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 s.p.a.ce, through the cas.e.m.e.nt, 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d, my beloved," 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, pa.s.sing 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 beloved!" 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.