The White Ladies of Worcester A Romance of the Twelfth Century

CHAPTER LIX

THE MADON­NA IN THE HOME

Hugh d'Ar­gent had pol­ished his ar­mour, put a keen edge on his bat­tle-​axe, and rubbed the rust from his swords.

The tor­ment of sus­pense, the sick­en­ing pain of hope de­ferred, could be bet­ter borne, while he turned his mind on fu­ture bat­tles, and his mus­cles to vig­or­ous ac­tion.

Of the way in which the cup of per­fect bliss had been snatched from his very lips, he could not trust him­self to think.

His was the in­stinct of the fight­er, to bend his whole mind up­on the present, prepar­ing for the fu­ture; not wast­ing en­er­gy in use­less re­con­sid­er­ation of an ac­com­plished past.

He had act­ed as he had felt bound in hon­our to act. Gain or loss to him­self had not been the point at is­sue. Even as, in the hot fights with the Sara­cens, slay­ing or be­ing slain might in­ci­den­tal­ly re­sult from the ac­tion of the mo­ment, but the pos­ses­sion of the Holy Sepul­chre was the true ob­ject for which each war­rior who had tak­en the cross, drew his sword or swung his bat­tle-​axe.

Was hon­our, held un­sul­lied, to prove in this case, the tomb of his life's hap­pi­ness? Three days of sus­pense, dur­ing which Mo­ra con­sid­ered, and he and the Bish­op wait­ed. On the third day, would Love arise vic­to­ri­ous, pu­ri­fied by suf­fer­ing, clad in rai­ment of daz­zling white­ness? Would there be East­er in his heart, and deep peace in his home? Or would his belovèd wind her­self once more in cere­ments, would the seal of the Vat­ican be set up­on the stone of monas­tic rules and reg­ula­tions, mak­ing it fast, se­cure, in­vi­olable? Would he, turn­ing sad­ly from the Zion of hopes ful­filled, be walk­ing in dull de­spair to the Em­maus of an emp­ty home, of a day far spent, hold­ing no promise of a brighter dawn?

But, even as his mind dwelt on the sym­bol­ism of that sa­cred scene, the Knight re­mem­bered that the two who walked in sad­ness did not long walk alone. One, step­ping silent­ly, came up with them; know­ing all, yet ask­ing ten­der­est ques­tion; the Mas­ter, Whom they mourned, Him­self drew near and went with them.

It seemed to Hugh d'Ar­gent that if so re­al a Pres­ence as that, could draw near to him and to Mo­ra at this sad part­ing of the ways, if their re­li­gion did but hold a thing so vi­tal, then might they have a true vi­sion of Life, which should make clear the rea­son for the long years of suf­fer­ing, and point the way to the glo­ry which should fol­low. Then, be­ing blessèd, not mere­ly by the Church and the Bish­op but by the Christ Him­self--He Who at Cana grant­ed the best wine when the earth­ly vin­tage failed the wed­ding feast--they might leave be­hind for­ev­er the emp­ty tomb of hopes frus­trat­ed, and re­turn to­geth­er, with ex­ceed­ing joy, to the Jerusalem of joys ful­filled.

Hugh laid down his sword, rose, stretched him­self, and stood look­ing full in­to the gold­en sun­set.

He could not ac­count for it, but some­how the dark­ness had lift­ed. The sense of lone­li­ness was gone. An Un­seen Pres­ence seemed with him. The thought of prayer throbbed through his help­less spir­it, like the up­lift­ing beat of strong white wings.

“O God,” he said, “Thou seemest to me as a stranger, when I meet Thee on mine own life's way. I know Thee as Babe di­vine; I know Thee, cru­ci­fied; I know Thee risen, and as­cend­ing in such clouds of glo­ry as hide Thee from mine earth­bound sight. But, if Thou hast drawn near along the rocky foot­path of each day's com­mon hap­pen­ings, then have mine eyes in­deed been hold­en, and I knew Thee not.”

Hugh stood mo­tion­less, his eyes on the glo­ry of the sun­set bat­tle­ments. And in­to his mind there came, as clear­ly as if that mo­ment ut­tered, the words of Fa­ther Ger­vaise: “He ev­er liveth to make in­ter­ces­sion for us.”

The Knight raised his right arm. “Oh, if Thou livest,” he said, “and liv­ing, know­est; and know­ing, carest; grant me a sign of Thy near­ness--a Vi­sion of Life and of Love, which shall make clear this mist of un­cer­tain­ty.”

Turn­ing back to his work, so great a load seemed lift­ed from his heart, that he found him­self singing as he put a keen­er edge on his weapons.

Present­ly he went over to the cor­ner where stood the sil­ver shield. Hith­er­to he had kept his eyes turned from it. It called up thoughts which he had striv­en to beat back. Now, he set to work and pol­ished it un­til its sur­face shone clear as a mir­ror.

And as he worked, he thought with­in him­self: “What said the Bish­op? That I saw re­flect­ed in my sil­ver shield naught save mine own proud face? But I told my wife that I see there the face of God, or the near­est I know to His face; and, be­hind Him, her face--the face of my beloved; for, had I not put rev­er­ence and hon­our first, my very love for her would have been tar­nished.”

Hugh stood the sil­ver shield at such an an­gle as that it re­flect­ed the sun­set, yet as he kneeled up­on one knee be­fore it he could not see his own re­flec­tion.

The sun, round and blood red, al­most dip­ping be­low the hori­zon, shone out in crim­son glo­ry from the deep­est heart of the sil­ver.

Hugh re­mem­bered two vers­es of a He­brew po­em which the Rab­bi used to re­cite at sun­set. “The Lord God is a Sun and Shield: The Lord will give Grace and Glo­ry; No good thing will He with­hold from them that walk up­right­ly. O Lord of Hosts, blessèd is the man that trusteth in Thee.”

His eyes up­on the shield, his hands clasped around his knee, Hugh said, soft­ly: “The face of God, my belovèd, or the near­est I know to His face: and be­hind Him, thy face”----

And then his voice fell of a sud­den silent; his heart beat in his throat, his fin­gers gripped his knee; for some­thing moved soft­ly in the shin­ing sur­face, and there looked out at him from his own sil­ver shield, the face of the wom­an he loved.

How long he kneeled and gazed with­out stir­ring, Hugh could not tell. At that mo­ment life paused sus­pend­ed, and he ceased to be con­scious of time. But, at length, press­ing near­er, his own dark head ap­peared in the shield, and above him, bend­ing to­ward him, Mo­ra, shim­mer­ing in soft­est white, as on her wed­ding morn, her hands out­stretched, her eyes full of a ten­der yearn­ing, gaz­ing in­to his.

“The Vi­sion for which I prayed!” cried the Knight. “O, my God! Is this the sign of Thy near­ness? Is this a promise that my wife will come to me?”

He hid his face in his hands.

A gen­tle touch fell light­ly on his hair.

“Not a promise, Hugh,” came a ten­der whis­per close be­hind him. “A sign of God's near­ness; a proof of mine. Hugh, my own dear Knight, lift up your head and look. Your wife has come home.”

Leap­ing to his feet, he turned; still daz­zled, in­cred­ulous.

No shad­owy re­flec­tion this. His wife stood be­fore him, fair as on her wed­ding morn­ing, a jew­elled cir­clet clasp­ing the gold­en glo­ry of her hair. But his eyes saw on­ly the look in hers.

Yet he kept his dis­tance.

“Mo­ra?” he whis­pered. “Home? To stay? Hath a true vi­sion then been grant­ed thee?”

“Oh, Hugh,” she an­swered, “I have seen deep in­to the heart of a true man. I have seen my­self un­wor­thy, in the light of thy great loy­al­ty. I have seen all oth­ers fail, but my Knight of the Sil­ver Shield stand faith­ful. I have been shewn this by so strange a chance, that I humbly take it to be the Fin­ger of God point­ing out the path­way of His will. My pride is in the dust. My self-​will lies slain. But my love for thee has be­come as great a thing as the heart of a wom­an may know. Thy faith­ful­ness shames my poor doubts of thee. The rich­ness of thy giv­ing, beg­gars my yearn­ing to be­stow. Yet now at last thy wife can come to thee with­out a doubt, with­out a tremor, all hes­itan­cy gone, all she is, and all she has, quite sim­ply, thine. Oh, Hugh, thine own--to do with as thou wilt. All these years--kept for thee. Take me--Ah! . . . Oh, Hugh, thy strength! Is this love, or is there some deep­er, more rap­tur­ous word? Oh, dear man of mine, how strong must have been the flood-​gates, if this was the pent-​up force be­hind them!”

He car­ried her to the hearth in the great hall, and placed her in the chair in which his moth­er used to sit.

Then, his arms still around her, he kneeled be­fore her, lift­ing his face in which the dark eyes glowed with a deep­er light than pas­sion's tran­sient fires.

“The Madon­na!” he said. “The Madon­na in my home.”

He stooped and lift­ed the hem of her robe to his lips.

“Not as Pri­oress,” he said, “but as my adored wife.”

Again he stooped and pressed it to his lips.

“Not as Rev­erend Moth­er to a score of nuns,” he said, “but as----”

She caught his head be­tween her hands, hid­ing his glow­ing eyes against her breast.

Present­ly: “And did thy peo­ple come with thee, my sweet­heart? And how could a three hours' ride be ac­com­plished in this bridal ar­ray? Oh, Heav­en help me, Mo­ra! Thou art so beau­ti­ful!”

“Hush,” she said, “thou dear, fool­ish man! Heav­en hath helped thee through worse straits than that! Nay, I rode alone, and in my rid­ing dress of green. Ar­rived here, I changed, in mine own cham­ber, to these mar­riage gar­ments.”

“In thine own cham­ber?” He looked at her, with be­wil­dered eyes. “Here--here, in thine own cham­ber, Mo­ra?”

The moth­er in her thrilled with ten­der­ness, as she bent and looked in­to those be­wil­dered eyes. For once, she felt old­er than he, and wis­er. The sense of in­ex­pe­ri­ence fell from her. For very joy she laughed as she made an­swer.

“Dear Heart,” she said, “I could scarce come home un­less I had a cham­ber to which to come! Mar­tin shewed me which had been thy moth­er's, and dai­ly in thine ab­sence he and I rode over, and oth­ers with us, bring­ing all things need­ful, thus mak­ing it ready, against thy re­turn.”

“Ready?” he said. “Against my re­turn?”

She laid her lips up­on his hair.

“I hope it will please thee, my lord,” she said. “Come and see.”

She made for to rise, but with mas­ter­ful hands he held her down. His great strength must have some out­let, lest it should over­mas­ter the gen­tle­ness of his love. Al­so, per­haps, the prim­itive in­stincts of wild war­rior fore­fa­thers arose, of a sud­den, with­in him.

“I must car­ry thee,” he said. “Not a step thith­er shalt thou walk. Thine own feet brought thee to the crypt; oth­ers bore thee thence. Thy pal­frey car­ried thee home; thy pal­frey bore thee here. But to our cham­ber, my wife, I car­ry thee, alone.”

She would soon­er have gone on her own feet; but her joy this day, was to give him all he wished, and as he wished it.

As he bent above her, she slipped her arms around his neck. “Then car­ry me, dear Heart,” she said, “but do not let me fall.”

He laughed; and as he swung her out of the seat, and strode across the great hall to where the west­ern glow still gleamed from the door­way of his moth­er's cham­ber, she knew of a sud­den, why he had wished to car­ry her. His great strength gave him such easy mas­tery; helped her to feel so whol­ly his.

On the thresh­old of the cham­ber he paused.

Bend­ing his face to hers, he touched her lips with ex­ceed­ing gen­tle­ness. Then spoke in her ear, deep and low. “Say again what thou didst say ten nights ago when we part­ed in the dawn­ing, on the bat­tle­ments.”

“I love thee,” she whis­pered, and closed her eyes.

Then Hugh passed with­in.