The White Ladies of Worcester A Romance of the Twelfth Century

CHAPTER LVI

THE TRUE VI­SION

To her bed­cham­ber went Mo­ra--she who had been Pri­oress of the White Ladies--bear­ing in her arms the full robes of her Or­der, and in her hand the jew­elled cross of her high of­fice. She went, ex­pect­ing to spend hours in doubt and prayer and ques­tion be­fore the shrine of the Vir­gin. But, as she pushed open the door and en­tered the sun­lit cham­ber, on the very thresh­old she was met by a flash of in­ward il­lu­mi­na­tion. Sure­ly ev­ery ques­tion had al­ready been an­swered; the sec­ond is­sue had been de­cid­ed, while the first was yet whol­ly un­cer­tain.

She had said she must have a di­vine vi­sion. Had she not this very day been grant­ed a two-​fold vi­sion, both hu­man and di­vine; the Di­vine, stoop­ing in un­speak­able ten­der­ness and com­pre­hen­sion to the hu­man; the Hu­man, up­borne on the mighty pin­ions of pure love and stain­less hon­our in a self-​sac­ri­fice which lift­ed it to the Di­vine?

In the lone­ly chapel on the moun­tain, she had seen her Lord. Not as the Babe, her­ald­ed by an­gels, wor­shipped by East­ern shep­herds, adored by Gen­tile kings, throned on His Moth­er's knee, wise-​eyed and God-​like, stretch­ing om­nipo­tent ba­by hands to­ward this mys­te­ri­ous homage which was His due; ac­cept­ing, with ba­by om­ni­science, the gold, the frank­in­cense, the myrrh, which typ­ified His mis­sion; nor as the Di­vine Re­deemer nailed help­less to the cross of shame; dead, that the world might live. These had been the vi­sions of her clois­tered years.

But in the chapel on the moun­tain she had seen Him as the hu­man Je­sus, tempt­ed in all points like as we are, His on­ly vis­ible ha­lo the “yet with­out sin,” which set up­on His brow in youth and man­hood the di­vine seal of per­fect pu­ri­ty, and in His eyes the clear shin­ing of un­in­ter­rupt­ed in­ter­course with Heav­en.

As she had left the chapel, turn­ing from the sculp­tured fig­ure which had helped her to this re­al­isa­tion, she had be­come won­drous­ly aware of the Un­seen Pres­ence of the Christ, close be­side her. “As see­ing Him Who is in­vis­ible” she had come down from the mount, con­scious that He went on be­fore. She seemed to be fol­low­ing those blessèd foot­steps over the heather of her na­tive hills, even as the dis­ci­ples of old fol­lowed them through the corn­fields of Judea, and over the grassy slopes of Galilee. Yet con­scious al­so that He moved be­side her, with hand out­stretched in case her spir­it tripped; and that, should a hid­den foe fling shafts from an am­bush in the rear, even there that Un­seen Pres­ence would be be­hind her as a shield. “Lo I am with you al­ways, even un­to the end of the world.”

Strong in this most hu­man vi­sion of the Di­vine, she had come down from the Holy Mount, pre­pared to face the dumb de­mon she dread­ed, the silent ac­qui­es­cence in de­cep­tion, which threat­ened to tear her hap­pi­ness, bruise her spir­it, and cast in­to the fire and in­to the wa­ters to de­stroy them, those trea­sures which her heart had late­ly learned to hold so dear.

Pre­pared for this, she came; and lo, Heav­en grant­ed her the sec­ond vi­sion. She saw deep in­to the heart of a true man's faith­ful­ness; an ex­am­ple of chival­ry, of pro­found rev­er­ence for holy things, which shamed her doubts of him; a self-​sac­ri­fice which lift­ed the great hu­man love, to which she, in her clois­tered sanc­ti­ty, had pic­tured her­self as stoop­ing, far above her, to the ide­al of the di­vine. Was not this in­deed a Vi­sion of Truth?

Cross­ing the room, Mo­ra laid the robes she car­ried up­on the couch. While mount­ing the stairs she had planned, in the se­cret of her own cham­ber, to clothe her­self in them once again, to hang her jew­elled cross about her neck, and thus--once more Pri­oress of the White Ladies--to kneel at our La­dy's shrine, and im­plore guid­ance in this fi­nal de­ci­sion. But now, she laid them gen­tly down up­on the bed.

She could not stand fast in this new lib­er­ty, with the heavy folds of that white habit en­tan­gling her feet in a yoke of bondage.

The heart, filled with a love so full of glow­ing ten­der­ness for her Knight of the Sil­ver Shield proved wor­thy, could not beat be­neath a scapu­lary. Nor could her cross of of­fice lie where his dear head had rest­ed.

She stood be­fore the shrine. The Madon­na looked grave­ly up­on her. The holy Babe gazed with om­ni­scient eyes, hold­ing forth tiny hands of om­nipo­tence.

Even so had they looked in her hour of joy, when she had kneeled in a trans­port of thanks­giv­ing.

Even so had they looked in her hour of an­guish, when she had poured out her de­spair at hav­ing been twice de­ceived.

Yet help had not come, un­til she had lift­ed her eyes un­to the hills.

She turned from the shrine, went swift­ly to the open case­ment, and stood look­ing over the green tree tops, to the heav­en­ly blue be­yond, flecked by swift mov­ing clouds.

She, who had now learned to “look . . . at the things that are not seen,” could not find help through gaz­ing on car­ven im­ages.

Thoughts of our La­dy seemed more liv­ing and vi­tal while she kept her eyes up­on the fleecy white­ness of those tiny clouds, or watched a flight of moun­tain birds, sil­ver-​winged in the sun­shine.

What was the one com­mand record­ed as hav­ing been giv­en, by the blessèd Moth­er of our Lord, to men? “What­so­ev­er He saith un­to you, do it.” And what was His last in­junc­tion to His Church on earth? “Go ye in­to all the world and preach glad tid­ings to ev­ery crea­ture. . . . And lo, I am with you al­ways.”

Mo­ra could not but know that she had come forth in­to her world bring­ing the glad tid­ings of love re­quit­ed, of com­fort, and of home.

By virtue of this promise the feet of the risen Christ would move be­side her “all the days.”

It seemed to her, that if she went back now in­to her Con­vent cell, she would nail those blessèd feet to the wood again. In slay­ing this new life with­in her­self, she would lose for­ev­er the sense of liv­ing com­pan­ion­ship, re­tain­ing on­ly the re­li­gion of the Cru­ci­fix. Enough, per­haps, for the clois­tered life. But this life more abun­dant, de­mand­ed that grace should yet more abound.

A great apos­tolic in­junc­tion sound­ed, like a clar­ion call, from the stored chan­cel of her mem­ory. “As ye have there­fore re­ceived Christ Je­sus the Lord, so walk ye in Him.”

She flung wide her arms. A sense of all-​per­vad­ing lib­er­ty, a com­plete free­dom from all bondage of spir­it, soul, or body, leapt up re­spon­sive to the call.

“I will!” she said. “With­out any fur­ther fear or fal­ter­ing, I will!”

She passed to the couch, fold­ed the robes she had worn so long, and laid them away in an emp­ty chest.

This done, she took her cross of of­fice, and went down to the ter­race. Her one thought was to reach Hugh with as lit­tle de­lay as pos­si­ble. She could not leave that no­ble heart in sus­pense, a mo­ment longer than she need.

The sun was still high in the heav­ens. By the short way through the woods, she could reach the cas­tle long be­fore sun­set.

She owed Hugh much. Yet there was an­oth­er to whom she al­so owed a debt; how much she owed to him, this day's new light had shewn her. She would go for­ward to her joy with a freer heart if she gave her­self time to dis­charge, by ac­knowl­edg­ment and thanks, the great debt she owed to her old and faith­ful friend, Symon, Bish­op of Worces­ter.

She sent for her stew­ard.

“Zachary,” she said, “Sir Hugh has rid­den on be­fore. I fol­low by the short way through the for­est, and shall not re­turn to-​night. Bid them sad­dle my white pal­frey, Icon. I shall be ready to start with­in an hour. But first I must despatch to Worces­ter, a pack­et of im­por­tance. Bid two of the men, who rode with us from Worces­ter, pre­pare to mount and re­turn thith­er. If they start in an hour's time, they can be well on their way, and make a safe lodg­ing, be­fore night­fall.”

She passed in­to the li­brary, laid the cross be­fore her on the ta­ble, and be­gan her let­ter to the Bish­op.

Straight from her hand to his, that let­ter went; straight from her heart to his, that let­ter spoke; and Symon's com­fort in it, lies large­ly in the knowl­edge that she was alone when she wrote it, alone when she sealed it, and that none in this world, sav­ing they two, will ev­er know ex­act­ly what the wom­an, whom he had loved so pure­ly and served so faith­ful­ly, said to him in this let­ter.

Bare facts, how­ev­er, may be giv­en.

She told him, as briefly as might be, of that morn­ing's great ex­pe­ri­ence; of Hugh's re­turn, and no­ble self-​ef­face­ment; of the clear light she had re­ceived, and the de­ci­sion to which she had come; and of how she was now go­ing for­ward, with a free heart, to her great hap­pi­ness.

And then, in glow­ing words, she told him all she owed to his faith­ful, pa­tient friend­ship, to the teach­ing of long years, the trend of which had al­ways been life, light, lib­er­ty; a wider out­look, a fear­less judg­ment, a clear knowl­edge of God, based on in­spired writ­ings; and, above all, be­lief in those words, of­ten on his lips, al­ways in his heart: “Love nev­er faileth.”

“Tru­ly, my dear lord,” she wrote, “your love----” Nay, it may not be quot­ed!

She told him how his teach­ing, fol­low­ing along the same lines as that of Fa­ther Ger­vaise years be­fore, had pre­pared her mind for this rev­ela­tion of the ev­er-​liv­ing Saviour.

“Now the mys­tery is un­veiled to me al­so,” she wrote, “I re­alise that you knew it all along; and that, had I but been more teach­able, Rev­erend Fa­ther, you could have taught me more. Oh, I pray you, take heart of grace, and teach these great truths to oth­ers.”

She blessed him for his faith­ful­ness in striv­ing to make her see her du­ty to Hugh, and her life's true vo­ca­tion.

She blessed him for her great hap­pi­ness, yet thanked him for his care in send­ing her cross of of­fice, thus mak­ing all easy in or­der that, had her con­science so re­quired, she could have safe­ly re­turned. She here­with sent him the cross, and begged that he would keep it, re­mem­ber­ing when he chanced to look up­on it----

She al­so begged him to for­give her the many times when she had tried his pa­tience, and been her­self im­pa­tient of his wise coun­sel and con­trol.

And, fi­nal­ly, she signed her­self ---- ---- ----

Mo­ra held the cross to her lips, then placed it with­in the let­ter, fold­ed the pack­et, sealed it with her own seal, ad­dressed it with full di­rec­tions, and called for the mes­sen­ger.

Thus, ful­ly four days be­fore he had looked to have it, the an­swer for which he wait­ed, reached the Bish­op's hand. As he opened it, and per­ceived the gleam of gold and emer­alds, he glanced across to the deed chest, where lay the Knight's white stone.

The rose be­side it had not yet fad­ed. It might have been plucked and placed in the wa­ter that morn­ing, so fair it bloomed--a red, red rose. Ah, Ver­ity! Lit­tle An­gel Child!

* * * * * *

It was said in sun­ny Flo­rence in the years that fol­lowed, and, lat­er on, it was re­marked in Rome, that if the Lord High Car­di­nal--kind­est of men--was tried al­most be­yond bear­ing, if even _his_ calm pa­tience seemed in dan­ger of ruf­fling, or if he was weary, or sad, or dis­heart­ened, he had a way of slip­ping his hand in­to the bo­som of his scar­let robe, as if he gen­tly fin­gered some­thing that lay against his heart.

Where­upon at, once his brow grew serene again, his blue eyes kind­ly and bright, his lips smiled that pa­tient smile which nev­er failed; and, as he drew forth his hand, the stone with­in his ring, though pale be­fore, glowed deep red, as juice of pur­ple grapes in a gob­let.