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.