The White Ladies of Worcester Part 77

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 s.n.a.t.c.h 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 h.e.l.l, 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 blessed Lady smiled, and the sweet Babe looked merry.

Mother Sub-Prioress pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d," 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 G.o.d, 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 pa.s.sage, 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 cas.e.m.e.nt, 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 beloved," 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 rea.s.sure 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.

But his eyes--with that light in them, which her happy heart scarce yet dared see again--were lifted to the evening star.