"I LOVE THEE"
Mora stood, for some moments, speechless; and Hugh did not stir. They
faced one another, in the weird, white light.
At last: "Did you make me come?" she whispered.
"Nay, my belovèd," he answered at once; "unless constant thought of
thee, could bring thee to me. I pictured thee peacefully sleeping."
"I could not sleep," she said. "It seemed to me our Lady was not
pleased, because, dear Knight, I have failed, in all these days, to
tell you of her wondrous and especial grace which sent me to you."
"I have wondered," said the Knight; "but I knew there would come a time
when I should hear what caused thy mind to change. That it was a thing
of much import, I felt sure. The Bishop counselled me to give up hope.
But I had besought our Lady to send thee to me, and I could not lose my
trust in prayer."
"It was indeed our blessèd Lady who sent me," said Mora, very softly.
"Hugh, dare I stay and tell you the whole story, here and now? What if
we are discovered, alone upon the ramparts, at this hour of the night?"
Hugh could not forbear a smile.
"Dear Heart," he said, "we shall not be discovered. And, if we were,
methinks we have the right to be together, on the ramparts, or off
them, at any hour of the day or night."
A low wooden seat ran along beneath the parapet.
Mora sat down and motioned the Knight to a place beside her.
"Sit here, Hugh. Then we can talk low."
"I listen better standing," said the Knight; but he came near, put one
foot on the seat, leaned his elbow on his knee, his chin in his hand,
and stood looking down upon her.
"Hugh," she said, "I withstood your pleadings; I withstood the Bishop's
arguments; I withstood the yearnings of my own poor heart. I tore up
the Pope's mandate, and set my foot upon it. I said that nothing could
induce me to break my vows, unless our Lady herself gave me a clear
sign that my highest duty was to you, thus absolving me from my vows,
and making it evident that God's will for me was that I should leave
the Cloister, and keep my early troth to you."
"And gave our Lady such a sign?" asked the Knight, his dark eyes fixed
on Mora's face.
She lifted it, white and lovely; radiant in the moonlight.
"Better than a sign," she said. "Our Lady vouchsafed a wondrous
vision, in which her own voice was heard, giving command and consent."
The Knight, crossing himself, dropped upon his knees, lifting his eyes
heavenward in fervent praise and adoration. He raised to his lips a
gold medallion, which he wore around his neck, containing a picture of
the Virgin, and kissed it devoutly; then overcome by emotion, he
covered his face with his hands and knelt with bowed head, reciting in
a low voice, the _Salve Regina_.
Mora watched him, with deep gladness of heart. This fervent joy and
devout thanksgiving differed so greatly from the half-incredulous,
whimsically amused, mental attitude with which Symon of Worcester had
received her recital of the miracle. Hugh's reverent adoration filled
her with happiness.
Presently he rose and stood beside her again, expectant, eager.
"Tell me more; nay, tell me all," he said.
"The vision," began Mora, "was given to the old lay-sister, Mary
Antony."
"Mary Antony?" queried Hugh, with knitted brow. "'The old lay-sister,
Mary Antony'? Why do I know that name? I seem to remember that the
Bishop spoke of her, as we walked together in the Palace garden, the
day following the arrival of the messenger from Rome. Methinks the
Bishop said that she alone knew of my intrusion into the Nunnery; but
that she, being faithful, could be trusted."
"Nay, Hugh," answered Mora, "you mistake. It was I who told you so,
even before I knew you were the intruder, while yet addressing you as
Sister Seraphine's 'Cousin Wilfred.' I said that you had been thwarted
in your purpose by the faithfulness of the old lay-sister, Mary Antony,
who never fails to count the White Ladies, as they go, and as they
return, and who had reported to me that one more had returned than
went. Afterward I was greatly perplexed as to what explanation I
should make to Mary Antony; when, to my relief, she came and confessed
that hers was the mistake, she having counted wrongly. Glad indeed was
I to let it rest at that; so neither she, nor any in the Convent, knew
aught of your entrance there or your visit to my cell. The Bishop,
you, and I, alone know of it."
"Then I mistake," said the Knight. "But I felt certain I had heard the
name, and that the owner thereof had some knowledge of my movements.
Now, I pray thee, dear Heart, tell me all."
So sitting there on the ramparts of her old home, the stillness of the
fragrant summer night all around, Mora told from the beginning the
wondrous history of the trance of Mary Antony, and the blessèd vision
then vouchsafed to her.
The Knight listened with glowing eyes. Once he interrupted to exclaim:
"Oh, true! Most true! More true than thou canst know. Left alone in
thy cell, I kneeled to our Lady, saying those very words: 'Mother of
God, send her to me! Take pity on a hungry heart, a lonely home, a
desolate hearth, and send her to me.' I was alone. Only our Lady whom
I besought, heard those words pass my lips."
Again Hugh kneeled, kissed the medallion, and lifted to heaven eyes
luminous with awe and worship.
Continuing, Mora told him all, even to each detail of her long night
vigil and her prayer for a sign which should be given direct to
herself, so soon granted by the arrival and flight of the robin. But
this failed to impress Hugh, wholly absorbed in the vision, and unable
to see where any element of hesitation or of uncertainty could come in.
Hearing it from Mora, he was spared the quaint turn which was bound to
be given to any recital, however sacred, heard direct from old Mary
Antony.
The Knight was a Crusader. Many a fight he had fought for that cause
representing the highest of Christian ideals. Also, he had been a
pilgrim, and had visited innumerable holy shrines. For years, his soul
had been steeped in religion, in that Land where true religion had its
birth, and all within him, which was strongest and most manly, had
responded with a simplicity of faith, yet with a depth of ardent
devotion, which made his religion the most vital part of himself. This
it was which had given him a noble fortitude in bearing his sorrow.
This it was which now gave him a noble exultation in accepting his
great happiness. It filled him with rapture, that his wife should have
been given to him in direct response to his own earnest petition.
When at length Mora stood up, stretching her arms above her head and
straightening her supple limbs:
"My belovèd," he said, "if the vision had not been given, wouldst thou
not have come to me? Should I have had to ride away from Worcester
alone?"
Standing beside him, she answered, tenderly:
"Dear Hugh, my most faithful and loyal Knight, being here--and oh so
glad to be here--how can I say it? Yet I must answer truly. But for
the vision, I should not have come. I could not have broken my vows.
No blessing would have followed had I come to you, trailing broken
vows, like chains behind me. But our Lady herself set me free and bid
me go. Therefore I came to you; and therefore am I here."
"Tell me again the words our Lady said, when she put thy hand in mine."
"Our Lady said: 'Take her. She hath been ever thine. I have but kept
her for thee.'"
Then she paled, her heart began to beat fast, and the colour came and
went in her cheeks; for he had come very near, and she could hear the
sharp catch of his breath.
"Mora, my belovèd," he said, "every fibre of my being cries out for
thee. Yet I want thy happiness before my own; and, above and beyond
all else, I want the Madonna in my home. Even at our Lady's bidding I
cannot take thee. Not until thine own sweet lips shall say: 'Take me!
I have been ever thine.'"
She lifted her eyes to his. In the moonlight, her face seemed almost
unearthly, in its pure loveliness; and, as on that night so long ago,
he saw her eyes, brighter than any jewels, shining with love and tears.
"Dear man of mine," she whispered, "to-night we are betrothed. But
to-morrow I will ride home with thee. To-morrow shall be indeed our
bridal day. I will say all--I will say anything--I will say everything
thou wilt! Nay, see! The dawn is breaking in the east. Call it
'to-day'--TO-DAY, dear Knight! But now let me flee away, to fathom my
strange happiness alone. Then, to sleep in mine own chamber, and to
awake refreshed, and ready to go with thee, Hugh, when and where and
how thou wilt."
The Knight folded his arms across his breast.
"Go," he said, softly, "and our Lady be with thee. Our spirits
to-night have had their fill of holy happiness. I ask no higher joy
than to watch the breaking of the day which gives thee to me, knowing
thee to be safely sleeping in thy chamber below."
"I love thee!" she whispered; and fled.
Hugh d'Argent watched the dawn break--a silver rift in the purple sky.
His heart was filled with indescribable peace and gladness.
It meant far more to him that his bride should have come to him in
obedience to a divine vision, than if his love had mastered her will,
and she had yielded despite her own conscience.
Also he knew that at last his patient self-restraint had won its
reward. The heart of a nun feared him no longer. The woman he loved
was as wholly his as she had ever been.
As the sun began to gild the horizon, flecking the sky with little rosy
clouds, Hugh turned into the turret archway, went down the steps, and
sought his chamber. No sooner was he stretched upon his couch, than,
for very joy, he fell asleep.
But--beyond the dark fir woods, and over the hills on the horizon, four
horsemen, having ridden out from a wayside inn before the dawn,
watched, as they rode, the widening of that silver rift in the sky, and
the golden tint, heralding the welcome appearance of the sun.
So soundly slept Hugh d'Argent that, three hours later, be did not wake
when a loud knocking on the outer gates roused the porter; nor, though
his casement opened on to the courtyard, did he hear the noisy clatter
of hoofs, as Brother Philip, with his escort of three mounted men, rode
in.
Not until a knocking came on his own door did the Knight awake and,
leaping from his bed, see--as in a strange, wild dream--Brother Philip,
dusty and haggard, standing on the threshold, the Bishop's letter in
his hand.