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.
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