MORA MOUNTS TO THE BATTLEMENTS
The moonlight, shining in at the open casement, illumined, with its
clear radiance, the chamber which had been, during the years of her
maidenhood, Mora de Norelle's sleeping apartment.
It held many treasures of childhood. Every familiar thing within it,
whispered of the love and care of those long passed into the realm of
silence and of mystery; a noble father, slain in battle; a gentle
mother, unable to survive him, the call to her of the spirit of her
Warrior, being more compelling than the need of the beautiful young
daughter, to whom both had been devoted.
The chamber seemed to Mora full of tender and poignant memories.
How many girlish dreams had been dreamed while her healthy young body
rested upon that couch, after wild gallops over the moors, or a long
day's climbing among the rocky hills, searching for rare ferns and
flowers to transplant into her garden.
In this room she had mourned her father, with her strong young arms
wrapped around her weeping mother.
In this room she had wept for her mother, with none to comfort her,
saving the faithful nurse, Deborah.
To this room she had fled in wrath, after the scene with, her
half-sister, Eleanor, who had tried to despoil her of her heritage--the
noble Castle and lands left to her by her father, and confirmed to her,
with succession to her father's title, by the King. These Eleanor
desired for her son; but neither bribes nor cajolery, threats, nor
cruel insinuations, had availed to induce Mora to give up her rightful
possession--the home of her childhood.
Before the effects of this storm had passed, Hugh d'Argent had made his
first appearance upon the scene, riding into the courtyard as a King's
messenger, but also making himself known to the young Countess as a
near neighbour, heir to a castle and lands, not far distant, among the
Cumberland hills.
With both it had been love at first sight. His short and ardent
courtship had, unbeknown to him, required not so much to win her heart,
as to overcome her maidenly resistance, rendered stubborn by the
consciousness that her heart had already ranged itself on the side of
her lover.
When at last, vanquished by his eager determination, she had yielded
and become betrothed to him, it had seemed to her that life could hold
no sweeter joy.
But he, hard to content, ever headstrong and eager, already having
taken the cross, and being now called at once to join the King in
Palestine, begged for immediate marriage that he might take her with
him to the Court of the new Queen, to which his cousin Alfrida had
already been summoned; or, if he must leave her behind, at least leave
her, not affianced maid, but wedded wife.
Here Eleanor and her husband had interposed; and, assuming the position
of natural guardians, had refused to allow the marriage to take place.
This necessitated the consent of the King, which could not be obtained,
he being in the Holy Land; and Hugh had no wish to make application to
the Queen-mother, then acting regent during the absence of the King; or
to allow his betrothed to be brought again into association with the
Court at Windsor.
Mora--secretly glad to keep yet a little longer the sweet bliss of
betrothal, with its promise of unknown yet deeper joys to
come--resisted Hugh's attempts to induce her to defy Eleanor, flout her
wrongful claim to authority, and wed him without obtaining the Royal
sanction. Steeped in the bliss of having taken one step into an
unimagined state of happiness, she felt no necessity or inclination
hurriedly to take another.
Yet when, upheld by the ecstasy of those final moments together, she
had let him go, as she watched him ride away, a strange foreboding of
coming ill had seized her, and a restless yearning, which she could not
understand, yet which she knew would never be stilled until she could
clasp his head again to her breast, feel his crisp hair in her fingers,
and know him safe, and her own.
This chamber then had witnessed long hours of prayer and vigil, as she
knelt at the shrine in the nook between the casements, beseeching our
Lady and Saint Joseph for the safe return of her lover.
Then came the news of Hugh's supposed perfidy; and from this chamber
she had gone forth to hide her broken heart in the sacred refuge of the
Cloister; to offer to God and the service of Holy Church, the life
which had been robbed of all natural joys by the faithlessness of a man.
And this had happened eight years ago, as men count time. But as nuns
count it? And lovers? A lifetime? A night?
It had seemed indeed a lifetime to the Prioress of the White Ladies,
during the first days of her return to the world. But to the woman who
now kneeled at the casement, drinking in the balmy sweetness of the
summer night, looking with soft yearning eyes at the well-remembered
landscape flooded in silvery moonlight, it seemed--a night.
A night--since she stood on the battlements, her lover's arms about her.
A night--since she said: "Thou wilt come back to me, Hugh. . . . My
love will ever be around thee as a silver shield."
A night--since, as the last words he should hear from her lips, she had
said: "Maid or wife, God knows I am all thine own. Thine, and none
other's, forever."
Of all the memories connected with this chamber, the clearest to-night
was of the hungry ache at her heart, when Hugh had gone. It had seemed
to her then that never could that ache be stilled, until she could once
again clasp his head to her breast. She knew now that it never had
been stilled. Dulled, ignored, denied; called by other names; but
stilled--never.
On this night it was as sweetly poignant as on that other night eight
years ago, when she had slowly descended to this very room, from the
moonlit battlements.
Yet to-night she was maid _and_ wife. Moreover Hugh was here, under
this very roof. Yet had he bidden her a grave good-night, without so
much as touching her hand. Yet his dark eyes had said: "I love thee."
Kneeling at the casement, Mora reviewed the days since they rode forth
from Warwick.
It had been a wondrous experience for her--she, who had been Prioress
of the White Ladies--thus to ride out into the radiant, sunny world.
Hugh was ever beside her, watchful, tender, shielding her from any
possible pain or danger, yet claiming nothing, asking nothing, for
himself.
One night, not being assured of the safety of the place where they
lodged, she found afterwards that he had lain all night across the
threshold of the chamber within which she and Debbie slept.
Another night she saw him pacing softly up and down beneath her window.
Yet when each morning came, and they began a new day together, he
greeted her gaily, with clear eye and unclouded brow; not as one
chilled or disappointed, or vexed to be kept from his due.
And oh, the wonder of each new day! The glory of those rides over the
mossy softness of the woodland paths, where the sunlight fell, in
dancing patches, through the thick, moving foliage, and shy deer peeped
from the bracken, with soft eyes and gentle movements; out on to the
wild liberty of the moors, where Icon, snuffing the fresher air, would
stretch his neck and gallop for pure joy at having left cobbled streets
and paved courtyards far behind him. And ever they rode northward, and
home drew nearer. Looking back upon those long hours spent alone
together, Mora realised how simply and easily she had grown used to
being with Hugh, and how entirely this was due to his unselfishness and
tact. He talked with her constantly; yet never of his own feelings
regarding her.
He told her of his adventures in Eastern lands; of the happenings in
England during the past eight years, so far as he had been able to
learn them; of his home and property; of hers, and of the welcome which
awaited her from her people.
He never spoke of the Convent, nor of the eventful days through which
he and she had so recently passed.
So successfully did he dominate her mind in this, that almost it seemed
to her she too was returning home after a long absence in a foreign
land.
Her mind awoke to unrestrained enjoyment of each hour, and to the keen
anticipation of the traveller homeward bound.
Each day spent in Hugh's company seemed to wipe out one, or more, of
the intervening years, so that when, toward evening, on the seventh
day, the grey turrets of her old home came in sight, it might have been
but yesterday they had parted, on those same battlements, and she had
watched him ride away, until the firwood from which they were now
emerging, had hidden him from view.
Kneeling at her casement, her mind seemed lost in a whirlpool of
emotion, as she reviewed the hour of their arrival. The road up to the
big gates--every tree and hillock, every stock and stone, loved and
familiar, recalling childish joys and sorrows, adventure and
enterprise. Then the passing in through the gates, the familiar faces,
the glad greetings; Zachary--white-haired, but still rosy and
stalwart--at the foot of the steps; and, in the doorway, just where
loneliness might have gripped her, old Debbie, looking as if she had
never been away, waiting with open arms. So this was the moment
foreseen by Hugh when he had planned an early start, that morning, for
Mistress Deborah, and a more roundabout ride for her.
She turned, with an impulsive gesture, holding out to him her left
hand, that he might cross the threshold with her. But the Knight was
stooping to examine the right forehoof of her palfrey, she having
fancied Icon had trod tenderly upon it during the last half-mile; so
she passed in alone.
Afterwards she overheard old Debbie say, in her most scolding tones:
"She did stretch out her hand to you, Sir Hugh, and you saw it not!"
But the Knight's deep voice made courteous answer: "There is no look or
gesture of hers, however slight, good Mistress Deborah, which doth
escape me." And at this her heart thrilled far more than if he had met
her hand, responsive; knowing that thus he did faithfully keep his
pledge to her, and that he could so keep it, only by never relaxing his
stern hold upon himself.
Yet almost she began to wish him less stern and less faithful, so much
did she long to feel for one instant the strong clasp of his arms about
her. By his rigid adherence to his promise, she felt herself punished
for having shuddered. Why had she shuddered? . . . Would she shudder
now? This wonderful first evening had quickly passed, in going from
chamber to chamber, walking in the gardens, and supping with Hugh in
the dining-hall, waited on by Mark and Beaumont, with Zachary to
supervise, pour the wine, and stand behind her chair.
Then a final walk on the terrace; a grave good-night upon the stairs;
and, at last, this time of quiet thought, in her own chamber.
She could not realise that she was wedded to Hugh; but her heart awoke
to the fact that truly she was betrothed to him. And she was
happy--deeply happy.
Leaving the casement, she kneeled before the shrine of the
Virgin--there where she had put up so many impassioned prayers for the
safe return of her lover.
"Blessèd Virgin," she said, "I thank thee for sending me home."
Years seemed to roll from her. She felt herself a child again. She
longed for her mother's understanding tenderness. Failing that, she
turned to the sweet Mother of God.
The image before which she knelt, shewed our Lady standing, tall and
fair and gracious, the Infant Saviour, seated upon her left hand, her
right hand holding Him leaning against her, His baby arms outstretched.
Neither the Babe nor His Mother smiled. Each looked grave and somewhat
sad.
"Home," whispered Mora. "Blessèd Virgin I thank thee for sending me
home."
"Nay," answered a voice within her. "I sent thee not home. I gave
thee to him to whom thou didst belong. He hath brought thee home.
What said the vision? 'Take her. She is thine own. I have but kept
her for thee.'"
Yet Hugh knew naught of this gracious message--knew naught of the
vision which had given her to him. Until to-night she had felt it
impossible to tell him of it. Now she longed that he should share with
her the wonder.
She sought her couch, but sleep would not come. The moonlight was too
bright; the room too sweetly familiar. Moreover it seemed but
yesterday that she had parted from Hugh, in such an ecstasy of love and
sorrow, up on the battlements.
A great desire seized her to mount to those battlements, and to stand
again just where she had stood when she bade him farewell.
She rose.
Among the garments put ready for her use, chanced to be the robe of
sapphire velvet which she had worn on that night.
She put it on; with jewels at her breast and girdle. Then, with the
mantle of ermine falling from her shoulders, and her beautiful hair
covering her as a veil, she left her chamber, passed softly along the
passage, found the winding stair, and mounted to the ramparts.
As she stepped out from the turret stairway, she exclaimed at the
sublime beauty of the scene before her; the sleeping world at midnight,
bathed in the silvery light of the moon; the shadows of the firs, lying
like black bars across the road to the Castle gate.
"There I watched him ride away," she said, with a sweep of her arm
toward the road, "watched, until the dark woods swallowed him. And
here"--with a sweep toward the turret--"here, we parted."
She turned; then caught her breath.
Leaning against the wall with folded arms, stood Hugh.