The White Ladies of Worcester Part 59

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 G.o.d'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 att.i.tude 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 blessed 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 G.o.d, 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 pa.s.s 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 n.o.ble fort.i.tude in bearing his sorrow.

This it was which now gave him a n.o.ble 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 pet.i.tion.

When at length Mora stood up, stretching her arms above her head and straightening her supple limbs:

"My beloved," 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 beloved," 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 hors.e.m.e.n, 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 cas.e.m.e.nt 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