, awe in his voice, Hugh d'Argent recited the entire history of the pretended vision; beginning with the hiding of herself of old Antony in the inner cell, her anxiety concerning the Reverend Mother, confided to the Bishop; his chance remark, resulting in the old woman's cunningly devised plan to cheat the Prioress into accepting happiness.
And, as he told it, the horror of the sacrilege fell as a dark shadow between them, eclipsing even the radiance of their love. Upon which being no longer blinded, Mora clearly perceived the other issue which she was called upon to face: If our Lady's sanction miraculously given to the step she had taken in leaving the Nunnery had after all not been given, what justification had she for remaining in the world?
Presently Hugh reached the scene of the full confession and death of the old lay-sister. He told it with reverent simplicity. None of the Bishop's flashes of humour had found any place in the Knight's recital.
But now his voice, of a sudden, fell silent. The tale was told.
Mora had sat throughout leaning forward, her right elbow on her knee, her chin resting in the palm of her right hand; her left toying with the jewelled cross upon her lap.
Now she looked up.
"Hugh, you have made no mention of the Bishop's opinion as regards the effect of this upon myself. Did he advise that I be told the entire truth?"
The Knight hesitated.
"Nay," he admitted at length, seeing that she must have an answer. "The Bishop had, as you indeed know, from the first considered our previous betrothal and your sister's perfidy, sufficient justification for your release from all vows made through that deception. Armed with the Pope's mandate, the Bishop saw no need for a divine manifestation, nor did he, from the first, believe in the vision of this old lay-sister. Yet, knowing you set great store by it, he feared for your peace of mind, should you learn the truth."
"Did he command you not to tell me, Hugh?"
"For love of you, Mora, out of tender regard for your happiness, the
Bishop counselled me not to tell you."
"He would have had you to become a party, with himself, and old Mary
Antony, in my permanent deception?"
Hugh was a loyal friend.
"He would have had me to become a party, with himself, in securing your permanent peace, Mora," he said, sternly.
She loved his sternness. So much did she adore him for having triumphed where she had made sure that he would fail, so much did she despise herself for having judged him so poorly, rated him so low, that she could have knelt upon the floor and clasped his feet! Yet must she strive for wisdom and calmness.
"Then how came you to tell me, Hugh, that which might well imperil not only my peace but your own happiness?"
"Mora," said the Knight, "if I have done wrong, may our blessèd Lady pardon me, and comfort you. But I could not take my happiness knowing that it came to me by reason of a deception practised upon you. Our love must have its roots in perfect truthfulness and trust. Also you and I had together accepted the vision as divine. I had kneeled in your sight and praised our blessèd Lady for this especial grace vouchsafed on my behalf. But now, knowing it to have been a sacrilegious fraud, every time you spoke with joy of the special grace, every time you blessed our Lady for her loving-kindness, I, by my silence, giving mute assent, should have committed sacrilege afresh. Aye, and in that wondrous moment which you promised should soon come, when you would have said: 'Take me! I have been ever thine. Our Lady hath kept me for thee!' mine honour would have been smirched forever had I, keeping silence, taken advantage of thy belief in words which that old nun had herself invented, and put into the mouth of the blessèd Virgin. The Bishop held me selfish because I put mine honour before my need of thee. He said I saw naught but mine own proud face, in the bright mirror of my silver shield. But"—the Knight held his right hand aloft, and spoke in solemn tones—"methinks I see there the face of God, or the nearest I know to His face; and, behind Him, I see thy face, mine own belovèd. I needs must put this, which I owe to honour and to our mutual trust, before mine own content, and utter need of thee. I should be shamed, did I do otherwise, to call thee wife of mine, to think of thee as mistress of my home, and of my heart the Queen."
Mora's hand had sought the Bishop's letter; but now she let it lie concealed. She could not dim the noble triumph of that moment, by any revelation of her previous knowledge. Had Hugh failed, she must have produced the first letter. Hugh having proved faithful, it might well wait.
A long silence fell between them. Mora, fingering the cross, looked on it with unseeing eyes. To Hugh it seemed that this token of her high office was becoming to her a thing of first importance.
"The dress is also here," he said.
"What dress?" she questioned, starting.
He pointed to where he had laid it: her white habit, scapulary, wimple, veil and girdle; the dress of a Prioress of the Order of the White Ladies.
She turned her startled eyes upon it. Then quickly looked away.
"Did you yourself think a vision needed, in order that I might be justified in leaving the Convent, Hugh?"
"Nay, then," he cried, "always from the first I held thee mine in the sight of Heaven."
"Are you of opinion that, the vision being proved no vision, I should go back?"
"No!" said the Knight; and the word fell like a blow from a battle-axe.
"Does the Bishop expect that I shall return?"
"Yes," replied the Knight, groaning within himself that she should have chanced to change the form of her question.
"He would so expect," mused Mora. "He would be sure I should return. He remembers my headstrong temper, and my imperious will. He remembers how I tore the Pope's mandate, placing my foot upon it. He knows I said how that naught would suffice me but a divine vision. Also he knoweth well the heart of a nun; and when I asked him if the heart of a nun could ever become as the heart of other women, he did most piously ejaculate: 'Heaven forbid?'"
Little crinkles of merriment showed faintly at the corners of her eyes.
The Bishop would have seen them, and smiled responsive. But the sad
Knight saw them not.
"Mora," he said, "I leave thee free. I hold thee to no vows made through falsehood and fraud. I rate thy peace of mind before mine own content; thy true well-being, before mine own desires. Leaving thee free, dear Heart, I must leave thee free to choose. Loving thee as I love thee, I cannot stay here, yet leave thee free. My anguish of suspense would hamper thee. Therefore I purpose now to ride to my own home. Martin will ride with me. But tomorrow he will return, to ask if there is a message; and the next day, and the next. The Bishop allowed four days for hesitation. If thy decision should be to return to the Nunnery, his command is that thou ride the last stage of the journey fully robed, wearing thy cross of office. He himself will meet thee five miles this side of Worcester, and riding in, with much pomp and ceremony, will announce to the Community that, the higher service to which His Holiness sent thee, being accomplished——"
"Accomplished, Hugh?"
The Knight smiled, wearily. "I quote the Bishop, Mora. He will explain that he now reinstates thee as Prioress of the Order. The entire Community will, he says, rejoice; and he himself will be ever at hand to make sure that all is right for thee."
"These plans are well and carefully laid, Hugh."
"They who love thee have seen to that, Mora."
"Who will ride with me from here to Worcester?"
"Martin Goodfellow, and a little band of thine own people. A swifter messenger will go before to warn the Bishop of thy coming."
"And what of thee?" she asked.
"Of me?" repeated the Knight, as if at first the words conveyed to him no meaning. "Oh, I shall go forth, seeking a worthy cause for which to fight; praying God I may soon be counted worthy to fall in battle."
She pressed her clasped hands there where his face had rested.
"And if I find I cannot go back, Hugh? If I decide to stay?"
He swung round and looked at her.
"Mora, is there hope? The Bishop said there was none."
"Hugh," she made answer slowly, speaking with much earnestness, "shall
I not be given a true vision to guide me in this perplexity?"
"Our Lady grant it," he said. "If you decide to stay, one word will bring me back. If not, Mora—this is our final parting."
He took a step toward her.
She covered her face with her hands.
In a moment his arms would be round her. She could not live through a third of those farewell kisses. She had not yet faced out the second question. But—vision or no vision—if he touched her now, she would yield.
"Go!" she whispered. "Ah, for pity's sake, go! The heart of a nun might endure even this. But I ask thy mercy for the heart of a woman!"
She heard the sob in his throat, as he knelt and lifted the hem of her robe to his lips.
Then his step across the floor.
Then the ring of horses' hoofs upon the paving stones.
She was trembling from head to foot, yet she rose and went to the window overlooking the courtyard.
Mark was shutting the gates. Beaumont held a neglected stirrup cup, and laughed as he drained it himself. Zachary, stout and pompous, was mounting the steps.
Hugh, her husband—Hugh, faithful beyond belief—Hugh, her dear Knight of the Silver Shield—had ridden off alone, to the home to which he so greatly longed to take her; alone, with his hopeless love, his hungry heart, and his untarnished honour.
Turning from the window she gathered up the habit of her Order and, clasping her cross of office, mounted to her bedchamber, there to face out in solitude the hard question of the second issue.
CHAPTER LVI
THE TRUE VISION
To her bedchamber went Mora—she who had been Prioress of the White Ladies—bearing in her arms the full robes of her Order, and in her hand the jewelled cross of her high office. She went, expecting to spend hours in doubt and prayer and question before the shrine of the Virgin. But, as she pushed open the door and entered the sunlit chamber, on the very threshold she was met by a flash of inward illumination. Surely every question had already been answered; the second issue had been decided, while the first was yet wholly uncertain.
She had said she must have a divine vision. Had she not this very day been granted a two-fold vision, both human and divine; the Divine, stooping in unspeakable tenderness and comprehension to the human; the Human, upborne on the mighty pinions of pure love and stainless honour in a self-sacrifice which lifted it to the Divine?
In the lonely chapel on the mountain, she had seen her Lord. Not as the Babe, heralded by angels, worshipped by Eastern shepherds, adored by Gentile kings, throned on His Mother's knee, wise-eyed and God-like, stretching omnipotent baby hands toward this mysterious homage which was His due; accepting, with baby omniscience, the gold, the frankincense, the myrrh, which typified His mission; nor as the Divine Redeemer nailed helpless to the cross of shame; dead, that the world might live. These had been the visions of her cloistered years.
But in the chapel on the mountain she had seen Him as the human Jesus, tempted in all points like as we are, His only visible halo the "yet without sin," which set upon His brow in youth and manhood the divine seal of perfect purity, and in His eyes the clear shining of uninterrupted intercourse with Heaven.
As she had left the chapel, turning from the sculptured figure which had helped her to this realisation, she had become wondrously aware of the Unseen Presence of the Christ, close beside her. "As seeing Him Who is invisible" she had come down from the mount, conscious that He went on before. She seemed to be following those blessèd footsteps over the heather of her native hills, even as the disciples of old followed them through the cornfields of Judea, and over the grassy slopes of Galilee. Yet conscious also that He moved beside her, with hand outstretched in case her spirit tripped; and that, should a hidden foe fling shafts from an ambush in the rear, even there that Unseen Presence would be behind her as a shield. "Lo I am with you always, even unto the end of the world."
Strong in this most human vision of the Divine, she had come down from the Holy Mount, prepared to face the dumb demon she dreaded, the silent acquiescence in deception, which threatened to tear her happiness, bruise her spirit, and cast into the fire and into the waters to destroy them, those treasures which her heart had lately learned to hold so dear.
Prepared for this, she came; and lo, Heaven granted her the second vision. She saw deep into the heart of a true man's faithfulness; an example of chivalry, of profound reverence for holy things, which shamed her doubts of him; a self-sacrifice which lifted the great human love, to which she, in her cloistered sanctity, had pictured herself as stooping, far above her, to the ideal of the divine. Was not this indeed a Vision of Truth?
Crossing the room, Mora laid the robes she carried upon the couch. While mounting the stairs she had planned, in the secret of her own chamber, to clothe herself in them once again, to hang her jewelled cross about her neck, and thus—once more Prioress of the White Ladies—to kneel at our Lady's shrine, and implore guidance in this final decision. But now, she laid them gently down upon the bed.
She could not stand fast in this new liberty, with the heavy folds of that white habit entangling her feet in a yoke of bondage.
The heart, filled with a love so full of glowing tenderness for her Knight of the Silver Shield proved worthy, could not beat beneath a scapulary. Nor could her cross of office lie where his dear head had rested.
She stood before the shrine. The Madonna looked gravely upon her. The holy Babe gazed with omniscient eyes, holding forth tiny hands of omnipotence.
Even so had they looked in her hour of joy, when she had kneeled in a transport of thanksgiving.
Even so had they looked in her hour of anguish, when she had poured out her despair at having been twice deceived.
Yet help had not come, until she had lifted her eyes unto the hills.
She turned from the shrine, went swiftly to the open casement, and stood looking over the green tree tops, to the heavenly blue beyond, flecked by swift moving clouds.
She, who had now learned to "look . . . at the things that are not seen," could not find help through gazing on carven images.
Thoughts of our Lady seemed more living and vital while she kept her eyes upon the fleecy whiteness of those tiny clouds, or watched a flight of mountain birds, silver-winged in the sunshine.
What was the one command recorded as having been given, by the blessèd
Mother of our Lord, to men? "Whatsoever He saith unto you, do it."
And what was His last injunction to His Church on earth? "Go ye into
all the world and preach glad tidings to every creature. . . . And lo,
I am with you always."
Mora could not but know that she had come forth into her world bringing the glad tidings of love requited, of comfort, and of home.
By virtue of this promise the feet of the risen Christ would move beside her "all the days."
It seemed to her, that if she went back now into her Convent cell, she would nail those blessèd feet to the wood again. In slaying this new life within herself, she would lose forever the sense of living companionship, retaining only the religion of the Crucifix. Enough, perhaps, for the cloistered life. But this life more abundant, demanded that grace should yet more abound.
A great apostolic injunction sounded, like a clarion call, from the stored chancel of her memory. "As ye have therefore received Christ Jesus the Lord, so walk ye in Him."
She flung wide her arms. A sense of all-pervading liberty, a complete freedom from all bondage of spirit, soul, or body, leapt up responsive to the call.
"I will!" she said. "Without any further fear or faltering, I will!"
She passed to the couch, folded the robes she had worn so long, and laid them away in an empty chest.
This done, she took her cross of office, and went down to the terrace.
Her one thought was to reach Hugh with as little delay as possible.
She could not leave that noble heart in suspense, a moment longer than
she need.
The sun was still high in the heavens. By the short way through the woods, she could reach the castle long before sunset.
She owed Hugh much. Yet there was another to whom she also owed a debt; how much she owed to him, this day's new light had shewn her. She would go forward to her joy with a freer heart if she gave herself time to discharge, by acknowledgment and thanks, the great debt she owed to her old and faithful friend, Symon, Bishop of Worcester.
She sent for her steward.
"Zachary," she said, "Sir Hugh has ridden on before. I follow by the short way through the forest, and shall not return to-night. Bid them saddle my white palfrey, Icon. I shall be ready to start within an hour. But first I must despatch to Worcester, a packet of importance. Bid two of the men, who rode with us from Worcester, prepare to mount and return thither. If they start in an hour's time, they can be well on their way, and make a safe lodging, before nightfall."
She passed into the library, laid the cross before her on the table, and began her letter to the Bishop.
Straight from her hand to his, that letter went; straight from her heart to his, that letter spoke; and Symon's comfort in it, lies largely in the knowledge that she was alone when she wrote it, alone when she sealed it, and that none in this world, saving they two, will ever know exactly what the woman, whom he had loved so purely and served so faithfully, said to him in this letter.
Bare facts, however, may be given.
She told him, as briefly as might be, of that morning's great experience; of Hugh's return, and noble self-effacement; of the clear light she had received, and the decision to which she had come; and of how she was now going forward, with a free heart, to her great happiness.
And then, in glowing words, she told him all she owed to his faithful, patient friendship, to the teaching of long years, the trend of which had always been life, light, liberty; a wider outlook, a fearless judgment, a clear knowledge of God, based on inspired writings; and, above all, belief in those words, often on his lips, always in his heart: "Love never faileth."
"Truly, my dear lord," she wrote, "your love——" Nay, it may not be quoted!
She told him how his teaching, following along the same lines as that of Father Gervaise years before, had prepared her mind for this revelation of the ever-living Saviour.
"Now the mystery is unveiled to me also," she wrote, "I realise that you knew it all along; and that, had I but been more teachable, Reverend Father, you could have taught me more. Oh, I pray you, take heart of grace, and teach these great truths to others."
She blessed him for his faithfulness in striving to make her see her duty to Hugh, and her life's true vocation.
She blessed him for her great happiness, yet thanked him for his care in sending her cross of office, thus making all easy in order that, had her conscience so required, she could have safely returned. She herewith sent him the cross, and begged that he would keep it, remembering when he chanced to look upon it——
She also begged him to forgive her the many times when she had tried his patience, and been herself impatient of his wise counsel and control.
And, finally, she signed herself —— —— ——
Mora held the cross to her lips, then placed it within the letter, folded the packet, sealed it with her own seal, addressed it with full directions, and called for the messenger.
Thus, fully four days before he had looked to have it, the answer for which he waited, reached the Bishop's hand. As he opened it, and perceived the gleam of gold and emeralds, he glanced across to the deed chest, where lay the Knight's white stone.
The rose beside it had not yet faded. It might have been plucked and placed in the water that morning, so fair it bloomed—a red, red rose. Ah, Verity! Little Angel Child!
* * * * * *
It was said in sunny Florence in the years that followed, and, later on, it was remarked in Rome, that if the Lord High Cardinal—kindest of men—was tried almost beyond bearing, if even his calm patience seemed in danger of ruffling, or if he was weary, or sad, or disheartened, he had a way of slipping his hand into the bosom of his scarlet robe, as if he gently fingered something that lay against his heart.
Whereupon at, once his brow grew serene again, his blue eyes kindly and bright, his lips smiled that patient smile which never failed; and, as he drew forth his hand, the stone within his ring, though pale before, glowed deep red, as juice of purple grapes in a goblet.
CHAPTER LVII
"I CHOOSE TO RIDE ALONE"
Mora escaped from the restraining arms of old Debbie, and appeared at the top of the steps leading down to the courtyard.
Framed in the doorway, in her green riding dress, she stood for a moment, surveying the scene before her.
The two men bound for Worcester, bearing her packet to the Bishop, had just ridden out at the great gates. Through the gates, still standing open, she could see them guiding their horses down the hill and taking the southward road.
The porter was attempting to close the gates, but a stable lad hindered him, pointing to Icon, whom a groom was leading, ready saddled, to and fro, before the door; Icon, with proudly arched neck and swishing tail, as conscious of his snowy beauty as when, in the river meadow at Worcester, he found himself the centre of an admiring crowd of nuns.
At sight of his flowing mane, powerful forequarters, and high stepping action, Mora was irresistibly reminded of the scene in the courtyard at the Nunnery, when the Bishop rode in on his favourite white palfrey, she standing at the top of the steps to receive him. Never again would she stand so, to receive the Bishop; never again would Icon proudly carry him. The Bishop had given her to Hugh and Icon to her. A faint sense of compunction stirred within her. Perhaps at that moment she came near to realising something of what both gifts had cost the Bishop.
Bending her head, she looked across the courtyard and under the gateway. The messengers were riding fast. Even as she looked, they disappeared into the pine wood.
Her letter to Symon was well on its way. She remembered with comfort and gladness certain things she had written in that letter.
Then—as the pine wood swallowed the messengers—with a joyous bound of reaction her whole mind turned to Hugh.
Three steps below her, a page waited, holding a dagger which she had been wont to wear, when riding in the forests. She had sent it out to be sharpened. She took it from him, tested its point, slipped it into the sheath at her belt, smiled upon the boy, descended the remaining steps, and laid her hand upon Icon's mane.
Then it was that Mistress Deborah's agitated signals from within the doorway, took effect upon old Zachary.
Coming forward, he bared his white head, and adventured a humble expostulation.
"My lady," he said, "it is not safe nor well that you should ride alone. A few moments' delay will suffice Beaumont to saddle a horse and be ready to attend you."
She mounted before she made answer.
She kept her imperious temper well in hand, striving to remember that to old Debbie and Zachary she seemed but the child they had loved and watched over from infancy, of a sudden grown older. They had not known the Prioress of the White Ladies.
Bending from the saddle, her hand on Icon's mane:
"I go to my husband, Zachary," she said, "and I choose to ride alone."
Then gathering up the reins, she turned Icon toward the gates and so rode across the courtyard, looking, neither back to where Mistress Deborah alternately wrung her hands and shook her fist at Zachary; nor to right or left, where Mark and Beaumont, standing with doffed caps waited till she should have passed, to yield to the full enjoyment of Mistress Deborah's gestures, and of Master Zachary's discomfiture.
She rode forth looking straight before her, over the pointed ears of Icon. She was riding to Hugh, and, they who stood by must not see the love-light in her eyes.
Grave and serene, her head held high, she paced the white palfrey through the gates. And if the porter marked a wondrous shining in her eyes—well, the sun began to slant its rays, and she rode straight toward the west.
Zachary mounted the steps and hastened across the hall, followed by
Deborah.
Mark thereupon enacted Mistress Deborah, and Beaumont, Master Zachary; while the page sat down on the steps to laugh.
The porter clanged to the gates.
The day's work was done.
CHAPTER LVIII
THE WARRIOR HEART
As Mora turned off the highway, and pressed Icon deep into the glades, she cried over and over aloud, for there was none to hear: "I go to my husband, and I choose to ride alone."
How wondrous it seemed, this going to him; a second giving, a deeper surrender, a fuller yielding.
When she went to him in the crypt, her body had recoiled, her spirit had shrunk, shamed, humbled, and unwilling. Her mind alone, governed by her will, had driven her along the path of her resolve, holding her upon the stretcher, until too late to cry out or to return.
Now—how different! Free as air, alone, uncoerced, even unexpected, she left her own home, and her own people, to ride, unattended, straight to the arms of the man who had won her.
A wild joy seized and shook her.
The soft, mysterious glades, beneath vast, leafy domes, seemed enchanted ground. The hoofs of Icon thudded softly on the moss. The stillness seemed alive with whispering life. Rabbits sat still to peep, then whisked and ran. Great birds rose suddenly, on whirring wings. Tiny birds, fearless, stayed on their twigs and sang.
There was scurrying among ferns and rocks, telling of bright, watchful eyes; of life, safeguarding itself, unseen. Yet all these varied sounds, Nature disturbed in the shady haunts which were her rightful home, did but emphasize the vast stillness, the utter solitude, the complete remoteness from human dwelling-place.
Shining through parted boughs and slowly moving leaves, the sunlight fell, in golden bars or shifting yellow patches, on the glade.
The joy which thrilled his rider, seemed to communicate itself to Icon. He galloped over the moss on the broad rides, and would scarce be restrained when passing between great rocks, or turning sharply into an unseen way.
Mora rode as in a dream. "I ride to my husband," she cried to the forest, "and I choose to ride alone!" And once she sang, in an irrepressible burst of praise: "Jesu dulsis memoria!" Then, when she fell silent: "Dulsis! Dulsis!" carolled unseen choristers in leafy clerestories overhead. And each time Icon heard her voice, he laid back his ears and cantered faster.
Not far from her journey's end, the way lay through a deep gorge in the very heart of the pine wood.
Here the sun's rays could scarce penetrate; the path became rough and slippery; a hidden stream oozed up between loose stones.
Icon picked his way, with care; yet even so, he slipped, recovered, and slipped again.
With a sudden rush, some wild animal, huge and heavy, went crashing through the undergrowth.
Stealthy footsteps seemed to keep pace with Icon's, high up among the tree trunks.
Yet this valley of the shadow held no terrors for the woman whose heart was now so blissfully at rest.
Having left behind forever the dark vale of doubt and indecision, she mounted triumphant on the wings of trust and certainty.
"I ride to my husband," she whispered, as if the words were a charm which might bring the sense of his strong arms about her, "and I choose to ride alone."
With a gentle caress on the arch of his snowy neck, and with soft words in the anxiously pointing ears, she encouraged the palfrey to go forward.
At length they rounded a great grey rock jutting out into the path, and the upward slope of a mossy glade came into view.
With a whinny of pleasure, Icon laid back his ears and broke into a swift canter.
Up the glade they flew; out into the sunshine; clear into the open.
Here was the moor! Here the highroad, at last! And there in the distance, the grey walls of Hugh's castle; the portals of home.
* * * * * *
It was the Knight's trusted foster-brother, Martin Goodfellow, amazed, yet smiling a glad welcome, who held Icon's bridle as Mora dismounted in the courtyard.
She fondled the palfrey's nose, laying her cheek against his neck. For the moment it became imperative that she should hide her happy eyes even from this faithful fellow, in whom she had learned to place entire confidence.
"Icon, brave and beautiful!" she whispered. "Thou hast carried me here where I longed to be. Thy feet were well-nigh as swift as my desire."
Then she turned, speaking quickly and low.
"Martin, where is my husband? Where shall I find Sir Hugh?"
"My lady," said Martin, "I saw him last in the armoury."
"The armoury?" she questioned.
"A chamber opening out of the great hall, facing toward the west, with steps leading down into the garden."
"Even as my chamber?"
"The armoury door faces the door of your chamber, Countess. The width of the hall lies between."
"Can I reach my chamber without entering the hall, or passing the armoury windows? I would rid me of my travel-stains, before I make my presence known to Sir Hugh."
"Pass round to the right, and through the buttery; then you reach the garden and the steps up to your chamber from the side beyond the armoury."
"Good. Tell no one of my presence, Martin. I have here the key of my chamber. Has Sir Hugh asked for it?"
"Nay, my lady; nor guessed how often we rode hither. We reached the castle scarce two hours ago. The Knight bathed, and changed his dusty garments; then dined alone. After which he went into the armoury."
"When did you see him last, Martin?"
"Two minutes ago, lady. I come this moment from the hall."
"What was he doing, Martin?"
Martin Goodfellow hesitated. He knew something of love, and as much as an honest man may know, of women. He shrewdly suspicioned what she would expect the Knight to be doing. He was sorely tempted to give a fancy picture of Sir Hugh d'Argent, in his lovelorn loneliness.
He looked into the clear eyes bent upon him; glanced at the firm hand, arrested for a moment in its caress of Icon's neck; then decided that, though the truth might probably be unexpected, a lie would most certainly be unwise.
"Truth to tell," said Martin Goodfellow, "Sir Hugh was testing his armour, and sharpening his battle-axe."
As Mora passed into the dim coolness of the buttery, she was conscious of a very definite sense of surprise. She had pictured Hugh in his lonely home, nursing his hungry heart, beside his desolate hearth. She had seen herself coming softly behind him, laying a tender hand upon those bowed shoulders; then, as he lifted eyes in which dull despair would quickly give place to wondering joy, saying: "Hugh, I am come home."
But now, as she passed through the buttery, Mora had to realise that yet again she had failed to understand the man she loved.
It was not in him, to sit and brood over lost happiness. If she failed him finally, he was ready in this, as in all else, to play the man, going straight on, unhindered by vain regret.
Once again her pride in him, in that he was finer than her own conceptions, quickened her love, even while it humbled her, in her own estimation, to a place at his feet.
A glory of joy was on her face as, making her way through to the terrace, now bathed in sunset light, she passed up to the chamber she had prepared during Hugh's absence.
All was as she had left it.
Fastening the door by which she had entered from the garden, she noiselessly opened that which gave on to the great hall.
The hall was dark and deserted, but the door into the armoury stood ajar.
A shaft of golden sunshine streamed through the half-open door.
She heard the clang of armour. She could not see Hugh, but even as she stood in her own doorway, looking across the hall, she heard his voice, singing, as he worked, snatches of the latest song of Blondel, the King's Minstrel.
With beating heart, Mora turned and closed her door, making it fast within.
CHAPTER LIX
THE MADONNA IN THE HOME
Hugh d'Argent had polished his armour, put a keen edge on his battle-axe, and rubbed the rust from his swords.
The torment of suspense, the sickening pain of hope deferred, could be better borne, while he turned his mind on future battles, and his muscles to vigorous action.
Of the way in which the cup of perfect bliss had been snatched from his very lips, he could not trust himself to think.
His was the instinct of the fighter, to bend his whole mind upon the present, preparing for the future; not wasting energy in useless reconsideration of an accomplished past.
He had acted as he had felt bound in honour to act. Gain or loss to himself had not been the point at issue. Even as, in the hot fights with the Saracens, slaying or being slain might incidentally result from the action of the moment, but the possession of the Holy Sepulchre was the true object for which each warrior who had taken the cross, drew his sword or swung his battle-axe.
Was honour, held unsullied, to prove in this case, the tomb of his life's happiness? Three days of suspense, during which Mora considered, and he and the Bishop waited. On the third day, would Love arise victorious, purified by suffering, clad in raiment of dazzling whiteness? Would there be Easter in his heart, and deep peace in his home? Or would his belovèd wind herself once more in cerements, would the seal of the Vatican be set upon the stone of monastic rules and regulations, making it fast, secure, inviolable? Would he, turning sadly from the Zion of hopes fulfilled, be walking in dull despair to the Emmaus of an empty home, of a day far spent, holding no promise of a brighter dawn?
But, even as his mind dwelt on the symbolism of that sacred scene, the Knight remembered that the two who walked in sadness did not long walk alone. One, stepping silently, came up with them; knowing all, yet asking tenderest question; the Master, Whom they mourned, Himself drew near and went with them.
It seemed to Hugh d'Argent that if so real a Presence as that, could draw near to him and to Mora at this sad parting of the ways, if their religion did but hold a thing so vital, then might they have a true vision of Life, which should make clear the reason for the long years of suffering, and point the way to the glory which should follow. Then, being blessèd, not merely by the Church and the Bishop but by the Christ Himself—He Who at Cana granted the best wine when the earthly vintage failed the wedding feast—they might leave behind forever the empty tomb of hopes frustrated, and return together, with exceeding joy, to the Jerusalem of joys fulfilled.
Hugh laid down his sword, rose, stretched himself, and stood looking full into the golden sunset.
He could not account for it, but somehow the darkness had lifted. The sense of loneliness was gone. An Unseen Presence seemed with him. The thought of prayer throbbed through his helpless spirit, like the uplifting beat of strong white wings.
"O God," he said, "Thou seemest to me as a stranger, when I meet Thee on mine own life's way. I know Thee as Babe divine; I know Thee, crucified; I know Thee risen, and ascending in such clouds of glory as hide Thee from mine earthbound sight. But, if Thou hast drawn near along the rocky footpath of each day's common happenings, then have mine eyes indeed been holden, and I knew Thee not."
Hugh stood motionless, his eyes on the glory of the sunset battlements. And into his mind there came, as clearly as if that moment uttered, the words of Father Gervaise: "He ever liveth to make intercession for us."
The Knight raised his right arm. "Oh, if Thou livest," he said, "and living, knowest; and knowing, carest; grant me a sign of Thy nearness—a Vision of Life and of Love, which shall make clear this mist of uncertainty."
Turning back to his work, so great a load seemed lifted from his heart, that he found himself singing as he put a keener edge on his weapons.
Presently he went over to the corner where stood the silver shield. Hitherto he had kept his eyes turned from it. It called up thoughts which he had striven to beat back. Now, he set to work and polished it until its surface shone clear as a mirror.
And as he worked, he thought within himself: "What said the Bishop? That I saw reflected in my silver shield naught save mine own proud face? But I told my wife that I see there the face of God, or the nearest I know to His face; and, behind Him, her face—the face of my beloved; for, had I not put reverence and honour first, my very love for her would have been tarnished."
Hugh stood the silver shield at such an angle as that it reflected the sunset, yet as he kneeled upon one knee before it he could not see his own reflection.
The sun, round and blood red, almost dipping below the horizon, shone out in crimson glory from the deepest heart of the silver.
Hugh remembered two verses of a Hebrew poem which the Rabbi used to recite at sunset. "The Lord God is a Sun and Shield: The Lord will give Grace and Glory; No good thing will He withhold from them that walk uprightly. O Lord of Hosts, blessèd is the man that trusteth in Thee."
His eyes upon the shield, his hands clasped around his knee, Hugh said, softly: "The face of God, my belovèd, or the nearest I know to His face: and behind Him, thy face"——
And then his voice fell of a sudden silent; his heart beat in his throat, his fingers gripped his knee; for something moved softly in the shining surface, and there looked out at him from his own silver shield, the face of the woman he loved.
How long he kneeled and gazed without stirring, Hugh could not tell. At that moment life paused suspended, and he ceased to be conscious of time. But, at length, pressing nearer, his own dark head appeared in the shield, and above him, bending toward him, Mora, shimmering in softest white, as on her wedding morn, her hands outstretched, her eyes full of a tender yearning, gazing into his.
"The Vision for which I prayed!" cried the Knight. "O, my God! Is this the sign of Thy nearness? Is this a promise that my wife will come to me?"
He hid his face in his hands.
A gentle touch fell lightly on his hair.
"Not a promise, Hugh," came a tender whisper close behind him. "A sign of God's nearness; a proof of mine. Hugh, my own dear Knight, lift up your head and look. Your wife has come home."
Leaping to his feet, he turned; still dazzled, incredulous.
No shadowy reflection this. His wife stood before him, fair as on her wedding morning, a jewelled circlet clasping the golden glory of her hair. But his eyes saw only the look in hers.
Yet he kept his distance.
"Mora?" he whispered. "Home? To stay? Hath a true vision then been granted thee?"
"Oh, Hugh," she answered, "I have seen deep into the heart of a true man. I have seen myself unworthy, in the light of thy great loyalty. I have seen all others fail, but my Knight of the Silver Shield stand faithful. I have been shewn this by so strange a chance, that I humbly take it to be the Finger of God pointing out the pathway of His will. My pride is in the dust. My self-will lies slain. But my love for thee has become as great a thing as the heart of a woman may know. Thy faithfulness shames my poor doubts of thee. The richness of thy giving, beggars my yearning to bestow. Yet now at last thy wife can come to thee without a doubt, without a tremor, all hesitancy gone, all she is, and all she has, quite simply, thine. Oh, Hugh, thine own—to do with as thou wilt. All these years—kept for thee. Take me—Ah! . . . Oh, Hugh, thy strength! Is this love, or is there some deeper, more rapturous word? Oh, dear man of mine, how strong must have been the flood-gates, if this was the pent-up force behind them!"
He carried her to the hearth in the great hall, and placed her in the chair in which his mother used to sit.
Then, his arms still around her, he kneeled before her, lifting his face in which the dark eyes glowed with a deeper light than passion's transient fires.
"The Madonna!" he said. "The Madonna in my home."
He stooped and lifted the hem of her robe to his lips.
"Not as Prioress," he said, "but as my adored wife."
Again he stooped and pressed it to his lips.
"Not as Reverend Mother to a score of nuns," he said, "but as——"
She caught his head between her hands, hiding his glowing eyes against her breast.
Presently: "And did thy people come with thee, my sweetheart? And how could a three hours' ride be accomplished in this bridal array? Oh, Heaven help me, Mora! Thou art so beautiful!"
"Hush," she said, "thou dear, foolish man! Heaven hath helped thee through worse straits than that! Nay, I rode alone, and in my riding dress of green. Arrived here, I changed, in mine own chamber, to these marriage garments."
"In thine own chamber?" He looked at her, with bewildered eyes.
"Here—here, in thine own chamber, Mora?"
The mother in her thrilled with tenderness, as she bent and looked into those bewildered eyes. For once, she felt older than he, and wiser. The sense of inexperience fell from her. For very joy she laughed as she made answer.
"Dear Heart," she said, "I could scarce come home unless I had a chamber to which to come! Martin shewed me which had been thy mother's, and daily in thine absence he and I rode over, and others with us, bringing all things needful, thus making it ready, against thy return."
"Ready?" he said. "Against my return?"
She laid her lips upon his hair.
"I hope it will please thee, my lord," she said. "Come and see."
She made for to rise, but with masterful hands he held her down. His great strength must have some outlet, lest it should overmaster the gentleness of his love. Also, perhaps, the primitive instincts of wild warrior forefathers arose, of a sudden, within him.
"I must carry thee," he said. "Not a step thither shalt thou walk. Thine own feet brought thee to the crypt; others bore thee thence. Thy palfrey carried thee home; thy palfrey bore thee here. But to our chamber, my wife, I carry thee, alone."
She would sooner have gone on her own feet; but her joy this day, was to give him all he wished, and as he wished it.
As he bent above her, she slipped her arms around his neck. "Then carry me, dear Heart," she said, "but do not let me fall."