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.