IN THE ARBOUR OF GOLDEN ROSES
The next day dawned, clear and radiant; a perfect summer morning.
Mora awoke soon after five o'clock.
Notwithstanding the fatigue of the previous day, the strain and stress
of heart, and the late hour at which she had at length fallen asleep,
the mental habit of years overcame the physical need of further slumber.
Her first conscious thought was for the rope which worked over a pulley
through a hole in the wall of her cell, enabling her from, within to
ring the great bell in the passage, thus rousing the entire community.
It had been her invariable habit to do this herself. She liked the
nuns to feel that the call to begin a new day came to them from the
hand of their Prioress. Realising the difficulty of early rising,
especially after night vigils, it pleased her that her nuns should know
that the fact of the bell resounding through the Convent proved that
the Reverend Mother was already on her feet.
Yet now, looking toward the door, she could see no rope. And what
meant those sumptuous tapestry hangings?
She leapt from her couch, and gazed around her.
Why fell her hair about her, as a golden cloud?--that beautiful hair,
which in some Orders would have been shorn from her head; and, in this,
must ever be closely braided, covered, and never seen. Still
half-bewildered, she flung it back; gazing at the unfamiliar, yet
well-remembered, garments laid ready for her use.
Sometimes she had had such dreams as this--dreams in which she was back
in the world, wearing its garments, tasting its pleasures, looking
again upon forbidden things.
Why should she not now be dreaming?
Then a sound fell upon her ear; a sound, long forgotten, yet so
familiar that as she heard it, she felt herself a child at home
again--the soft, contented snoring of old Debbie, fast asleep.
Sound is ever more convincing than sight. The blind live in a world of
certainties. Not so, the deaf.
Mora needed not to turn and view the comely countenance of her old
nurse sleeping upon a couch in a corner. At sound of that soft purring
snore, she knew all she needed to know--knew she was no longer
Prioress, knew she had renounced her vows; knew that even now the
Convent was waking and wondering, as last night it must have marvelled
and surmised, and to-morrow would question and condemn; knew that this
was her wedding morn; that this robe of softest white, with jewelled
girdle, and jewelled circlet to crown her hair, were old Debbie's
choice for her of suitable attire in which to stand beside her
bridegroom at the altar.
Passing into an alcove, she bathed and clothed herself, even putting on
the jewelled band to clasp the shining softness of her hair. Debbie's
will on these points had never been disputed, and truly it mattered
little to Mora what she wore, since wimple and holy veil were forever
laid aside.
She passed softly from the chamber, without awakening the old nurse,
made her way down a winding stair, out through a postern door, and so
into the gardens bathed in early morning sunshine.
Seeking to escape observation from the Castle walls or windows, she
made her way through a rose-garden to where a high yew hedge surrounded
a bowling-green. At the further end of this secluded place stood a
rustic summer-house, now a veritable bower of yellow roses.
Bending her head, Mora passed through an archway of yew, down three
stone steps, and so on to the lawn.
Then, out from the arbour stepped the Bishop, in his violet cassock and
biretta, his breviary in his hand.
If this first sight of Hugh's bride, in bridal array, on her wedding
morning, surprised or stirred him, he gave no sign of unusual emotion.
As he came to meet her, his lips smiled kindly, and in his eyes was
that half whimsical, half tender look, she knew so well. He might have
been riding into the courtyard of the Nunnery, and she standing on the
steps to receive him, so natural was his greeting, so wholly as usual
did he appear.
"You are up betimes, my daughter, as I guessed you would be; also you
have come hither, as I hoped you might do. Am I the first to wish you
joy, on this glad day?"
"The first," she said. "Even my good Deborah slept through my rising.
I woke at the accustomed hour, to ring the Convent bell, and found
myself Prioress no longer, but bride--an earthly bride--expected to
deck herself with jewels for an earthly bridal."
"'Even the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is in the sight
of God of great price,'" quoted, the Bishop, a retrospective twinkle in
his eye.
"Alas, my lord, I fear that ornament was never mine."
"Yet you must wear it now, my daughter. I have heard it is an ornament
greatly admired by husbands."
Standing in the sunlight, all unconscious of her wondrous beauty, she
opened startled eyes on him; then dropped to her knees upon the turf.
"Your blessing, Reverend Father," she said, and there was a wild sob in
her voice. "Oh, I entreat your blessing, on this my bridal day!"
The Bishop laid his hands upon the bright coronet of her hair, and
blessed her with the threefold Aaronic blessing; then raised her, and
bade her walk with him across the turf.
Into the arbour he led her, beneath a cascade of fragrant yellow roses.
There, upon a rustic table was spread a dainty repast--new milk, fruit
freshly gathered, white rolls, and most golden pats of butter, the dew
of the dairy yet upon them.
"Come, my daughter," said Symon of Worcester, gaily. "We of the
Church, who know the value of these early hours, let us break our fast
together."
"Is it magic, my lord?" she asked, suddenly conscious of unmistakable
hunger.
"Nay," said the Bishop, "but I was out a full hour ago. And the dairy
wench was up before me. So between us we contrived this simple repast."
So, while the bridegroom and old Deborah still slumbered and slept, the
bride and the Bishop broke their fast together in a bower of roses; and
his eyes were the eyes of a merry schoolboy out on a holiday; and the
colour came back to her cheeks and she smiled and grew light-hearted,
as always in their long friendship, when he came to her in this gay
mood.
Yet, presently, when she had eaten well, and seemed strengthened and
refreshed, the Bishop leaned back in his seat, saying with sudden
gravity:
"And now, my daughter, will you tell me how it has come to pass that
you have been led to feel it right to take this irrevocable step,
renouncing your vows, and keeping your troth to Hugh? When last we
spoke together you declared that naught would suffice but a clear sign,
vouchsafed you from our Lady herself, making it plain that your highest
duty was to Hugh, and that Heaven absolved you from your vows. Was
such a sign vouchsafed?"
"Indeed it was, my lord, in wondrous fashion, our Lady choosing as the
mouthpiece of her will, by means of a most explicit and unmistakable
revelation, one so humble and so simple, that I could but exclaim:
'Thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hast
revealed them unto babes.'"
"And who," asked the Bishop, his eyes upon a peach which he was peeling
with extreme care; "who, my daughter, was the babe?"
"The old lay-sister, Mary Antony."
"Ah," murmured the Bishop, "an ancient babe. Yet truly, a most worthy
babe. Almost, I should be inclined to say, a wise and prudent babe."
"Nay, my Lord Bishop," cried Mora, with a sharp decision of tone which
made it please him to imagine that, should he look up from the peach,
he would see the severe lines of the wimple and scapulary: "you and I
were the wise and prudent, arguing for and against, according to our
own theories and reason. But to this babe, our Lady vouchsafed a clear
vision."
"Tell me of it," said the Bishop, splitting his peach and removing the
stone which he carefully washed, and slipped into his sash. The Bishop
always kept peach stones, and planted them.
She told him. She began at the beginning, and told him all, to the
minutest detail; the full description of Hugh--the amazingly correct
repetition, in the vision, of the way in which she and Hugh had
actually kneeled together before the shrine of the blessèd Virgin, of
their very words and actions; and, finally, the sublime and gracious
tenderness of our Lady's pronouncement, clearly heard at the close of
the vision, by the old lay-sister: "Take her; she hath been ever thine.
I have but kept her for thee."
"What say you to that, Reverend Father?" exclaimed Mora, concluding.
"I scarce know what to say," replied the Bishop. "For lack of anything
better, I fall back upon my favourite motto, and I say: 'Love never
faileth.'"
Now, generally, she delighted in the exceeding aptness of the Bishop's
quotations; but this time it seemed to Mora that his favourite motto
bore no sort of relevance.
She felt, with a chill of disappointment and a sense of vexation, that
the Bishop's mind had been so intent upon the fruit, that he had not
fully taken in the wonder of the vision.
"It has naught to do with love, my lord," she said, rather coldly;
"unless you mean the divine lovingkindness of our blessèd Lady."
"Precisely," replied the Bishop, leaning back in his seat, and at
length looking straight into Mora's earnest eyes. "The divine
lovingkindness of our blessèd Lady never faileth."
"You agree, my lord, that the vision shed a clear light upon all my
perplexities?"
"Absolutely clear," replied the Bishop. "The love which arranged the
vision saw to that. Revelations, my daughter, are useless unless they
are explicit. Had our Lady merely waved her marble hand, instead of
stooping to take yours and place it in that of the Knight, you might
have thought she was waving him away, and bidding you to remain. If
her marble hand moved at all, it is well that it moved in so definite
and practical a manner."
"It seems to me, Reverend Father," said Mora, leaning upon the table,
her face framed in her hands, and looking with knitted brows at the
Bishop; "it almost seems to me that you regard the entire vision with a
measure of secret incredulity."
"Nay, my daughter, there you mistake. On the contrary I am fully
convinced, by that which you tell me, that the ancient babe, Mary
Antony, was undoubtedly permitted to see you and your knightly lover
kneeling hand in hand before our Lady's shrine; also I praise our
blessèd Lady that by vouchsafing this sight to Mary Antony, and by
allowing her to hear words which you yourself know to have been in very
deed actually spoken, your mind has been led to accept as the divine
will for you, this return to the world and union with your lover, which
will, I feel sure, be not only for your happiness and his, but also a
fruitful source of good to many. Yet, I admit----"
The Bishop paused, and considered; as if anxious to say just so much,
and neither more nor less. Continuing, he spoke slowly, weighing each
word. "Yet, I frankly admit, I would sooner for mine own guidance
listen for the Voice of God within, or learn His will from the written
Word, than ask for miraculous signs, or act upon the visions of others.
"No doubt you read, in the Chronicle I lately lent you, how 'in the
year of our Lord eleven hundred and thirty-seven--that time of many
sorrows, of burning, pillaging, rapine and torture, when the city of
York was burned together with the principal monastery; the city of
Rochester was consumed; also the Church of Bath, and the city of
Leicester; when owing to the absence of King Stephen abroad and the
mildness of his rule when at home, the barons greatly oppressed and
ill-used the Church and the people--while many were standing at the
Celebration of Mass at Windsor, they beheld the Crucifix, which was
over the altar, moving and wringing its hands, now the right hand with
the left, now the left with the right, after the manner of those who
are in distress.'
"This wondrous sight convinced those who saw it that the crucified
Redeemer sympathised with the grievous sorrows of the land.
"But no carven crucifix, wringing its hands before a gazing crowd,
could so deeply convince me of the sympathy of the Redeemer as to sit
alone in mine own chamber and read from the book of Isaiah the Prophet:
'Surely He hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows.'"
Mora's brow cleared.
"I think I understand, my lord; and that you should so feel, helps me
to confess to you a thing which I have scarce dared admit to myself. I
found it difficult in mine own soul to attach due weight to our blessèd
Lady's words as heard by Mary Antony. Mine own test--the robin's
flight, straight from the hand of the Madonna to the world
without--spoke with more sense of truth to my heart. I blame myself
for this; but so it is. Yet it was the vision which decided me as to
my clear path of duty."
"Doubtless," remarked the Bishop, "the medium of Mary Antony took from
the solemnity of the pronouncement. There would be a twist of
quaintness in even the holiest vision, as described by the old
lay-sister."
"Nay, my lord," said Mora. "Truth to tell, it was not so. Once fairly
started on the telling, she seemed lifted into a strange sublimity of
utterance. I marvelled at it, and at the unearthly radiance of her
face. At the end, I thought she slept; but later I heard from the
Sub-Prioress that she was found swooning before the crucifix and they
had much ado to bring her round.
"My lord, my heart fails me when I think to-day of my empty cell, and
of the sore perplexity of my nuns. How soon will it be possible that
you see them and put the matter right, by giving the Holy Father's
message?"
"So soon as you are wed, my daughter, I ride back to Worcester. I
shall endeavour to reach the Convent before the hour when they leave
for Vespers."
"May I beg, my lord, that you speak a word of especial kindness to old
Antony, whose heart will be sore at my departure? I had thought to bid
her be silent concerning the vision; but as she declares the shining
Knight was Saint George or Saint Michael, the nuns, in their devout
simplicity, will doubtless hold the vision to have been merely symbolic
of my removal to 'higher service.'"
"I will seek old Antony," said the Bishop, "and speak with her alone."
"Father," said Mora, with deep emotion, "during all these years, you
have been most good to me; kind beyond words; patient always. I fear I
ofttimes tried you by being too firmly set on my own will and way.
But, I pray you to believe, I ever valued your counsel and could scarce
have lived without your friendship. Last night, on first entering the
Castle, I fear I spoke wildly and acted strangely. I was sore
overwrought. I came in, out of the night, not knowing whom I should
find in the hall chamber; and--for a moment, my lord, for one wild,
foolish moment--I took you not for yourself but for another."
"For whom did you take me, my daughter?" asked the Bishop.
"For one of whom you have oft reminded me, my lord, if I may say so
without offence, seeing I speak of a priest who was the ideal of my
girlhood's dreams. Knew you, many years ago, one Father Gervaise, held
in high regard at the Court, confessor to the Queen and her ladies?"
The Bishop smiled, and his blue eyes looked into Mora's with an
expression of quiet interest.
"Father Gervaise?" he said. "Preacher at the Court? Indeed, I knew
him, my daughter; and more than knew him. Father Gervaise and I had
the same grandparents."
"Ah," cried Mora, eagerly, "then that accounts for a resemblance which
from the first has haunted me, making of our friendship, at once, so
sweetly intimate a thing. The voice and the eyes alone were like--but,
ah, so like! Father Gervaise wore a beard, which hid his mouth and
chin; but his blue eyes had in them that kindly yet searching look,
though not merry as yours oft are, my lord; and your voice has ever
made me think of his.
"And once--just once--his eyes looked at me, across the Castle hall at
Windsor, with a deep glow of fire in them; a look which made me feel
called to an altar whereon, if I could but stand the test of fire, I
should be forever purified, uplifted, blest as was never earthly maid
before, save only our blessèd Lady. All that night I dreamed of it,
and my whole soul was filled with it, yet never again did I see Father
Gervaise. The next morning he left the Court, and soon after sailed
for Spain; and on the passage thither the ship foundered in a great
storm, and he, with all on board, perished. Heard you of that, my
lord?"
"I heard it," said the Bishop.
"All believed it, and mourned him; for by all he was belovèd. But
never could I feel that he was dead. Always for me it seemed that he
still lived. And last night--when I entered--across the great hall
chamber, it seemed as if, once more, the eyes of Father Gervaise looked
upon me, with that glowing fire in them, which called me to an altar."
The Bishop smiled again, and there was in his look a gentle merriment.
"You were over-strained, my daughter. When you drew near, you
found--instead of a ghostly priest with eyes of fire, drowned many
years ago, off the coast of Spain--your old friend, Symon of Worcester,
who had stolen a march on you, by reason of the swift paces of his good
mare, Shulamite."
Mora leaned forward, and laid her hand on his.
"Mock not, my friend," she said. "There was a time when Father
Gervaise stood to me for all my heart held dearest. Yet I loved him,
not as a girl loves a man, but rather as a nun loves her Lord. He
stood to me for all that was noblest and best; and, above all, for all
that was vital and alive in life and in religion; strong to act; able
to endure. He confessed me once, and told me, when I kneeled before
the crucifix, to say of Him Who hangs thereon: 'He ever liveth to make
intercession for us.' Never have I forgotten it. And--sometimes--when
I say the sacred words, and, saying them, my mind turns to Father
Gervaise, an echo seems to whisper to my spirit: '_He, also, liveth_.'"
Symon of Worcester rose.
"My daughter," he said, "the sun is high in the heavens. We must not
linger here. Hugh will be seeking his bride, and Mistress Deborah be
waxing anxious over the escape of her charge. The morning meal will be
ready in the banqueting hall; after which we must to the chapel, for
the marriage. Then, without delay, I ride to Worcester to make all
right at the Nunnery. Let us go."
As Mora walked beside him across the sunny lawn, "Father," she said,
"think you the heart of a nun can ever become again as the heart of
other women?"