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CHAPTER LIV
THE UNSEEN PRESENCE

The world was a new and a wonderful world as, leaving the chapel, Mora turned her steps homeward. She had been wont to regard temptation itself as sinful, but now this sacred fact "in all points tempted like as we are" seemed to sanctify the state of being tempted, providing she could add the three triumphant words: "Yet without sin."

As she walked, with springy step, down the grassy paths among the heather, the Unseen Presence moved beside her.

It seemed strange that she should have found in the world this sweet secret of the Perpetual Presence, which had evaded her in the Nunnery. Often when her duties had taken her elsewhere in the Convent, or during the walk through the underground way on the return from the Cathedral, or even when walking for refreshment in the Convent garden, she would yearn for the holy stillness of the chapel, or to be back in her cell that she might kneel at the shrine of the Virgin and there realise the adorable purity of our blessèd Lady's heart; or, prostrating herself before the crucifix, gaze upon those piercèd feet, then slowly lift her eyes to the other sacred wounds, and force her mind to realise and her cold heart to receive the mighty fact that the Divine Redeemer thus hung and suffered for her sins.

Transports of realisation had come to her in her cell, or when she kept vigil in the Convent chapel, or when from the height of the Cathedral clerestory she gazed down upon the High Altar, the lighted candles, the swinging censers, and heard the chanting of the monks, and the tinkle of the silver bell. But these transports had resulted from her own determination to realise and to respond. The mental effort over, they faded, and her heart had seemed colder than before, her spirit more dead, her mind more prone to apathy. The greater the effort to force herself to apprehend, the more complete had been the reaction of non-realisation.

But now, in this deep wonder of new experience, there was no effort. She had but waited with every inlet of her being open to receive. And now the power was a Real Presence within, revealing an equally Real Presence without. The Risen Christ moved beside her as she walked. Her eyes were no longer holden that she should not know Him, for the promised Presence of the Paracletos filled her, unveiling her spiritual vision, whispering within her glowing heart; "It is the Lord!"

"Which Voice we heard," wrote Saint Peter, "when we were with Him in the Holy Mount." She, too, had first heard it there; but, as she descended, it was with her still. The songs of the birds, the rush of the stream, the breeze in the pines, the bee on the wing, all Nature seemed to say: "It is the Lord!"

Sorrow, suffering, disillusion might await her on the plain; but, with the Presence beside her, and the Voice within, she felt strong to face them, and to overcome.

Noon found her in her garden, calm and serene; yet wondering, with quickening pulses, whether at nightfall or even at sunset, Hugh would ride in; and what she must say if, giving some other reason for his journey to Worcester, he deceived her as others had deceived; failed her as others had failed.

And wondering thus, she rose and moved with slow step to the terrace.

For a while she stood pondering this hard question, her eyes lifted to the distant hills.

Then something impelled her to turn and glance into the banqueting hall, and there—on the spot where he had knelt that she might bless him at parting—stood Hugh, his arms folded, his eyes fixed upon her, waiting till she should see him.

CHAPTER LV
THE HEART OF A WOMAN

For a space, through the casement, they looked into one another's eyes; she, standing in the full glory of the summer sunshine, a radiant vision of glowing womanhood; he, in the shade of the banqueting-hall, gaunt and travel-stained, yet in his eyes the light of that love which never faileth. But, even as she looked, those dark eyes wavered, shifted, turned away, as if he could not bear any longer to gaze upon her in the sunlight.

An immense pity filled Mora's heart. She knew he was going to fail her; yet the pathos of that failure lay in the fact that it was the very force of his love which rendered the temptation so insuperable.

Swiftly she passed into the banqueting hall, went to him where he stood, put up her arms about his neck, and lifted her lips to his.

"I thank God, my belovèd," she said, "that He hath brought thee in safety back to me."

Hugh's arms, flung around her, strained her to him. But he kept his head erect. The muscles of his neck were like iron bands under her fingers. She could see the cleft in his chin, the firm curve of his lips. His eyes were turned from her.

She longed to say: "Hugh, the Bishop's first letter, lost on its way, hath reached my hands. Already I know the true story of the vision."

Yet instead she clung to his neck, crying: "Kiss me, Hugh! Kiss me!"

She could not rob her man of his chance to be faithful. Also, if he were going to fail her, it were better he should fail and she know it, than that she should forever have the torment of questioning: "Had I not spoken, would he have kept silence?"

Yet, while he was still hers, his honour untarnished, she longed for the touch of his lips.

"Kiss me," she whispered again, not knowing how ten-fold more hard she thus made it for him.

But loosing his arms from around her, he took her face between his hands, looking long into her eyes, with such a yearning of hunger, grief, and regret, that her heart stood still. Then, just as, rendered dizzy by his nearness, she closed her eyes, she felt his lips upon her own.

For a moment she was conscious of nothing save that she was his.

Then her mind flew back to the last time they had stood, thus. Again the underground smell of damp earth seemed all about them; again her heart was torn by love and pity; again she seemed to see Hugh, passing up from the darkness into that pearly light which came stealing down from the crypt—and she realised that this second kiss held also the anguish of parting, rather than the rapture of reunion.

Before she could question the meaning of this, Hugh released her, gently loosed her hands from about his neck, and led her to a seat.

Then he thrust his hand into his breast, and when he drew it forth she saw that he held something in his palm, which gleamed as the light fell upon it.

Standing before her, his eyes bent upon that which lay in his hand, Hugh spoke.

"Mora, I have to tell thee a strange tale, which will, I greatly fear, cause thee much sorrow and perplexity. But first I would give thee this, sent to thee by the Bishop with his most loving greetings; who also bids me say that if, after my tale is told, thy choice should be to return to Worcester, he himself will meet thee, and welcome thee, conduct thee to the Nunnery and there reinstate thee Prioress of the White Ladies, with due pomp and highest honour. I tell thee this at once to spare thee all I can of shock and anguish in the hearing of that which must follow."

Kneeling before her, Hugh laid her jewelled cross of office on her lap.

"My wife," he said simply, speaking very low, with bent head, "before I tell thee more I would have thee know thyself free to go back to the point where first thy course was guided by the vision of the old lay-sister, Mary Antony. Therefore I bring thee thy cross of office as Prioress of the White Ladies."

She laughed aloud, in the great gladness of her relief; in the rapture of her pride in him.

"How can thy wife be Prioress of the White Ladies?" she cried, and caught his head to her breast, there where the jewelled cross used to lie, raining tears and kisses on his hair.

For a moment he yielded, speaking, with his face pressed against her, words of love beyond her imagining.

Then he regained control.

"Oh, hush, my belovèd!" he said. "Hold me not! Let me go, or our Lady knoweth I shall even now fail in the task which lies before me."

"Our Lord, Who knoweth the heart of a man," she said, "hath made my man so strong that he will not fail."

But she let him go; and rising, the Knight stood before her.

"The letter brought to me by Brother Philip," he began, "told me something of that which I am about to tell thee. But I could not speak of it to thee until I knew it in fullest detail, and had consulted with the Bishop concerning its possible effect upon thy future. Hence my instant departure to Worcester. That which I now shall tell thee, I had, in each particular, from the Bishop in most secret conversations. He and I, alone, know of this matter."

Then with his arms folded upon his breast, his eye fixed upon the sunny garden, beyond the window, deep sorrow, compunction, and, at times, awe in his voice, Hugh d'Argent recited the entire history of the pretended vision; beginning with the hiding of herself of old Antony in the inner cell, her anxiety concerning the Reverend Mother, confided to the Bishop; his chance remark, resulting in the old woman's cunningly devised plan to cheat the Prioress into accepting happiness.

And, as he told it, the horror of the sacrilege fell as a dark shadow between them, eclipsing even the radiance of their love. Upon which being no longer blinded, Mora clearly perceived the other issue which she was called upon to face: If our Lady's sanction miraculously given to the step she had taken in leaving the Nunnery had after all not been given, what justification had she for remaining in the world?

Presently Hugh reached the scene of the full confession and death of the old lay-sister. He told it with reverent simplicity. None of the Bishop's flashes of humour had found any place in the Knight's recital.

But now his voice, of a sudden, fell silent. The tale was told.

Mora had sat throughout leaning forward, her right elbow on her knee, her chin resting in the palm of her right hand; her left toying with the jewelled cross upon her lap.

Now she looked up.

"Hugh, you have made no mention of the Bishop's opinion as regards the effect of this upon myself. Did he advise that I be told the entire truth?"

The Knight hesitated.

"Nay," he admitted at length, seeing that she must have an answer. "The Bishop had, as you indeed know, from the first considered our previous betrothal and your sister's perfidy, sufficient justification for your release from all vows made through that deception. Armed with the Pope's mandate, the Bishop saw no need for a divine manifestation, nor did he, from the first, believe in the vision of this old lay-sister. Yet, knowing you set great store by it, he feared for your peace of mind, should you learn the truth."

"Did he command you not to tell me, Hugh?"

"For love of you, Mora, out of tender regard for your happiness, the Bishop counselled me not to tell you."

"He would have had you to become a party, with himself, and old Mary Antony, in my permanent deception?"

Hugh was a loyal friend.

"He would have had me to become a party, with himself, in securing your permanent peace, Mora," he said, sternly.

She loved his sternness. So much did she adore him for having triumphed where she had made sure that he would fail, so much did she despise herself for having judged him so poorly, rated him so low, that she could have knelt upon the floor and clasped his feet! Yet must she strive for wisdom and calmness.

"Then how came you to tell me, Hugh, that which might well imperil not only my peace but your own happiness?"

"Mora," said the Knight, "if I have done wrong, may our blessèd Lady pardon me, and comfort you. But I could not take my happiness knowing that it came to me by reason of a deception practised upon you. Our love must have its roots in perfect truthfulness and trust. Also you and I had together accepted the vision as divine. I had kneeled in your sight and praised our blessèd Lady for this especial grace vouchsafed on my behalf. But now, knowing it to have been a sacrilegious fraud, every time you spoke with joy of the special grace, every time you blessed our Lady for her loving-kindness, I, by my silence, giving mute assent, should have committed sacrilege afresh. Aye, and in that wondrous moment which you promised should soon come, when you would have said: 'Take me! I have been ever thine. Our Lady hath kept me for thee!' mine honour would have been smirched forever had I, keeping silence, taken advantage of thy belief in words which that old nun had herself invented, and put into the mouth of the blessèd Virgin. The Bishop held me selfish because I put mine honour before my need of thee. He said I saw naught but mine own proud face, in the bright mirror of my silver shield. But"—the Knight held his right hand aloft, and spoke in solemn tones—"methinks I see there the face of God, or the nearest I know to His face; and, behind Him, I see thy face, mine own belovèd. I needs must put this, which I owe to honour and to our mutual trust, before mine own content, and utter need of thee. I should be shamed, did I do otherwise, to call thee wife of mine, to think of thee as mistress of my home, and of my heart the Queen."

Mora's hand had sought the Bishop's letter; but now she let it lie concealed. She could not dim the noble triumph of that moment, by any revelation of her previous knowledge. Had Hugh failed, she must have produced the first letter. Hugh having proved faithful, it might well wait.

A long silence fell between them. Mora, fingering the cross, looked on it with unseeing eyes. To Hugh it seemed that this token of her high office was becoming to her a thing of first importance.

"The dress is also here," he said.

"What dress?" she questioned, starting.

He pointed to where he had laid it: her white habit, scapulary, wimple, veil and girdle; the dress of a Prioress of the Order of the White Ladies.

She turned her startled eyes upon it. Then quickly looked away.

"Did you yourself think a vision needed, in order that I might be justified in leaving the Convent, Hugh?"

"Nay, then," he cried, "always from the first I held thee mine in the sight of Heaven."

"Are you of opinion that, the vision being proved no vision, I should go back?"

"No!" said the Knight; and the word fell like a blow from a battle-axe.

"Does the Bishop expect that I shall return?"

"Yes," replied the Knight, groaning within himself that she should have chanced to change the form of her question.

"He would so expect," mused Mora. "He would be sure I should return. He remembers my headstrong temper, and my imperious will. He remembers how I tore the Pope's mandate, placing my foot upon it. He knows I said how that naught would suffice me but a divine vision. Also he knoweth well the heart of a nun; and when I asked him if the heart of a nun could ever become as the heart of other women, he did most piously ejaculate: 'Heaven forbid?'"

Little crinkles of merriment showed faintly at the corners of her eyes.

The Bishop would have seen them, and smiled responsive. But the sad Knight saw them not.

"Mora," he said, "I leave thee free. I hold thee to no vows made through falsehood and fraud. I rate thy peace of mind before mine own content; thy true well-being, before mine own desires. Leaving thee free, dear Heart, I must leave thee free to choose. Loving thee as I love thee, I cannot stay here, yet leave thee free. My anguish of suspense would hamper thee. Therefore I purpose now to ride to my own home. Martin will ride with me. But tomorrow he will return, to ask if there is a message; and the next day, and the next. The Bishop allowed four days for hesitation. If thy decision should be to return to the Nunnery, his command is that thou ride the last stage of the journey fully robed, wearing thy cross of office. He himself will meet thee five miles this side of Worcester, and riding in, with much pomp and ceremony, will announce to the Community that, the higher service to which His Holiness sent thee, being accomplished–"

"Accomplished, Hugh?"

The Knight smiled, wearily. "I quote the Bishop, Mora. He will explain that he now reinstates thee as Prioress of the Order. The entire Community will, he says, rejoice; and he himself will be ever at hand to make sure that all is right for thee."

"These plans are well and carefully laid, Hugh."

"They who love thee have seen to that, Mora."

"Who will ride with me from here to Worcester?"

"Martin Goodfellow, and a little band of thine own people. A swifter messenger will go before to warn the Bishop of thy coming."

"And what of thee?" she asked.

"Of me?" repeated the Knight, as if at first the words conveyed to him no meaning. "Oh, I shall go forth, seeking a worthy cause for which to fight; praying God I may soon be counted worthy to fall in battle."

She pressed her clasped hands there where his face had rested.

"And if I find I cannot go back, Hugh? If I decide to stay?"

He swung round and looked at her.

"Mora, is there hope? The Bishop said there was none."

"Hugh," she made answer slowly, speaking with much earnestness, "shall I not be given a true vision to guide me in this perplexity?"

"Our Lady grant it," he said. "If you decide to stay, one word will bring me back. If not, Mora—this is our final parting."

He took a step toward her.

She covered her face with her hands.

In a moment his arms would be round her. She could not live through a third of those farewell kisses. She had not yet faced out the second question. But—vision or no vision—if he touched her now, she would yield.

"Go!" she whispered. "Ah, for pity's sake, go! The heart of a nun might endure even this. But I ask thy mercy for the heart of a woman!"

She heard the sob in his throat, as he knelt and lifted the hem of her robe to his lips.

Then his step across the floor.

Then the ring of horses' hoofs upon the paving stones.

She was trembling from head to foot, yet she rose and went to the window overlooking the courtyard.

Mark was shutting the gates. Beaumont held a neglected stirrup cup, and laughed as he drained it himself. Zachary, stout and pompous, was mounting the steps.

Hugh, her husband—Hugh, faithful beyond belief—Hugh, her dear Knight of the Silver Shield—had ridden off alone, to the home to which he so greatly longed to take her; alone, with his hopeless love, his hungry heart, and his untarnished honour.

Turning from the window she gathered up the habit of her Order and, clasping her cross of office, mounted to her bedchamber, there to face out in solitude the hard question of the second issue.

CHAPTER LVI
THE TRUE VISION

To her bedchamber went Mora—she who had been Prioress of the White Ladies—bearing in her arms the full robes of her Order, and in her hand the jewelled cross of her high office. She went, expecting to spend hours in doubt and prayer and question before the shrine of the Virgin. But, as she pushed open the door and entered the sunlit chamber, on the very threshold she was met by a flash of inward illumination. Surely every question had already been answered; the second issue had been decided, while the first was yet wholly uncertain.

She had said she must have a divine vision. Had she not this very day been granted a two-fold vision, both human and divine; the Divine, stooping in unspeakable tenderness and comprehension to the human; the Human, upborne on the mighty pinions of pure love and stainless honour in a self-sacrifice which lifted it to the Divine?

In the lonely chapel on the mountain, she had seen her Lord. Not as the Babe, heralded by angels, worshipped by Eastern shepherds, adored by Gentile kings, throned on His Mother's knee, wise-eyed and God-like, stretching omnipotent baby hands toward this mysterious homage which was His due; accepting, with baby omniscience, the gold, the frankincense, the myrrh, which typified His mission; nor as the Divine Redeemer nailed helpless to the cross of shame; dead, that the world might live. These had been the visions of her cloistered years.

But in the chapel on the mountain she had seen Him as the human Jesus, tempted in all points like as we are, His only visible halo the "yet without sin," which set upon His brow in youth and manhood the divine seal of perfect purity, and in His eyes the clear shining of uninterrupted intercourse with Heaven.

As she had left the chapel, turning from the sculptured figure which had helped her to this realisation, she had become wondrously aware of the Unseen Presence of the Christ, close beside her. "As seeing Him Who is invisible" she had come down from the mount, conscious that He went on before. She seemed to be following those blessèd footsteps over the heather of her native hills, even as the disciples of old followed them through the cornfields of Judea, and over the grassy slopes of Galilee. Yet conscious also that He moved beside her, with hand outstretched in case her spirit tripped; and that, should a hidden foe fling shafts from an ambush in the rear, even there that Unseen Presence would be behind her as a shield. "Lo I am with you always, even unto the end of the world."

Strong in this most human vision of the Divine, she had come down from the Holy Mount, prepared to face the dumb demon she dreaded, the silent acquiescence in deception, which threatened to tear her happiness, bruise her spirit, and cast into the fire and into the waters to destroy them, those treasures which her heart had lately learned to hold so dear.

Prepared for this, she came; and lo, Heaven granted her the second vision. She saw deep into the heart of a true man's faithfulness; an example of chivalry, of profound reverence for holy things, which shamed her doubts of him; a self-sacrifice which lifted the great human love, to which she, in her cloistered sanctity, had pictured herself as stooping, far above her, to the ideal of the divine. Was not this indeed a Vision of Truth?

Crossing the room, Mora laid the robes she carried upon the couch. While mounting the stairs she had planned, in the secret of her own chamber, to clothe herself in them once again, to hang her jewelled cross about her neck, and thus—once more Prioress of the White Ladies—to kneel at our Lady's shrine, and implore guidance in this final decision. But now, she laid them gently down upon the bed.

She could not stand fast in this new liberty, with the heavy folds of that white habit entangling her feet in a yoke of bondage.

The heart, filled with a love so full of glowing tenderness for her Knight of the Silver Shield proved worthy, could not beat beneath a scapulary. Nor could her cross of office lie where his dear head had rested.

She stood before the shrine. The Madonna looked gravely upon her. The holy Babe gazed with omniscient eyes, holding forth tiny hands of omnipotence.

Even so had they looked in her hour of joy, when she had kneeled in a transport of thanksgiving.

Even so had they looked in her hour of anguish, when she had poured out her despair at having been twice deceived.

Yet help had not come, until she had lifted her eyes unto the hills.

She turned from the shrine, went swiftly to the open casement, and stood looking over the green tree tops, to the heavenly blue beyond, flecked by swift moving clouds.

She, who had now learned to "look . . . at the things that are not seen," could not find help through gazing on carven images.

Thoughts of our Lady seemed more living and vital while she kept her eyes upon the fleecy whiteness of those tiny clouds, or watched a flight of mountain birds, silver-winged in the sunshine.

What was the one command recorded as having been given, by the blessèd Mother of our Lord, to men? "Whatsoever He saith unto you, do it." And what was His last injunction to His Church on earth? "Go ye into all the world and preach glad tidings to every creature. . . . And lo, I am with you always."

Mora could not but know that she had come forth into her world bringing the glad tidings of love requited, of comfort, and of home.

By virtue of this promise the feet of the risen Christ would move beside her "all the days."

It seemed to her, that if she went back now into her Convent cell, she would nail those blessèd feet to the wood again. In slaying this new life within herself, she would lose forever the sense of living companionship, retaining only the religion of the Crucifix. Enough, perhaps, for the cloistered life. But this life more abundant, demanded that grace should yet more abound.

A great apostolic injunction sounded, like a clarion call, from the stored chancel of her memory. "As ye have therefore received Christ Jesus the Lord, so walk ye in Him."

She flung wide her arms. A sense of all-pervading liberty, a complete freedom from all bondage of spirit, soul, or body, leapt up responsive to the call.

"I will!" she said. "Without any further fear or faltering, I will!"

She passed to the couch, folded the robes she had worn so long, and laid them away in an empty chest.

This done, she took her cross of office, and went down to the terrace. Her one thought was to reach Hugh with as little delay as possible. She could not leave that noble heart in suspense, a moment longer than she need.

The sun was still high in the heavens. By the short way through the woods, she could reach the castle long before sunset.

She owed Hugh much. Yet there was another to whom she also owed a debt; how much she owed to him, this day's new light had shewn her. She would go forward to her joy with a freer heart if she gave herself time to discharge, by acknowledgment and thanks, the great debt she owed to her old and faithful friend, Symon, Bishop of Worcester.

She sent for her steward.

"Zachary," she said, "Sir Hugh has ridden on before. I follow by the short way through the forest, and shall not return to-night. Bid them saddle my white palfrey, Icon. I shall be ready to start within an hour. But first I must despatch to Worcester, a packet of importance. Bid two of the men, who rode with us from Worcester, prepare to mount and return thither. If they start in an hour's time, they can be well on their way, and make a safe lodging, before nightfall."

She passed into the library, laid the cross before her on the table, and began her letter to the Bishop.

Straight from her hand to his, that letter went; straight from her heart to his, that letter spoke; and Symon's comfort in it, lies largely in the knowledge that she was alone when she wrote it, alone when she sealed it, and that none in this world, saving they two, will ever know exactly what the woman, whom he had loved so purely and served so faithfully, said to him in this letter.

Bare facts, however, may be given.

She told him, as briefly as might be, of that morning's great experience; of Hugh's return, and noble self-effacement; of the clear light she had received, and the decision to which she had come; and of how she was now going forward, with a free heart, to her great happiness.

And then, in glowing words, she told him all she owed to his faithful, patient friendship, to the teaching of long years, the trend of which had always been life, light, liberty; a wider outlook, a fearless judgment, a clear knowledge of God, based on inspired writings; and, above all, belief in those words, often on his lips, always in his heart: "Love never faileth."

"Truly, my dear lord," she wrote, "your love–" Nay, it may not be quoted!

She told him how his teaching, following along the same lines as that of Father Gervaise years before, had prepared her mind for this revelation of the ever-living Saviour.

"Now the mystery is unveiled to me also," she wrote, "I realise that you knew it all along; and that, had I but been more teachable, Reverend Father, you could have taught me more. Oh, I pray you, take heart of grace, and teach these great truths to others."

She blessed him for his faithfulness in striving to make her see her duty to Hugh, and her life's true vocation.

She blessed him for her great happiness, yet thanked him for his care in sending her cross of office, thus making all easy in order that, had her conscience so required, she could have safely returned. She herewith sent him the cross, and begged that he would keep it, remembering when he chanced to look upon it–

She also begged him to forgive her the many times when she had tried his patience, and been herself impatient of his wise counsel and control.

And, finally, she signed herself – – –

Mora held the cross to her lips, then placed it within the letter, folded the packet, sealed it with her own seal, addressed it with full directions, and called for the messenger.

Thus, fully four days before he had looked to have it, the answer for which he waited, reached the Bishop's hand. As he opened it, and perceived the gleam of gold and emeralds, he glanced across to the deed chest, where lay the Knight's white stone.

The rose beside it had not yet faded. It might have been plucked and placed in the water that morning, so fair it bloomed—a red, red rose. Ah, Verity! Little Angel Child!

* * * * * *

It was said in sunny Florence in the years that followed, and, later on, it was remarked in Rome, that if the Lord High Cardinal—kindest of men—was tried almost beyond bearing, if even his calm patience seemed in danger of ruffling, or if he was weary, or sad, or disheartened, he had a way of slipping his hand into the bosom of his scarlet robe, as if he gently fingered something that lay against his heart.

Whereupon at, once his brow grew serene again, his blue eyes kindly and bright, his lips smiled that patient smile which never failed; and, as he drew forth his hand, the stone within his ring, though pale before, glowed deep red, as juice of purple grapes in a goblet.