The White Ladies of Worcester A Romance of the Twelfth Century

CHAPTER LIV

THE UN­SEEN PRES­ENCE

The world was a new and a won­der­ful world as, leav­ing the chapel, Mo­ra turned her steps home­ward. She had been wont to re­gard temp­ta­tion it­self as sin­ful, but now this sa­cred fact “in all points tempt­ed like as we are” seemed to sanc­ti­fy the state of be­ing tempt­ed, pro­vid­ing she could add the three tri­umphant words: “Yet with­out sin.”

As she walked, with springy step, down the grassy paths among the heather, the Un­seen Pres­ence moved be­side her.

It seemed strange that she should have found in the world this sweet se­cret of the Per­pet­ual Pres­ence, which had evad­ed her in the Nun­nery. Of­ten when her du­ties had tak­en her else­where in the Con­vent, or dur­ing the walk through the un­der­ground way on the re­turn from the Cathe­dral, or even when walk­ing for re­fresh­ment in the Con­vent gar­den, she would yearn for the holy still­ness of the chapel, or to be back in her cell that she might kneel at the shrine of the Vir­gin and there re­alise the adorable pu­ri­ty of our blessèd La­dy's heart; or, pros­trat­ing her­self be­fore the cru­ci­fix, gaze up­on those pier­cèd feet, then slow­ly lift her eyes to the oth­er sa­cred wounds, and force her mind to re­alise and her cold heart to re­ceive the mighty fact that the Di­vine Re­deemer thus hung and suf­fered for her sins.

Trans­ports of re­al­isa­tion had come to her in her cell, or when she kept vig­il in the Con­vent chapel, or when from the height of the Cathe­dral cleresto­ry she gazed down up­on the High Al­tar, the light­ed can­dles, the swing­ing censers, and heard the chant­ing of the monks, and the tin­kle of the sil­ver bell. But these trans­ports had re­sult­ed from her own de­ter­mi­na­tion to re­alise and to re­spond. The men­tal ef­fort over, they fad­ed, and her heart had seemed cold­er than be­fore, her spir­it more dead, her mind more prone to ap­athy. The greater the ef­fort to force her­self to ap­pre­hend, the more com­plete had been the re­ac­tion of non-​re­al­isa­tion.

But now, in this deep won­der of new ex­pe­ri­ence, there was no ef­fort. She had but wait­ed with ev­ery in­let of her be­ing open to re­ceive. And now the pow­er was a Re­al Pres­ence with­in, re­veal­ing an equal­ly Re­al Pres­ence with­out. The Risen Christ moved be­side her as she walked. Her eyes were no longer hold­en that she should not know Him, for the promised Pres­ence of the _Par­acle­tos_ filled her, un­veil­ing her spir­itu­al vi­sion, whis­per­ing with­in her glow­ing heart; “It is the Lord!”

“Which Voice we heard,” wrote Saint Pe­ter, “when we were with Him in the Holy Mount.” She, too, had first heard it there; but, as she de­scend­ed, it was with her still. The songs of the birds, the rush of the stream, the breeze in the pines, the bee on the wing, all Na­ture seemed to say: “It is the Lord!”

Sor­row, suf­fer­ing, dis­il­lu­sion might await her on the plain; but, with the Pres­ence be­side her, and the Voice with­in, she felt strong to face them, and to over­come.

Noon found her in her gar­den, calm and serene; yet won­der­ing, with quick­en­ing puls­es, whether at night­fall or even at sun­set, Hugh would ride in; and what she must say if, giv­ing some oth­er rea­son for his jour­ney to Worces­ter, he de­ceived her as oth­ers had de­ceived; failed her as oth­ers had failed.

And won­der­ing thus, she rose and moved with slow step to the ter­race.

For a while she stood pon­der­ing this hard ques­tion, her eyes lift­ed to the dis­tant hills.

Then some­thing im­pelled her to turn and glance in­to the ban­quet­ing hall, and there--on the spot where he had knelt that she might bless him at part­ing--stood Hugh, his arms fold­ed, his eyes fixed up­on her, wait­ing till she should see him.