The White Ladies of Worcester A Romance of the Twelfth Century

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.