The White Ladies of Worcester: A Romance of the Twelfth Century

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."

He laughed; and as he swung her out of the seat, and strode across the great hall to where the western glow still gleamed from the doorway of his mother's chamber, she knew of a sudden, why he had wished to carry her. His great strength gave him such easy mastery; helped her to feel so wholly his.

On the threshold of the chamber he paused.

Bending his face to hers, he touched her lips with exceeding gentleness. Then spoke in her ear, deep and low. "Say again what thou didst say ten nights ago when we parted in the dawning, on the battlements."

"I love thee," she whispered, and closed her eyes.

Then Hugh passed within.

CHAPTER LX

THE CONVENT BELL

The slanting rays of the setting sun lay, in golden bands, upon the flags of the Convent cloister.

Complete silence reigned.

The White Ladies had returned from Vespers. Each, in the solitude of her own cell, was spending, in prayer and meditation, the hour until the Refectory bell should ring.

The great door into the cloisters stood wide.

Mother Sub-Prioress appeared in the far distance, moving down the passage. As she passed between the long line of closed doors, she turned her face quickly from side to side, pausing occasionally to listen, ear laid against the panelling.

Presently she stepped from the cool shadow into the sunny brightness of the cloister.

She did not blink, as old Mary Antony used to blink. Her small eyes peered from out her veil as sharply in sunshine as in shadow.

Yet was there something curiously furtive about Mother Sub-Prioress, when she entered the cloister. Listening at the doors in the cell passage, she had been merely official, acting with a precise celerity which bespoke long practice. Now she hesitated; looked around as if to make sure she was not observed, and obviously held, with her left hand, something concealed.

Moving along the cloister, she seated herself upon the stone slab in the archway overlooking the lawn and the pieman's tree; then drew forth from beneath her scapulary, the worn leathern wallet which had belonged to the old lay-sister, Mary Antony.

At the same moment there came a gentle flick of wings, and the robin alighted on the stone coping, not three feet from the elbow of Mother Sub-Prioress.

Very bright-eyed, and tall on his legs, was Mary Antony's little vain man. With his head on one side, he looked inquiringly at Mother Sub-Prioress; and Mother Sub-Prioress, from out the curtain of her veil, frowned back at him.

There was a solemn quality in the complete silence. No naughty tales of bakers' boys or piemen. No gay chirps of expectation. Receiving cheese from Mother Sub-Prioress, bestowed for conscience' sake, partook of the nature of a sacred ceremony. Yet the robin had come for his cheese, and the Sub-Prioress had come to give it to him.

Presently she slowly opened the wallet, took therefrom some choice morsels, and strewed them on the coping.

"Here, bird," she said, grimly; "I cannot let thee miss thy cheese because the foolish old creature who taught thee to look for it, comes this way no more. Take it and begone!"

This was the daily formula.

The "jaunty little layman," undismayed—though the look was austere, and the voice, forbidding—hopped gaily nearer, pecking eagerly. No gaping mouths now waited his return. His nestlings were grown and flown. At last he could afford to feast himself.

Mother Sub-Prioress turned her back upon the coping and stared at the archway opposite. She had no wish to see the bird's enjoyment.

Then a strange thing happened.

Having pecked up all he wanted, the robin turned his bright eye upon the motionless figure, seated so near him, wrapped in the aloofness of an impenetrable silence.

Excepting in her dying moments, Mary Antony's much loved little bird had never adventured nearer to her than to hop along the coping, pecking at her fingers when, to test his boldness, she reached out and with them covered the cheese.

Yet now, with a gentle flick of wings, lo, he alighted on the knee of Mother Sub-Prioress! Then, while she scarce dared breathe, for wonder and amaze, hopped to her arm and pecked gently at her veil.

Whereupon something broke in the cold heart of Mother Sub-Prioress. Tears ran slowly down the thin face. She would not stir nor lift her hand to wipe them away, and they fell in heavy drops upon her folded fingers.

At length she spoke, in a broken whisper.

"Oh, thou little winged thing," she said, "who so easily could'st fly from me! Dost thou use those wings of liberty to draw yet nearer? In this place of high walls and narrow cells, they who have not full freedom, use to the full what freedom they possess, to turn, at my approach and fly from me. Not one if she could choose, would choose to come to me. . . . Is there any honour so great as that of being feared by all? Is there any loneliness so great as by all to be hated? That honour, little bird, is mine; also that loneliness. Who then hath sent thee thus to essay to take both from me?"

Heavy tears continued to fall upon the clasped hands; the worn face was distorted by mental suffering. The frozen soul of Mother Sub-Prioress having melted, the iron of self-knowledge was entering into it, causing the dull ache of a pain unspeakable. Yet she dared not sob, lest the heaving of her bosom should frighten away the little bird perched so lightly on her arm.

This evidence of the trust in her of a little living thing, was the one rope to which Mother Sub-Prioress clung in those first moments, during which the black waters of remorse and despair passed over her head—a rope made of frail enough strands, God knows: bright eyes alert, small clinging feet, a pair of folded wings. Yet do the frailest threads of love and trust, make a safer rope to which to cling when shipwreck threatens the heart, than the iron chains of obligation and duty.

Presently a sordid doubt seized upon Mother Sub-Prioress. Had the robin finished the cheese, and come to her thus, merely to ask for more?

Very slowly she ventured to turn her head, until the stone coping at her elbow came into her range of vision.

Then a glow of pride and happiness warmed her heart. Three—four—five fragments remained! Not for greed or favour had this little wild thing of his own free will drawn near.

For what, then? . . .

Mother Sub-Prioress whispered the answer; and as she whispered it, her tears fell afresh; but now they were tears without bitterness; a healing fount seemed to well up within her softening heart.

For love? Yea, verily! For love of her, those small brown wings had brought him near, those bright eyes were unafraid.

"For love of me," she whispered. "For love of me."

When at length he chirped and flew, she still sat motionless, listening as he sang his evening song high up in the pieman's tree.

Then she rose and swept the untouched fragments back into the wallet.

There was triumph in the action.

"For love!" she said. "Not of that which I brought and gave, but of that which he thought me to be."

Slowly she left the cloister, moving, with bent head, until she reached the open door of the empty chamber which had been the Reverend Mother's.

Before long this chamber would be hers. At noon she had received word from the Bishop that it was his intention to appoint her to be Prioress, for the years which yet remained of the Reverend Mother's term of office.

She had experienced a sinister pleasure in being thus promoted to this high office by the Bishop, owing to the certainty that had the usual election by ballot taken place, her name would not have been inscribed by a single member of the Community.

Yet now, in this strangely softened mood, she began wistfully to desire that there might be looks of pleasure and satisfaction on at least a few faces, when the announcement should be made on the morrow.

Mother Sub-Prioress passed into the cell, and closed the door.

She was drawn, by the glow of the sunset, to the oriel window. But on her way thither she found herself unexpectedly arrested before the marble group of the Virgin and Child.

Mother Sub-Prioress never could see a naked babe without experiencing a feeling of irritation against those who had failed to provide it with suitable clothing. Possibly this was why she had hurriedly looked the other way if her eye chanced to fall upon the beautiful sculpture in the Prioress's cell.

Now, for the first time, she really saw it.

She stood and gazed; then knelt, and tried to understand.

The tenderness reached her heart and shook it. The encircling arms, the loving breast, the watchful mother-eyes; the exquisite human love, called forth by the necessity, the dependence, the helplessness of a little child.

And were there not souls equally helpless, and hearts just as dependent upon sympathy and tenderness?

The Prioress had understood this, and had ruled by love.

But Mother Sub-Prioress had ever preferred the briers and the burning.

She recalled a conversation she had had a day or two before with the Prior and the Chaplain, when they came to consult with her concerning the future of the Community, and her possible appointment. In speaking of the late Prioress, the Prior had said: "She ever seemed as one apart, who walked among the stars; yet full, to overflowing, of the milk of human kindness and the gracious balm of sympathy." He had then asked Mother Sub-Prioress if she felt able to follow in her steps. To which Mother Sub-Prioress, vexed at the question, had answered, tartly: Nay; that she knew no Milky Way! Whereupon Father Benedict, a sudden gleam of approval on his sinister face, had interposed, addressing the Prior: "Nay, verily! Our excellent Sub-Prioress knows no Milky Way! She is the brier, which hath sharply taught the tender flesh of each. She is the bed of nettles from which the most weary moves on to rest elsewhere. She is the fearsome burning, from which the frightened brands do snatch themselves!"

These words, spoken in approbation, had been meant to please; and at first she had been flattered. Then the look upon the kind face of the Prior, had given her the sense of being shut up with Father Benedict in a fearsome Purgatory of their own making—nay rather, in a hell, where pity, mercy, and loving-kindness were unknown.

Perhaps this was the hour when the change of mind in Mother Sub-Prioress really had its beginning, for Father Benedict's terrible yet true description of her methods and her rule, now came forcefully back to her.

Putting out a trembling hand, she touched the little foot of the Babe.

"Give me tenderness," she said, and an agony of supplication was in her voice; also a rain of tears softened the hard lines of her face.

Our blessèd Lady smiled, and the sweet Babe looked merry.

Mother Sub-Prioress passed to the window. The sun, round and blood red, as at that very moment reflected in Hugh d'Argent's shield, was just about to dip below the horizon. When next it rose, the day would have dawned which would see her Prioress of the White Ladies of Worcester.

She turned to the place where the Prioress's chair of state stood empty. During the walk to and from the Cathedral, she had planned to come alone to this chamber, and seat herself in the chair which would so soon be hers. But now a new humbleness restrained her.

Falling upon her knees before the empty chair, she lifted clasped hands heavenward.

"O God," she said, "I am not worthy to take Her place. My heart is hard and cold; my tongue is ofttimes cruel; my spirit is censorious. But I have learned a lesson from the bird and a lesson from the Babe; and that which I know not teach Thou me. Create in me a new heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me. Grant unto me to follow in Her gracious steps, and to rule, as She ruled, by that love which never faileth."

Then, stooping to the ground, she kissed the place where the feet of the Prioress had been wont to rest.

The sun had set behind the distant hills, when Mother Sub-Prioress rose from her knees.

An unspeakable peace filled her soul. She had prayed, by name, for each member of the Community; and as she prayed, a gift of love for each had been granted to her.

Ah, would they make discovery, before the morrow, that instead of the brier had come up the myrtle tree?

With this hope filling her heart, Mother Sub-Prioress hastened along the passage, and rang the Convent bell.

* * * * * *

And at that moment, Mora stood within her chamber, looking over terrace, valley, and forest to where the sun had vanished below the horizon, leaving behind a deep orange glow, paling above to clear blue where, like a lamp just lit, hung luminous the evening star.

Hugh's arms were still wrapped about her. As they stood together at the casement, she leaned upon his heart. His strength enveloped her. His love infused a wondrous sense of well-being, and of home.

Yet of a sudden she lifted her head, as if to listen.

"What is it," questioned Hugh, his lips against her hair.

"Hush!" she whispered. "I seem to hear the Convent bell."

His arms tightened their hold of her.

"Nay, my belovèd," he said. "There is no place for echoes of the Cloister, in the harmony of home."

She turned and looked at him.

Her eyes were soft with love, yet luminous with an inward light, that moment kindled.

"Dear Heart," she said—hastening to reassure him, for an anxious question was in his look—"I have come home to thee with a completeness of glad giving and surrender, such as I did not dream could be, and scarce yet understand. But Hugh, my husband, to one who has known the calm and peace of the Cloister there will always be an inner sanctuary in which will sound the call to prayer and vigil. I am not less thine own—nay, rather I shall ever be free to be more wholly thine because, as we first stood together in our chamber, I heard the Convent bell."

One look she gave, to make sure he understood; then swiftly hid her face against his breast.

Hugh spoke his answer very low, his lips close to her ear.