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."