The White Ladies of Worcester A Romance of the Twelfth Century

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.”