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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/16368-8.txt b/16368-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c65ded4 --- /dev/null +++ b/16368-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,15910 @@ +Project Gutenberg's The White Ladies of Worcester, by Florence L. Barclay + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The White Ladies of Worcester + A Romance of the Twelfth Century + +Author: Florence L. Barclay + +Release Date: July 27, 2005 [EBook #16368] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHITE LADIES OF WORCESTER *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + + + + + + +The White Ladies of Worcester + + +A Romance of the Twelfth Century + + + +by + +Florence L. Barclay + + + + +Author of "The Rosary," "The Mistress of Shenstone," etc. + + + + + + +G. P. Putnam's Sons + +New York and London + +The Knickerbocker Press + +1917 + + + + +COPYRIGHT, 1917 + +BY + +FLORENCE L. BARCLAY + + + + + + +The Knickerbocker Press, New York + + + + +TO + +FAITHFUL HEARTS + +ALL THE WORLD OVER + + + + +CONTENTS + +CHAPTER + + I. THE SUBTERRANEAN WAY + II. SISTER MARY ANTONY DISCOURSES + III. THE PRIORESS PASSES + IV. "GIVE ME TENDERNESS," SHE SAID + V. THE WAYWARD NUN + VI. THE KNIGHT OF THE BLOODY VEST + VII. THE MADONNA IN THE CLOISTER + VIII. ON THE WINGS OF THE STORM + IX. THE PRIORESS SHUTS THE DOOR + X. "I KNOW YOU FOR A MAN" + XI. THE YEARS ROLL BACK + XII. ALAS, THE PITY OF IT! + XIII. "SEND HER TO ME!" + XIV. FAREWELL HERE, AND NOW + XV. "SHARPEN THE WITS OF MARY ANTONY" + XVI. THE ECHO OF WILD VOICES + XVII. THE DIMNESS OF MARY ANTONY + XVIII. IN THE CATHEDRAL CRYPT + XIX. THE BISHOP PUTS ON HIS BIRETTA + XX. HOLLY AND MISTLETOE + XXI. SO MUCH FOR SERAPHINE + XXII. WHAT BROTHER PHILIP HAD TO TELL + XXIII. THE MIDNIGHT ARRIVAL + XXIV. THE POPE'S MANDATE + XXV. MARY ANTONY RECEIVES THE BISHOP + XXVI. LOVE NEVER FAILETH + XXVII. THE WOMAN AND HER CONSCIENCE + XXVIII. THE WHITE STONE + XXIX. THE VISION OF MARY ANTONY + XXX. THE HARDER PART + XXXI. THE CALL OF THE CURLEW + XXXII. A GREAT RECOVERY AND RESTORATION + XXXIII. MARY ANTONY HOLDS THE PORT + XXXIV. MORA DE NORELLE + XXXV. IN THE ARBOUR OF GOLDEN ROSES + XXXVI. STRONG TO ACT; ABLE TO ENDURE + XXXVII. WHAT MOTHER SUB-PRIORESS KNEW + XXXVIII. THE BISHOP KEEPS VIGIL + XXXIX. THE "SPLENDID KNIGHT" + XL. THE HEART OF A NUN + XLI. WHAT THE BISHOP REMEMBERED + XLII. THE WARNING + XLIII. MORA MOUNTS TO THE BATTLEMENTS + XLIV. "I LOVE THEE" + XLV. THE SONG OF THE THRUSH + XLVI. "HOW SHALL I LET THEE GO?" + XLVII. THE BISHOP is TAKEN UNAWARES + XLVIII. A STRANGE CHANCE + XLIX. TWICE DECEIVED + L. THE SILVER SHIELD + LI. TWO NOBLE HEARTS GO DIFFERENT WAYS + LII. THE ANGEL-CHILD + LIII. ON THE HOLY MOUNT + LIV. THE UNSEEN PRESENCE + LV. THE HEART OF A WOMAN + LVI. THE TRUE VISION + LVII. "I CHOOSE TO RIDE ALONE" + LVIII. THE WARRIOR HEART + LIX. THE MADONNA IN THE HOME + LX. THE CONVENT BELL + + + + +The White Ladies of Worcester + + +CHAPTER I + +THE SUBTERRANEAN WAY + +The slanting rays of afternoon sunshine, pouring through stone arches, +lay in broad, golden bands, upon the flags of the Convent cloister. + +The old lay-sister, Mary Antony, stepped from the cool shade of the +cell passage and, blinking at the sunshine, shuffled slowly to her +appointed post at the top of the crypt steps, up which would shortly +pass the silent procession of nuns returning from Vespers. + +Daily they went, and daily they returned, by the underground way, a +passage over a mile in length, leading from the Nunnery of the White +Ladies at Whytstone in Claines, to the Church of St. Mary and St. +Peter, the noble Cathedral within the walls of the city of Worcester. + +Entering this passage from the crypt in their own cloisters, they +walked in darkness below the sunny meadows, passed beneath the +Fore-gate, moving in silent procession under the busy streets, until +they reached the crypt of the Cathedral. + +From the crypt, a winding stairway in the wall led up to a chamber +above the choir, whence, unseeing and unseen, the White Ladies of +Worcester daily heard the holy monks below chant Vespers. + +To Sister Mary Antony fell the task of counting the five-and-twenty +veiled figures, as they passed down the steps and disappeared beneath +the ground, and of again counting them as they reappeared, and moved in +stately silence along the cloister, each entering her own cell, to +spend, in prayer and adoration, the hours until the Refectory bell +should call them to the evening meal. + +This counting of the White Ladies dated from the day, now more than +half a century ago, when Sister Agatha, weakened by prolonged fasting, +and chancing to walk last in the procession, fainted and, falling +silently, remained behind, unnoticed, in the solitude and darkness. + +It was the habit of this saintly lady to abide in her own cell after +Vespers, dispensing with the evening meal; thus her absence was not +discovered until the following morning when Mary Antony, finding the +cell empty, hastened to report that Sister Agatha having long, like +Enoch, walked with God, had, even, as Enoch, been translated! + +The nuns who flocked to the cell, inclining to Mary Antony's view of +the strange happening, kneeled upon the floor before the empty couch, +and worshipped. + +The Prioress of that time, however, being of a practical turn of mind, +ordered the immediate lighting of the lanterns, and herself descended +to search the underground way. + +She did not need to go far. + +The saintly spirit of Sister Agatha had indeed been translated. + +They found her frail body lying prone against the door, the hands +broken and torn by much wild beating upon its studded panels. + +She had run to and fro in the dank darkness, beating first upon the +door beneath the Convent cloisters, then upon the door, a mile away, +leading into the Cathedral crypt. + +But the nuns were shut into their cells, beyond the cloister; the good +people of Worcester city slept peacefully, not dreaming of the +despairing figure running to and fro beneath them--tottering, +stumbling, falling, arising to fall again, yet hurrying blindly +onwards; and the Cathedral Sacristan, when questioned, confessed that, +hearing cries and rappings coming from the crypt at a late hour, he +speedily locked the outer gate, said an "Ave," and went home to supper; +well knowing that, at such a time, none save spirits of evil would be +wandering below, in so great torment. + +Thus, through much tribulation, poor Sister Agatha entered into rest; +being held in deepest reverence ever after. + +More than fifty years had gone by. The Prioress of that day, and most +of those who walked in that procession, had long lain beside Sister +Agatha in the Convent burying-ground. But Mary Antony, now oldest of +the lay-sisters, never failed to make careful count, as each veiled +figure passed, nor to impart the mournful reason for this necessity to +all new-comers. So that the nun whose turn it was to walk last in the +procession, prayed that she might not hear behind her the running feet +of Sister Agatha; while none went alone into the cloisters after dark, +lest they should hear the poor thin hands of Sister Agatha beating upon +the panels of the door. + +Thus does the anguish of a tortured brain leave its imperishable +impress upon the surroundings in which the mind once suffered, though +the freed spirit may have long forgotten, in the peace of Paradise, +that slight affliction, which was but for a moment, through which it +passed to the eternal weight of glory. + +Of late, the old lay-sister, Mary Antony, had grown fearful lest she +should make mistake in this solemn office of the counting. Therefore, +in the secret of her own heart, she devised a plan, which she carried +out under cover of her scapulary. Twenty-five dried peas she held +ready in her wallet; then, as each veiled figure, having mounted the +steps leading from the crypt doorway, moved slowly past her, she +dropped a pea with her right hand into her left. When all the holy +Ladies had passed, if all had returned, five-and-twenty peas lay in her +left hand, none remained in the wallet. + +This secret dropping of peas became a kind of game to Mary Antony. +She kept the peas in a small linen bag, and often took them out and +played with them when alone in her cell, placing them all in a row, and +settling, to her own satisfaction, which peas should represent the +various holy Ladies. + +A large white pea, of finer aspect than the rest, stood for the noble +Prioress herself; a somewhat shrivelled pea, hard, brown, and wizened, +did duty as Mother Sub-Prioress, an elderly nun, not loved by Mary +Antony because of her sharp tongue and strict fault-finding ways; while +a pale and speckled pea became Sister Mary Rebecca, held in high scorn +by the old lay-sister, as a traitress, sneak, and liar, for if ever +tale of wrong or shame was whispered in the Convent, it could be traced +for place of origin to the slanderous tongue and crooked mind of Sister +Mary Rebecca. + +When all the peas in line upon the floor of her cell were named, old +Mary Antony marked out a distant flagstone, on which the sunlight fell, +as heaven; another, partially in shadow, purgatory; a third, in a far +corner of exceeding darkness, hell. She then proceeded, with +well-directed fillip of thumb and middle finger, to send the holy +Ladies there where, in her judgment, they belonged. + +If the game went well, the noble Prioress landed safely in heaven, +without even the most transitory visit to purgatory; Mother +Sub-Prioress, rolling into purgatory, remained there; while the pale +and speckled pea went straight to hell! + +When these were safely landed, Mary Antony rubbed her hands and, +chuckling gleefully, finished the game at gay hap-hazard, it being of +less importance where the rest of the holy Ladies chanced to go. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +SISTER MARY ANTONY DISCOURSES + +As Mary Antony shuffled slowly from the shadow into the sunshine, a gay +little flutter of wings preceded her, and a robin perched upon the +parapet behind the stone seat upon which it was the lay-sister's custom +to await the sound of the turning of the key in the lock of the heavy +door beneath the cloisters. + +"Thou good-for-nothing imp!" exclaimed Mary Antony, her old face +crinkling with delight. "Thou little vain man, in thy red jerkin! +Beshrew thine impudence, intruding into a place where women alone do +dwell, and no male thing may enter. I would have thee take warning by +the fate of the baker's boy, who dared to climb into a tree, so that he +might peep over the wall and spy upon the holy Ladies in their garden. +Boasting afterward of that which he had done, and making merry over +that which he pretended to have seen, our great Lord Bishop heard of +it, and sent and took that baker's boy, and though he cried for mercy, +swearing the whole tale was an empty boast, they put out his bold eyes +with heated tongs, and hanged him from the very branches he had +climbed. They'd do the like to thee, thou little vain man, if Mary +Antony reported on thy ways. Wouldst like to hang, in thy red doublet?" + +The robin had heard this warning tale many times already, told by old +Mary Antony with infinite variety. + +Sometimes the tongue of the baker's boy was cut out at the roots; +sometimes he lost his ears, or again, he was tied to a cart-tail, and +flogged through the Tything. Often he became a pieman, and once he was +a turnspit in the household of the Lord Bishop himself. But, whatever +the preliminaries, and whether baker, pieman, or turnspit, his final +catastrophe was always the same: he was hanged from a bough of the very +tree into which, impious and greatly daring, he had climbed. + +This was an ancient tale. All who might vouch for it, saving the old +lay-sister, had passed away; and, of late, Mary Antony had been +strictly forbidden by the Reverend Mother, to tell it to new-comers, or +to speak of it to any of the nuns. + +So, daily, she told it to the robin; and he, being neither baker's lad, +pieman, nor turnspit, and having a conscience void of offence, would +listen, wholly unafraid; then, hopping nearer to Mary Antony, would +look up at her, eager inquiry in his bright eyes. + +On this particular afternoon he flew up into the very tree climbed by +the prying and ill-fated baker's lad, settled on a bough which branched +out over the Convent wall, and poured forth a gay trill of song. + +"Ha, thou little vain man, in thy brown and red suit!" chuckled Mary +Antony, leaning her gnarled hands on the stone parapet, as she stood +framed in one of the cloister arches overlooking the garden. "Is that +thy little 'grace before meat'? But, I pray thee, Sir Robin, who said +there was cheese in my wallet? Nay, is there like to be cheese in a +wallet already containing five-and-twenty holy Ladies on their way back +from Vespers? Out upon thee for a most irreverent little glutton! I +fear me thou hast not only a high look, thou hast also a proud stomach; +just the reverse of the great French Cardinal who came, with much pomp, +to visit us at Easter time. He had a proud look and a-- Come down +again, thou little naughty man, and I will tell thee what the Lord +Cardinal had under his crimson sash. 'Tis not a thing to shout to the +tree-tops. I might have to recite ten Paternosters, if I let thee +tempt me so to do. For whispering it in thine ear, I should but say +one; for having remarked it, none at all. Facts are facts; and, even +in the case of so weighty a fact, the responsibility rests not upon the +beholder." + +Mary Antony leaned over the parapet, looking upward. The afternoon +sunlight fell full upon the russet parchment of her kind old face, +shewing the web of wrinkles spun by ninety years of the gently turning +wheel of time. + +But the robin, perched upon the bough, trilled and sang, unmoved. He +was weary of tales of bakers and piemen. He was not at all curious as +to what had been beneath the French Cardinal's crimson sash. He wanted +the tasty morsels which he knew lay concealed in Sister Mary Antony's +leathern wallet. So he stayed on the bough and sang. + +The old face, peering up from between the pillars, softened into +tenderness at the robin's song. + +"I cannot let thy little grace return unto thee void," she said, and +fumbled at the fastenings of her wallet. + +A flick of wings, a flash of red. The robin had dropped from the +bough, and perched beside her. + +She doled out crumbs, and fragments of cheese, pushing them toward him +along the parapet; leaving her fingers near, to see how close he would +adventure to her hand. + +She watched him peck a morsel of cheese into five tiny pieces, then +fly, with full beak, on eager wing, to the hidden nest, from which five +gaping mouths shrieked a shrill and hungry welcome. Then, back +again--swift as an arrow from the archer's bow--noting, with bright +eye, and head turned sidewise, that the hand resting on the coping had +moved nearer; yet brave to take all risks for the sake of those yellow +beaks, which would gape wide, in expectation, at sound of the beat of +his wings. + +"Feed thyself, thou little worldling!" chuckled old Antony, and covered +the remaining bits of cheese with her hand. "Who art thou to come here +presuming to teach thy betters lessons of self-sacrifice? First feed +thyself; then give to the hungry, the fragments that remain. Had I +five squealing children here--which Heaven forbid--I should eat mine +own mess, and count myself charitable if I let them lick the dish. The +holy Ladies give to the poor at the Convent gate, that for which they +have no further use. Does thy jaunty fatherhood presume to shame our +saintly celibacy? Mother Sub-Prioress did chide me sharply because, to +a poor soul with many hungry mouths to feed, I gave a good piece of +venison, and not the piece which was tainted. Truth to tell, I had +already made away with the tainted piece; but Mother Sub-Prioress was +pleased to think it was in the pot, seething for the holy Ladies' +evening meal; and wherefore should Mother Sub-Prioress not think as she +pleased? + +"'Woman!' she cried; 'Woman!'--and when Mother Sub-Prioress says +'Woman!' the woman she addresses feels her estate would be higher had +God Almighty been pleased to have let her be the Man, or even the +Serpent, so much contempt does Mother Sub-Prioress infuse into the +name--'Woman!' said Mother Sub-Prioress, 'wouldst thou make all the +Ladies of the Convent ill?' + +"'Nay,' said I, 'that would I not. Yet, if any needs must be ill, +'twere easier to tend the holy Ladies in their cells, than the Poor, in +humble homes, outside the Convent walls, tossing on beds of rushes.' + +"'Tush, fool!' snarled Mother Sub-Prioress. "'The Poor are not easily +made ill.' + +"Tush indeed! I tell thee, little bright-eyed man, old Antony, can +'tush' to better purpose! That night there were strong purging herbs +in the broth of Mother Sub-Prioress. Yet she did but keep her bed for +one day. Like the Poor, she is not easily made ill! . . . Well, have +thy way; only peck not my fingers, Master Robin, or I will have thee +flogged through the Tything at the cart-tail, as was done to a certain +pieman, whose history I will now relate. + +"Once upon a time, when Sister Mary Antony was young, and fair to look +upon--Nay, wink not thy naughty eye----" + +At that moment came the sound of a key turning slowly in the lock of +the door at the bottom of the steps leading from the crypt to the +cloister. + + + + +CHAPTER III + +THE PRIORESS PASSES + +A key turned slowly in the lock of the oaken door at the entrance to +the underground way. + +The old lay-sister seized her wallet and pulled out the bag of peas. + +Below, the heavy door swung back upon its hinges. + +Mary Antony dropped upon her knees to the right of the steps, her hands +hidden beneath her scapulary, her eyes bent in lowly reverence upon the +sunlit flagstones, her lips mumbling chance sentences from the Psalter. + +The measured sound of softly moving feet drew near, slightly shuffling +as they reached the steps and began to mount, up from the mile-long +darkness, into the sunset light. + +First to appear was a young lay-sister, carrying a lantern. Hastening +up the steps, she extinguished the flame, grown sickly in the sunshine, +placed the lantern in a niche, and, dropping upon her knees, opposite +old Mary Antony, sought to join in the latter's pious recitations. + +"_Adhaesit pavimento anima mea_," chanted Mary Antony. "Wherefore are +the holy Ladies late to-day?" + +"One fell to weeping in the darkness," intoned the young lay-sister, +"whereupon Mother Sub-Prioress caused all to stand still while she +strove, by the light of my lantern held high, to discover who had burst +forth with a sob. None shewing traces of tears, she gave me back the +lantern, herself walking last in the line, as all moved on." + +"_Convertentur ad vesperam_, and the devil catch the hindmost," chanted +Mary Antony, with fervour. + +"Amen," intoned Sister Abigail, eyes bent upon the ground; for the tall +figure of the Prioress, mounting the steps, now came into view. + +The Prioress passed up the cloister with a stately grace of motion +which, even beneath the heavy cloth of her white robe, revealed the +noble length of supple limbs. Her arms hung by her sides, swaying +gently as she walked. There was a look of strength and of restfulness +about the long fingers and beautifully moulded hands. Her face, calm +and purposeful, was lifted to the sunlight. Suffering and sorrow had +left thereon indelible marks; but the clear grey eyes, beneath level +brows, were luminous with a light betokening the victory of a pure and +noble spirit over passionate and most human flesh. + +No sinner, in her presence, ever felt crushed by hopeless weight of +sin; no saint, before the gaze of her calm eyes, felt sure of being +altogether faultless. + +So truly was she woman, that all humanity seemed lifted to her level; +so completely was she saint, that sin did slink away abashed before her +coming. + +They who feared her most, were most conscious of her kindness. They +who loved her best, were least able to venture near. + +In the first bloom of her womanhood she had left the world, resigning +high rank, fair lands, and the wealth which makes for power. Her faith +in human love having been rudely shattered, she had sought security in +Divine compassion, and consolation in the daily contemplation of the +Man of Sorrows. In her cell, on a rough wooden cross, hung a life-size +figure of the dying Saviour. + +She had not reached her twenty-fifth year when, fleeing from the world, +she joined the Order of the White Ladies of Worcester, and passed into +the seclusion and outward calm of the Nunnery at Whytstone. + +Five years later, on the death of the aged Prioress, she was elected, +by a large majority, to fill the vacant place. + +She had now, during two years, ruled the Nunnery wisely and well. + +She had ruled her own spirit, even better. She had won the victory +over the World and the Flesh; there remained but the Devil. The Devil, +alas, always remains. + +As she moved, with uplifted brow and mien of calm detachment, along the +sunlit cloister to the lofty, stone passage, within, the Convent, she +was feared by many, loved by most, and obeyed by all. + +And, as she passed, old Mary Antony, bowing almost to the ground, +dropped a large white pea, from between her right thumb and finger, +into the horny palm of her left hand. + +Behind the Prioress there followed a nun, tall also, but ungainly. Her +short-sighted eyes peered shiftily to right and left; her long nose +went on before, scenting possible scandal and wrong-doing; her weak +lips let loose a ready smile, insinuating, crafty, apologetic. She +walked with hands crossed upon her breast, in attitude of adoration and +humility. As she moved by, old Mary Antony let drop the pale and +speckled pea. + +Keeping their distances, mostly with shrouded faces, bent heads, and +folded hands, all the White Ladies passed. + +Each went in silence to her cell, there kneeling in prayer and +contemplation until the Refectory bell should call to the evening meal. + +As the last, save one, went by, the keen eyes of the old lay-sister +noted that her hands were clenched against her breast, that she +stumbled at the topmost step, and caught her breath with a half sob. + +Behind her, moving quickly, came the spare form of the Sub-Prioress, +ferret-faced, alert, vigilant; fearful lest sin should go unpunished; +wishful to be the punisher. + +She must have heard the half-strangled sob burst from the slight figure +stumbling up the steps before her, had not old Mary Antony been +suddenly moved at that moment to uplift her voice in a cracked and +raucous "Amen." + +Startled, and vexed at being startled, the Sub-Prioress turned upon +Mary Antony. + +"Peace, woman!" she said. "The Convent cloister is not a hen-yard. +Such ill-timed devotion well-nigh merits penance. Rise from thy knees, +and go at once about thy business." + +The Sub-Prioress hastened on. + +Scowling darkly, old Antony bent forward, looking, past Mother +Sub-Prioress, up the cloister to the distant passage. + +Sister Mary Seraphine had reached her cell. The door was shut. + +Old Antony's knees creaked as she arose, but her wizened face was once +more cheerful. + +"Beans in her broth to-night," she said. "One for 'woman'; another for +the hen-yard; a third for threatening penance when I did but chant a +melodious 'Amen.' I'll give her beans--castor beans!" + +Down the steps she went, pushed the heavy door to, locked it, and drew +forth the key; then turned her steps toward the cell of the Reverend +Mother. + +On her way thither, she paused at a certain door and listened, her ear +against the oaken panel. Then she hurried onward, knocked upon the +door of the Reverend Mother's cell and, being bidden to enter, passed +within, closed the door behind her, and dropped upon her knees. + +The Prioress stood beside the casement, gazing at the golden glory of +the sunset. She was, for the moment, unconscious of her surroundings. +Her mind was away behind those crimson battlements. + +Presently she turned and saw the old woman, kneeling at the door. + +"How now, dear Antony?" she said, kindly. "Get up! Hang the key in +its appointed place, and make me thy report. Have all returned? As +always, is all well?" + +The old lay-sister rose, hung the massive key upon a nail; then came to +the feet of the Prioress, and knelt again. + +"Reverend Mother," she said, "all who went forth have returned. But +all is not well. Sister Mary Seraphine is uttering wild cries in her +cell; and much I fear me, Mother Sub-Prioress may pass by, and hear +her." + +The face of the Prioress grew stern and sad; yet, withal, tender. She +raised the lay-sister, and gently patted the old hands which trembled. + +"Go thy ways, dear Antony," she said. "I myself will visit the little +Sister in her cell. None will attempt to enter while I am there." + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +"GIVE ME TENDERNESS," SHE SAID + +The Prioress knelt before a marble group of the Virgin and Child, +placed where the rays of evening sunshine, entering through the western +casement, played over its white beauty, shedding a radiance on the pure +face of the Madonna, and a halo of golden glory around the Infant +Christ. + +"Mother of God," prayed the Prioress, with folded hands, "give me +patience in dealing with wilfulness; grant me wisdom to cope with +unreason; may it be given me to share the pain of this heart in +torment, even as--when thou didst witness the sufferings of thy dear +Son, our Lord, on Calvary--a sword pierced through thine own soul also. + +"Give me this gift of sympathy with suffering, though the cross be not +mine own, but another's. + +"But give me firmness and authority: even as when thou didst say to the +servants at Cana: 'Whatsoever He saith unto you, do it.'" + +The Prioress waited, with bowed head. + +Then, of a sudden she put forth her hand, and touched the marble foot +of the Babe. + +"Give me tenderness," she said. + + + + +CHAPTER V + +THE WAYWARD NUN + +Sister Mary Seraphine lay prone upon the floor of her cell. + +Tightly clenched in her hands were fragments of her torn veil. + +She beat her knuckles upon the stones with rhythmic regularity; then, +when her arms would lift no longer, took up the measure with her toes, +in wild imitation of a galloping horse. + +As she lay, she repeated with monotonous reiteration: "Trappings of +crimson, and silver bells: mane and tail, like foam of the waves; a +palfrey as white as snow!" + +The Prioress entered, closed the door behind her, and looked +searchingly at the prostrate figure; then, lifting the master-key which +hung from her girdle, locked the door on the inside. + +Sister Mary Seraphine had been silent long enough to hear the closing +and locking of the door. + +Now she started afresh. + +"Trappings of crimson, and silver bells----" + +The Prioress walked over to the narrow casement, and stood looking out +at the rosy clouds wreathing a pale green sky. + +"Oh! . . . Oh! . . . Oh! . . ." wailed Sister Mary Seraphine, +writhing upon the floor; "mane and tail, like foam of the waves; a +palfrey as white as snow!" + +The Prioress watched the swallows on swift wing, chasing flies in the +evening light. + +So complete was the silence, that Sister Mary +Seraphine--notwithstanding that turning of the key in the lock--fancied +she must be alone. + +"Trappings of crimson, and silver bells!" she declaimed with vehemence; +then lifted her face to peep, and saw the tall figure of the Prioress +standing at the casement. + +Instantly, Sister Mary Seraphine dropped her head. + +"Mane and tail," she began--then her courage failed; the "foam of the +waves" quavered into indecision; and indecision, in such a case, is +fatal. + +For a while she lay quite still, moaning plaintively, then, of a +sudden, quivered from head to foot, starting up alert, as if to listen. + +"Wilfred!" she shrieked; "Wilfred! Are you coming to save me?" + +Then she opened her eyes, and peeped again. + +The Prioress, wholly unmoved by the impending advent of "Wilfred," +stood at the casement, calmly watching the swallows. + +Sister Mary Seraphine began to weep. + +At last the passionate sobbing ceased. + +Unbroken silence reigned in the cell. + +From without, the latch of the door was lifted; but the lock held. + +Presently Sister Mary Seraphine dragged herself to the feet of the +Prioress, seized the hem of her robe, and kissed it. + +Then the Prioress turned. She firmly withdrew her robe from those +clinging hands; yet looked, with eyes of tender compassion, upon the +kneeling figure at her feet. + +"Sister Seraphine," she said, "--for you must shew true penitence e'er +I can permit you to be called by our Lady's name--you will now come to +my cell, where I will presently speak with you." + +Sister Seraphine instantly fell prone. + +"I cannot walk," she said. + +"You will not walk," replied the Prioress, sternly. "You will travel +upon your hands and knees." + +She crossed to the door, unlocked and set it wide. + +"Moreover," she added, from the doorway, "if you do not appear in my +presence in reasonable time, I shall be constrained to send for Mother +Sub-Prioress." + +The cell of the Prioress was situated at the opposite end of the long, +stone passage; but in less than reasonable time, Sister Seraphine +crawled in. + +The unwonted exercise had had a most salutary effect upon her frame of +mind. + +Her straight habit, of heavy cloth, had rendered progress upon her +knees awkward and difficult. Her hands had become entangled in her +torn veil. Each moment she had feared lest cell doors, on either side, +should open; old Antony might appear from the cloisters, or--greatest +disaster of all--Mother Sub-Prioress might advance toward her from the +Refectory stairs! In order to attain a greater rate of speed, she had +tried lifting her knees, as elephants lift their feet. This mode of +progress, though ungainly, had proved efficacious; but would have been +distinctly mirth-provoking to beholders. The stones had hurt her hands +and knees far more than she hurt them when she beat upon the floor of +her own cell. + +She arrived at the Reverend Mother's footstool, heated in mind and +body, ashamed of herself, vexed with her garments, in fact in an +altogether saner frame of mind than when she had called upon "Wilfred," +and made reiterated mention of trappings of crimson and silver bells. + +Perhaps the Prioress had foreseen this result, when she imposed the +penance. Leniency or sympathy, at that moment, would have been fatal +and foolish; and had not the Prioress made special petition for wisdom? + +She was seated at her table, when Sister Seraphine bumped and shuffled +into view. She did not raise her eyes from the illuminated missal she +was studying. One hand lay on the massive clasp, the other rested in +readiness to turn the page. Her noble form seemed stately calm +personified. + +When she heard Sister Seraphine panting close to her foot, she spoke; +still without lifting her eyes. + +"You may rise to your feet," she said, "and shut to the door." + +Then the waiting hand turned the page, and silence fell. + +"You may arrange the disorder of your dress," said the Prioress, and +turned another page. + +When at length she looked up, Sister Seraphine, clothed and apparently +in her right mind, stood humbly near the door. + +The Prioress closed the book, and shut the heavy clasps. + +Then she pointed to an oaken stool, signing to the nun to draw it +forward. + +"Be seated, my child," she said, in tones of infinite tenderness. +"There is much which must now be said, and your mind will pay better +heed, if your body be at rest." + +With her steadfast eyes the Prioress searched the pretty, flushed face, +swollen with weeping, and now gathering a look of petulant defiance, +thinly veiled beneath surface humility. + +"What was the cause of this outburst, my child?" asked the Prioress, +very gently. + +"While in the Cathedral, Reverend Mother, up in our gallery, I, being +placed not far from a window, heard, in a moment of silence, the +neighing of a horse in the street without. It was like to the neighing +of mine own lovely palfrey, waiting in the castle court at home, until +I should come down and mount him. Each time that steed neighed, I +could see Snowflake more clearly, in trappings of gay crimson, with +silver bells, amid many others prancing impatiently, champing their +bits as they waited; for it pleased me to come out last, when all were +mounted. Then the riders lifted their plumed caps when I appeared, +while Wilfred, pushing my page aside, did swing me into the saddle. +Thus, with shouting and laughter and winding of horn, we would all ride +out to the hunt or the tourney; I first, on Snowflake; Wilfred, close +behind." + +Very quietly the Prioress sat listening. She did not take her eyes +from the flushed face. A slight colour tinged her own cheeks. + +"Who was Wilfred?" she asked, when Sister Seraphine paused for breath. + +"My cousin, whom I should have wed if----" + +"If?" + +"If I had not left the world." + +The Prioress considered this. + +"If your heart was set upon wedding your cousin, my child, why did you +profess a vocation and, renouncing all worldly and carnal desires, gain +admission to our sacred Order?" + +"My heart was not set on marrying my cousin!" cried Sister Seraphine, +with petulance. "I was weary of Wilfred. I was weary of everything! +I wanted to profess. I wished to become a nun. There were people I +could punish, and people I could surprise, better so, than in any other +way. But Wilfred said that, when the time came, he would be there to +carry me off." + +"And--when the time came?" + +"He was not there. I never saw him again." + +The Prioress turned, and looked out through the oriel window. She +seemed to be weighing, carefully, what she should say. + +When at length she spoke, she kept her eyes fixed upon the waving +tree-tops beyond the Convent wall. + +"Sister Seraphine," she said, "many who embrace the religious life, +know what it is to pass through the experience you have now had; but, +as a rule, they fight the temptation and conquer it in the secret of +their own hearts, in the silence of their own cells. + +"Memories of the life that was, before, choosing the better part, we +left the world, come back to haunt us, with a wanton sweetness. Such +memories cannot change the state, fixed forever by our vows; but they +may awaken in us vain regrets or worldly longings. Therein lies their +sinfulness. + +"To help you against this danger, I will now give you two prayers, +which you must commit to memory, and repeat whenever need arises. The +first is from the Breviary." + +The Prioress drew toward her a black book with silver clasps, opened +it, and read therefrom a short prayer in Latin. But seeing no light of +response or of intelligence upon the face of Sister Seraphine, she +slowly repeated a translation. + + +_Almighty and Everlasting God, grant that our wills be ever meekly +subject to Thy will, and our hearts be ever honestly ready to serve +Thee. Amen._ + + +Her eyes rested, with a wistful smile, upon the book. + +"This prayer might suffice," she said, "if our hearts were truly +honest, if our wills were ever yielded. But, alas, our hearts are +deceitful above all things, and our wills are apt to turn traitor to +our good intentions. + +"Therefore I have found for you, in the Gregorian Sacramentary, another +prayer--less well-known, yet much more ancient, written over six +hundred years ago. It deals effectually with the deceitful heart, the +insidious, tempting thoughts, and the unstable will. Here is a +translation which I have myself inscribed upon the margin." + +The Prioress laid her folded hands upon the missal and as she repeated +the ancient sixth-century prayer, in all its depth of inspired +simplicity, her voice thrilled with deep emotion, for she was giving to +another that which had meant infinitely much to her own inner life. + + +_Almighty God, unto Whom all hearts be open, all desires known, and +from Whom no secrets are hid: Cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the +inspiration of Thy Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love Thee, and +worthily magnify Thy Holy Name, through Christ our Lord. Amen._ + + +The Prioress turned her face from Sister Seraphine's unresponsive +countenance and fixed her eyes once more upon the tree-tops. She was +thinking of the long years of secret conflict, known only to Him from +Whom no secrets are hid; of the constant cleansing of her thoughts, for +which she had so earnestly pleaded; of the fear lest she should never +worthily magnify that Holy Name. + +Presently--her heart filled with humble tenderness--she turned to +Sister Seraphine. + +"These prayers, my child, which you will commit to memory before you +sleep this night, will protect you from a too insistent recollection of +the world you have resigned; and will assist you, with real inward +thoroughness, to die daily to self, in order that the Holy Name of our +dear Lord may be more worthily magnified in you." + +But, alas! this gentle treatment, these long silences, this quiet +recitation of holy prayers, had but stirred the naughty spirit in +Sister Seraphine. + +Her shallow nature failed to understand the deeps of the noble heart, +dealing thus tenderly with her. She measured its ocean-wide greatness, +by the little artificial runnels of her own morbid emotions. She +mistook gentleness for weakness; calm self-control, for lack of +strength of will. Her wholesome awe of the Prioress was forgotten. + +"But I do not want to die!" she exclaimed. "I want to live--to +live--to live!" + +The Prioress looked up, astonished. + +The surface humility had departed from the swollen countenance of +Sister Seraphine. The petulant defiance was plainly visible. + +"Kneel!" commanded the Prioress, with authority. + +The wayward nun jerked down upon her knees, upsetting the stool behind +her. + +The Prioress made a quick movement, then restrained herself. She had +prayed for patience in dealing with wilfulness. + +"We die that we may live," she said, solemnly. "Sister Seraphine, this +is the lesson your wayward heart must learn. Dying to self, we live +unto God. Dying to sin, we live unto righteousness. Dying to the +world, we find the Life Eternal." + +On her knees upon the floor, Sister Seraphine felt her position to be +such as lent itself to pathos. + +"But I want to _live_ to the world!" she cried, and burst into tears. + +Now Convent life does not tend to further individual grief. Constant +devout contemplation of the Supreme Sorrow which wrought the world's +salvation lessens the inclination to shed tears of self-pity. + +The Prioress was startled and alarmed by the pathetic sobs of Sister +Seraphine. + +This young nun had but lately been sent on to the Nunnery at Whytstone +from a convent at Tewkesbury in which she had served her novitiate, and +taken her final vows. The Prioress now realised how little she knew of +the inner working of the mind of Sister Seraphine, and blamed herself +for having looked upon the outward appearance rather than upon the +heart, taken too much for granted, and relied too entirely upon the +reports of others. Her sense of failure, toward the Community in +general, and toward Seraphine in particular, lent her a fresh stock of +patience. + +She raised the weeping nun from the floor, put her arm around her, with +protective gesture, and led her before the Shrine of the Madonna. + +"My child," she said, "there are things we are called upon to suffer +which we can best tell to our blessèd Lady, herself. Try to unburden +your heart and find comfort . . . Does your mind hark back to the +thought of the earthly love you resigned in order to give yourself +solely to the heavenly? . . . Are you troubled by fears lest you +wronged the man you loved, when, leaving him, you became the bride of +Heaven?" + +Sister Seraphine smiled--a scornful little smile. "Nay," she said, "I +was weary of Wilfred. But--there were others." + +The voice of the Prioress grew even graver, and more sad. + +"Is it then the Fact of marriage which you desired and regret?" + +Sister Seraphine laughed--a hard, self-conscious, little laugh. + +"Nay, I could not have brooked to be bound to any man. But I liked to +be loved, and I liked to be First in the thought and heart of another." + +The Prioress looked at the pretty, tear-stained face, at the softly +moulded form. Then an idea came to her. To voice it, lifted the veil +from the very Holy of Holies of her own heart's sufferings; but she +would not shrink from aught which could help this soul she was striving +to uplift. + +With her eyes resting upon the Babe in the arms of the Virgin Mother, +she asked, gravely and low: + +"Is it the ceaseless longing to have had a little child of your own to +hold in your arms, to gather to your breast, to put to sleep upon your +knees, which keeps your heart turning restlessly back to the world?" + +Sister Seraphine gazed at the Prioress, in utter amazement. + +"Nay, then, indeed!" she replied, impatiently. "Always have I hated +children. To escape from the vexations of motherhood were reason +enough for leaving the world." + +Then the Prioress withdrew her protective arm, and looked sternly upon +Sister Seraphine. + +"You are playing false to your vows," she said; "you are slighting your +vocation; yet no worthy or noble feeling draws your heart back to the +world. You do but desire vain pomp and show; all those things which +minister to the enthronement of self. Return to your cell and spend +three hours in prayer and penitence before the crucifix." + +The Prioress lifted her hand and pointed to the figure of the Christ, +hanging upon the great rugged cross against the wall, facing the door. +The sublimity of a supreme adoration was in her voice, as she made her +last appeal. + +"Surely," she said, "surely no love of self can live, in view of the +death and sacrifice of our blessèd Lord! Kneel then before the +crucifix and learn----" + +But the over-wrought mind of Sister Seraphine, suddenly convinced of +the futility of its hopeless rebellion, passed, in that moment, +altogether beyond control. + +With a shout of wild laughter, she flung back her head, pointing with +outstretched finger at the crucifix. + +"Death! Death! Death!" she shrieked, "helpless, hopeless, terrible! +I ask for life, I want to live; I am young, I am gay, I am beautiful. +And they bid--bid--bid me kneel--long hours--watching death." Her +voice rose to a piercing scream. "Ah, HA! That will I NOT! A dead +God cannot help me! I want life, not death!" + +Shrieking she leapt to her feet, flew across the room, beat upon the +sacred Form with her fists; tore at It with her fingers. + +One instant of petrifying horror. Then the Prioress was upon her. + +Seizing her by both wrists she flung her to the floor, then pulled a +rope passing over a pulley in the wall, which started the great +alarm-bell, in the passage, clanging wildly. + +At once there came a rush of flying feet; calls for the Sub-Prioress; +but she was already there. + +When they flung wide the door, lo, the Prioress stood--with white face +and blazing eyes, her arms outstretched--between them and the crucifix. + +Upon the floor, a crumpled heap, lay Sister Mary Seraphine. + +The nuns, in a frightened crowd, filled the doorway, none daring to +speak, or to enter; till old Mary Antony, pushing past the +Sub-Prioress, kneeled down beside the Reverend Mother, and, lifting the +hem of her robe, kissed it and pressed it to her breast. + +Slowly the Prioress let fall her arms. + +"Enter," she said; and they flocked in. + +"Sister Seraphine," said the Prioress, in awful tones, "has profaned +the crucifix, reviling our blessèd Lord, Who hangs thereon." + +All the nuns, falling upon their knees, hid their faces in their hands. + +There was a terrifying quality in the silence of the next moments. + +Slowly the Prioress turned, prostrated herself at the foot of the +cross, and laid her forehead against the floor at its base. Then the +nuns heard one deep, shuddering sob. + +Not a head was lifted. The only nun who peeped was Sister Mary +Seraphine, prone upon the floor. + + +After a while, the Prioress arose, pale but calm. + +"Carry her to her cell," she said. + +Two tall nuns to whom she made sign lifted Sister Seraphine, and bore +her out. + +When the shuffling of their feet died away in the distance, the +Prioress gave further commands. + +"All will now go to their cells and kneel in adoration before the +crucifix. Doors are to be left standing wide. The _Miserere_ is to be +chanted, until the ringing of the Refectory bell. Mother Sub-Prioress +will remain behind." + +The nuns dispersed, as quickly as they had gathered; seeking their +cells, like frightened birds fleeing before a gathering storm. + +The tall nuns who had carried Sister Seraphine returned and waited +outside the Reverend Mother's door. + +The Prioress stood alone; a tragic figure in her grief. + +Mother Sub-Prioress drew near. Her narrow face, peering from out her +veil, more than ever resembled a ferret. Her small eyes gleamed with a +merciless light. + +"Is mine the task, Reverend Mother?" she whispered. + +The Prioress inclined her head. + +Mother Sub-Prioress murmured a second question. + +The Prioress turned and looked at the crucifix. + +"Yes," she said, firmly. + +Mother Sub-Prioress sidled nearer; then whispered her third question. + +The Prioress did not answer. She was looking at the carved, oaken +stool, overthrown. She was wondering whether she could have acted with +better judgment, spoken more wisely. Her heart was sore. Such noble +natures ever blame themselves for the wrong-doing of the worthless. + +Receiving no reply, Mother Sub-Prioress whispered a suggestion. + +"No," said the Prioress. + +Mother Sub-Prioress modified her suggestion. + +The Prioress turned and looked at the tender figure of the Madonna, +brooding over the blessèd Babe. + +"No," said the Prioress. + +Mother Sub-Prioress frowned, and made a further modification; but in +tones which suggested finality. + +The Prioress inclined her head. + +The Sub-Prioress, bowing low, lifted the hem of the Reverend Mother's +veil, and kissed it; then passed from the room. + + +The Prioress moved to the window. + +The sunset was over. The evening star shone, like a newly-lighted +lamp, in a pale purple sky. The fleet-winged swallows had gone to rest. + +Bats flitted past the casement, like homeless souls who know not where +to go. + +Low chanting began in the cells; the nuns, with open doors, singing +_Miserere_. + +But, as she looked at the evening star, the Prioress heard again, with +startling distinctness, the final profanity of poor Sister Seraphine: +"I want life--not death!" + + +Along the corridor passed a short procession, on its way to the cell of +Mary Seraphine. + +First went a nun, carrying a lighted taper. + +Next, the two tall nuns who had borne Mary Seraphine to her cell. + +Behind them, Mother Sub-Prioress, holding something beneath her +scapulary which gave to her more of a presence than she usually +possessed. + +Solemn and official,--nay, almost sacrificial--was their measured +shuffle, as they moved along the passage, and entered the cell of Mary +Seraphine. + + +The Prioress closed her door, and, kneeling before the crucifix, +implored forgiveness for the sacrilege which, all unwittingly, she had +provoked. + +The nuns, in their separate cells, chanted the _Miserere_. +But--suddenly--with one accord, their voices fell silent; then hastened +on, in uncertain, agitated rhythm. + + +Old Mary Antony below, playing her favourite game, also paused, and +pricked up her ears: then filliped the wizen pea, which stood for +Mother Sub-Prioress, into the darkest corner, and hurried off to brew a +soothing balsam. + +So, when the Refectory bell had summoned all to the evening meal, the +old lay-sister crept to the cell of Mary Seraphine, carrying broth and +comfort. + +But Sister Seraphine was better content than she had been for many +weeks. + +At last she had become the centre of attention; and, although, during +the visit of Mother Sub-Prioress to her cell, this had been a +peculiarly painful position to occupy, yet to the morbid mind of Mary +Seraphine, the position seemed worth the discomfort. + +Therefore, her mind now purged of its discontent, she cheerfully supped +old Antony's broth, and applied the soothing balsam; yet planning the +while, to gain favour with the Prioress, by repeating to her, at the +first convenient opportunity, the naughty remarks concerning Mother +Sub-Prioress, now being made for her diversion, by the kind old woman +who had risked reproof, in order to bring to her, in her disgrace, both +food and consolation. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +THE KNIGHT OF THE BLOODY VEST + +"Nay, I have naught for thee this morning," said Mary Antony to the +robin; "naught, that is, save spritely conversation. I can tell thee a +tale or two; I can give thee sage advice; but, in my wallet, little +Master Mendicant, I have but my bag of peas." + +The old lay-sister sat resting in the garden. She had had a busy hour, +yet complicated in its busy-ness, for, starting out to do weeding, she +had presently fancied herself intent upon making a posy, and now, sat +upon the stone seat beneath the beech tree, holding a large nosegay +made up of many kinds of flowering weeds, arranged with much care, and +bound round with convolvulus tendrils. + +Keen and uncommon shrewd though old Antony certainly was in many ways, +her great age occasionally betrayed itself by childish vagaries. Her +mind would start off along the lines of a false premise, landing her +eventually in a dream-like conclusion. As now, when waking from a +moment's nodding in the welcome shade, she wondered why her old back +seemed well-nigh broken, and marvelled to find herself holding a big +posy of dandelions, groundsel, plantain, and bindweed. + +On the other end of the seat, stood the robin. The beech was just near +enough to the cloisters, the pieman's tree, and his own particular yew +hedge, to come within his little kingdom. + +Having mentioned her bag of peas, Mary Antony experienced an +irresistible desire to view them and, moreover, to display them before +the bright eyes of the robin. + +She laid the queer nosegay down upon the grass at her feet, turned +sidewise on the stone slab, and drew the bag from her wallet. + +"Now, Master Pieman!" she said. "At thine own risk thou doest it; but +with thine own bright eyes thou shalt see the holy Ladies; the Unnamed, +all like peas in a pod, as the Lord knows they do look, when they walk +to and fro; but first, if so be that I can find them, the Few which I +distinguish from among the rest." + +Presently, after much peering into the bag, the fine white pea, the +wizened pea, and the pale and speckled pea, lay in line upon the stone. + +"This," explained Mary Antony, pointing, with knobby forefinger, to the +first, "is the Reverend Mother, Herself--large, and pure, and +noble. . . . Nay, hop not too close, Sir Redbreast! When we enter her +chamber we kneel at the threshold, till she bids us draw nearer. True, +_we_ are merely soberly-clad, holy women, whereas _thou_ art a gay, +gaudy man; bold-eyed, and, doubtless, steeped in sin. But even thou +must keep thy distance, in presence of this most Reverend Pea of great +price. + +"This," indicating the shrivelled pea, "is Mother Sub-Prioress, who +would love to have the whipping of thee, thou naughty little rascal! + +"This is Sister Mary Rebecca who daily grows more crooked, both in mind +and body; yet who ever sweetly smileth. + +"Now will I show thee, if so be that I can find her, Sister Teresa, a +kindly soul and gracious, but with a sniff which may be heard in the +kitchens when that holy Lady taketh her turn at the Refectory reading. +And when, the reading over, having sniffed every other minute, she at +length, feels free to blow, beshrew me, Master Redbreast, one might +think our old dun cow had just been parted from a newly-born calf. +Yea, a kind, gracious soul; but noisy about the nose, and forgetful of +the ears of other people, her own necessity seeming excuse enough for +veritable trumpet blasts." + +Mary Antony, half turning as she talked, peered into the open bag in +search of Sister Teresa. + +Then, quick as thought, the unexpected happened. + +Three rapid hops, a jerky bend of the red breast, a flash of wings---- + +The robin had flown off with the white pea! The shrivelled and the +speckled alone remained upon the seat. + +Uttering a cry of horror and dismay, the old lay-sister fell upon her +knees, lifting despairing hands to trees and sky. + + +Down by the lower wall, in earnest meditation, the Prioress moved back +and forth, on the Cypress Walk. + +Mary Antony's shriek of dismay, faint but unmistakable, reached her +ears. Turning, she passed noiselessly up the green sward, on the +further side of the yew hedge; but paused, in surprise, as she drew +level with the beech; for the old lay-sister's voice penetrated the +hedge, and the first words she overheard seemed to the Prioress wholly +incomprehensible. + +"Ah, thou Knight of the Bloody Vest!" moaned Mary Antony. "Heaven send +thy wicked perfidy may fall on thine own pate! Intruding thyself into +our most private places; begging food, which could not be refused; +wheedling old Mary Antony into letting thee have a peep at the holy +Ladies--thou bold, bad man!--and then carrying off the Reverend Mother, +Herself! Ha! Hadst thou but caught away Mother Sub-Prioress, she +would have reformed thy home, whipped thy children, and mended thine +own vile manners, thou graceless churl! Or hadst thou taken Sister +Mary Rebecca, _she_ would have brought the place about thine ears, +telling thy wife fine tales of thine unfaithfulness; whispering that +Mary Antony is younger and fairer than she. But, nay, forsooth! +Neither of these will do! Thou must needs snatch away the Reverend +Mother, Herself! Oh, sacrilegious fiend! Stand not there mocking me! +Where is the Reverend Mother?" + +"Why, here am I, dear Antony," said the Prioress, in soothing tones, +coming quickly from behind the hedge. + +One glance revealed, to her relief, that the lay-sister was alone. +Tears ran down the furrows of her worn old face. She knelt upon the +grass; beside her a large nosegay of flowering weeds; upon the seat, +peas strewn from out a much-used, linen bag. Above her on a bough, a +robin perched, bending to look, with roguish eye, at the scattered peas. + +To the Prioress it seemed that indeed the old lay-sister must have +taken leave of her senses. + +Stooping, she tried to raise her; but Mary Antony, flinging herself +forward, clasped and kissed the Reverend Mother's feet, in an +abandonment of penitence and grief. + +"Nay, rise, dear Antony," said the Prioress, firmly. "Rise! I command +it. The day is warm. Thou hast been dreaming. No bold, bad man has +forced his way within these walls. No 'Knight of the Bloody Vest' is +here. Rise up and look. We are alone." + +But Mary Antony, still on her knees, half raised herself, and, pointing +to the bough above, quavered, amid her sobs: "The bold, bad man is +there!" + +Looking up, the Prioress met the bright eye of the robin, peeping down. + +Why, surely? Yes! There was the "Bloody Vest." + +The Prioress smiled. She began to understand. + +The robin burst into a stream of triumphant song. At which, old Mary +Antony, still kneeling, shook her uplifted fist. + +The Prioress raised and drew her to the seat. + +"Now sit thee here beside me," she said, "and make full confession. +Ease thine old heart by telling me the entire tale. Then I will pass +sentence on the robin if, true to his name, he turns out to be a thief." + +So there, in the Convent garden, while the robin sang overhead, the +Prioress listened to the quaint recital; the dread of making mistake in +the daily counting; the elaborate plan of dropping peas; the manner in +which the peas became identified with the personalities of the White +Ladies; the games in the cell; the taming of the robin; the habit of +sharing with the little bird, interests which might not be shared with +others, which had resulted that morning in the display of the peas, and +this undreamed of disaster--the abduction of the Reverend Mother. + +The Prioress listened with outward gravity, striving to conceal all +signs of the inward mirth which seized and shook her. But more than +once she had to turn her face from the peering eyes of Mary Antony, +striving anxiously to gather whether her chronicle of sins was placing +her outside the pale of possible forgiveness. + +The Prioress did not hasten the recital. She knew the importance, to +the mind with which she dealt, of even the most trivial detail. To be +checked or hurried, would leave Mary Antony with the sense of an +incomplete confession. + +Therefore, with infinite patience the Prioress listened, seated in the +sunlit garden, undisturbed, save for the silent passing, once or twice, +of a veiled figure through the cloisters, who, seeing the Reverend +Mother seated beneath the beech, did reverence and hastened on, looking +not again. + +When the garrulous old voice at last fell silent, the Prioress, with +kind hand, covered the restless fingers--clasping and unclasping in +anxious contortions--and firmly held them in folded stillness. + +Her first words were of a thing as yet unmentioned. + +"Dear Antony," she said, "is that thy posy lying at our feet?" + +"Ah, Reverend Mother," sighed the old lay-sister, "in this did I again +do wrong meaning to do right. Sister Mary Augustine, coming into the +kitchens with leave, from Mother Sub-Prioress, to make the pasties, and +desiring to be free to make them heavy--unhampered by my advice which, +of a surety, would have helped them to lightness--bade me go out and +weed the garden. + +"Weeding, I bethought me how much liefer I would be gathering a posy of +choicest flowers for our sweet Lady's shrine; and, thus thinking, I +began to do, not according to Sister Mary Augustine's hard task, but +according to mine own heart's promptings. Yet, when the posy was +finished, alack-a-day! it was a posy of weeds!" + +Tears filled the eyes of the Prioress; at first she could not trust her +voice to make reply. + +Then, stooping she picked up the nosegay. + +"Our Lady shall have it," she said. "I will place it before her +shrine, in mine own cell. She will understand--knowing how often, +though the hands perforce do weeding, yet, all the time, the heart is +gathering choicest flowers. + +"Aye, and sometimes when we bring to God offerings of fairest flowers, +He sees but worthless weeds. And, when we mourn, because we have but +weeds to offer, He sees them fragrant blossoms. Whatever, to the eye +of man, the hand may hold, God sees therein the bouquet of the heart's +intention." + +The Prioress paused, a look of great gladness on her face; then, as she +saw the old lay-sister still eyeing her posy with dissatisfaction: +"And, after all, dear Antony," she said, "who shall decide which +flowers shall be dubbed 'weeds'? No plant of His creation, however +humble, was called a 'weed' by the Creator. When, for man's sin, He +cursed the ground, He said: 'Thorns also and thistles shall it cause to +bud.' Well? Sharpest thorns are found around the rose; the thistle is +the royal bloom of Scotland; and, if our old white ass could speak her +mind, doubtless she would call it King of Flowers. + +"Nowhere in Holy Books, is any plant named a 'weed.' It is left to man +to proclaim that the flowers he wants not, are weeds. + +"Look at each one of these. Could you or I, labouring for years, with +all our skill, make anything so perfect as the meanest of these weeds? + +"Nay; they are weeds, because they grow, there where they should not +be. The gorgeous scarlet poppy is a weed amid the corn. If roses +overgrew the wheat, we should dub them weeds, and root them out. + +"And some of us have had, perforce, so to deal with the roses in our +lives; those sweet and fragrant things which overgrew our offering of +the wheat of service, our sacrifice of praise and prayer. + +"Perhaps, when our weeds are all torn out, and cast in a tangled heap +before His Feet, our Lord beholds in them a garland of choice blossoms. +The crown of thorns on earth, may prove, in Paradise, a diadem of +flowers." + +The Prioress laid the posy on the seat beside her. + +"Now, Antony, about thy games with peas. There is no wrong in keeping +count with peas of those who daily walk to and from Vespers; though, I +admit, it seems to me, it were easier to count one, two, three, with +folded hands, than to let fall the peas from one hand to the other, +beneath thy scapulary. Howbeit, a method which would be but a pitfall +to one, may prove a prop to another. So I give thee leave to continue +to count with thy peas. Also the games in thy cell are harmless, and +lead me to think, as already I have sometimes thought, that games with +balls or rings, something in which eye guides the hand, and mind the +eye, might be helpful for all, on summer evenings. + +"But I cannot have thee take upon thyself to decide the future state of +the White Ladies. Who art thou, to send me to Paradise with a fillip +of thine old finger-nail, yet to keep our excellent Sub-Prioress in +Purgatory? Shame upon thee, Mary Antony!" But the sternness of the +Reverend Mother's tone was belied by the merriment in her grey eyes. + +"So no more of that, my Antony; though, truth to tell, thy story gives +me relief, answering a question I was meaning to put to thee. I heard, +not an hour ago, that Sister Antony had boasted that with a turn of her +thumb and finger she could, any night, send Mother Sub-Prioress to +Purgatory." + +"Who said that of me?" stuttered Mary Antony. "Who said it, Reverend +Mother?" + +"A little bird," murmured the Prioress. "A little bird, dear Antony; +but not thy pretty robin. Also, the boast was taken to mean poison in +the broth of Mother Sub-Prioress. Hast thou ever put harmful things in +the broth of Mother Sub-Prioress?" + +Mary Antony slipped to her knees. + +"Only beans, Reverend Mother, castor beans; and, when her temper was +vilest, purging herbs. Nothing more, I swear it! Old Antony knows +naught of poisons; only of mixing balsams--ah, ha!--and soothing +ointments! Our blessèd Lady knows the tale is false." + +Hastily the Prioress lifted the nosegay and buried her face in bindweed +and dandelions. + +"I believe thee," she said, in a voice not over steady. "Rise from thy +knees. But, remember, I forbid thee to put aught into Mother +Sub-Prioress's broth, save things that soothe and comfort. Give me +thy word for this, Antony." + +The old woman humbly lifted the hem of the Prioress's robe, and pressed +it to her lips. + +"I promise, Reverend Mother," she said, "and I do repent me of my sin." + +"Sit beside me," commanded the Prioress. "I have more to say to +thee. . . . Think not hard thoughts of the Sub-Prioress. She is +stern, and extreme to mark what is done amiss, but this she conceives +to be her duty. She is a most pious Lady. Her zeal is but a sign of +her piety." + +Mary Antony's keen eyes, meeting those of the Prioress, twinkled. + +Once again the Prioress took refuge in the posy. She was beginning to +have had enough of the scent of dandelions. + +"Mother Sub-Prioress is sick," she said. "The cold struck her last +evening, after sunset, in the orchard. I have bidden her to keep her +bed awhile. We must tend her kindly, Antony, and help her back to +health again. + +"Sister Mary Rebecca is also sick, with pains in her bones and slight +fever. She too keeps her bed to-day. Strive to feel kindly toward +her, Antony. I know she oft thinks evil where none was meant, telling +tales of wrong which are mostly of her own imagining. But, in so +doing, she harms herself more than she can harm others. + +"By stirring up the mud in a dark pool, you dim the reflection of the +star which, before, shone bright within it. But you do not dim the +star, shining on high. + +"So is it with the slanderous thoughts of evil minds. They stir up +their own murkiness; but they fail to dim the stars. + +"We must bear with Sister Mary Rebecca." + +"Go not nigh them, Reverend Mother," begged old Antony. "I will tend +them with due care and patience. These pains in bones, and general +shiverings, are given quickly from one to another. I pray you, go not +near. Remember--_you_ were taken--alas! alas!--and _they_ were left!" + +At this the Prioress laughed, gaily. + +"But I was not taken decently, with pains in my bones and a-bed, dear +Antony. I was carried off by a bold, bad man--thy Knight of the Bloody +Vest." + +"Oh, pray!" cried the old lay-sister. "I fear me it is an omen. The +angel Gabriel, Reverend Mother, sent to bear you from earth to heaven. +'The one shall be taken, and the other left.' Ah, if he had but flown +off with Mother Sub-Prioress!" + +The Prioress laughed again. "Dear Antony, thy little bird took the +first pea he saw. Had there but been a crumb, or a morsel of cheese, +he would have left thee thy white pea. . . Hark how he sings his +little song of praise! . . . Is it not wonderful to call to mind how, +centuries ago, when white-robed Druids cut mistletoe from British oaks, +the robin redbreast hopped around, and sang; when, earlier still, men +were wild and savage, dwelling in holes and caves and huts of mud, when +churches and cloisters were unknown in this land and the one true God +undreamed of, robins mated and made their nests, the speckled thrushes +sang, 'Do it now--Do it now,' as they sought food for their young, the +blackbirds whistled, and the swallows flashed by on joyous wing. Aye, +and when Eve and Adam walked in Eden, amid strange beasts and gaily +plumaged birds, here--in these Isles--the robin redbreast sang, and all +our British birds busily built their nests and reared their young; +living their little joyous lives, as He Who made them taught them how +to do. + +"And, in the centuries to come, when all things may be changed in this +our land, when we shall long have gone to dust, when our loved +cloisters may have crumbled into ruin; still the hills of Malvern will +stand, and the silvery Severn flow along the valley; while here, in +this very garden--if it be a garden still--the robin will build his +nest, and carol his happy song. + +"Mark you this, dear Mary Antony: all things made by man hold within +them the elements of change and of decay. But nature is at one with +God, and therefore immutable. Earthly kingdoms may rise and wane; +mighty cities may spring up, then fall into ruin. Nations may conquer +and, in their turn, be conquered. Man may slay man and, in his turn, +be slain. But, through it all, the mountains stand, the rivers flow, +the forests wave, and the redbreast builds his nest in the hawthorn, +and warbles a love-song to his mate." + +The Prioress rose and stretched wide her arms to the sunlit garden, to +the bough where the robin sang. + +"Oh, to be one with God and with Nature!" she cried. "Oh, to know the +essential mysteries of Life and Light and Love! This is Life Eternal!" + +She had forgotten the old lay-sister; aye, for the moment she had +forgotten the Convent and the cloister, the mile-long walk in darkness, +the chant of the unseen monks. She trod again the springy heather of +her youth; she heard the rush of the mountain stream; the sigh of the +great forest; the rustle of the sunlit glades, alive with, life. These +all were in the robin's song. Then---- + +Within the Convent, the Refectory bell clanged loudly. + +The Prioress let fall her arms. + +She picked up the nosegay of weeds. + +"Come, Antony," she said, "let us go and discover whether Sister Mary +Augustine hath contrived to make the pasties light and savoury, even +without the aid of the advice she might have had from thee." + +Old Mary Antony, gleeful and marvelling, followed the stately figure of +the Prioress. Never was shriven soul more blissfully at peace. She +had kept back nothing; yet the Reverend Mother had imposed no +punishment, had merely asked a promise which, in the fulness of her +gratitude, Mary Antony had found it easy to give. + +Truly the broth of Mother Sub-Prioress should, for the future, contain +naught but what was grateful and soothing. + +But, as she entered the Refectory behind the Reverend Mother and saw +all the waiting nuns arise, old Mary Antony laid her finger to her nose. + +"That 'little bird' shall have the castor beans," she said, "That +'little bird' shall have them. Not my pretty robin, but the other!" + +And, sad to say, poor Sister Seraphine was sorely griped that night, +and suffered many pangs. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +THE MADONNA IN THE CLOISTER + +The Prioress knelt, in prayer and meditation, before the figure of the +Virgin Mother holding upon her knees the holy Babe. + +Moonlight flooded the cell with a pure radiance. + +Mary Antony's posy of weeds, offered, according to promise, at the +Virgin's shrine, took on, in that silver splendour, the semblance of +lilies and roses. + +The Prioress knelt long, with clasped hands and bowed head, as white +and as motionless as the marble before her. But at length she lifted +her face, and broke into low pleading. + +"Mother of God," she said, "help this poor aching heart; still the wild +hunger at my breast. Make me content to be at one with the Divine, and +to let Nature go. . . . Thou knowest it is not the _man_ I want. In +all the long years since he played traitor to his troth to me, I have +not wanted the man. The woman he wed may have him, unbegrudged by me. +I do not envy her the encircling of his arms, though time was when I +felt them strong and tender. I do not want the man, but--O, sweet +Mother of God--I want the man's little child! I envy her the +motherhood which, but for her, would have been mine. . . . I want the +soft dark head against my breast. . . . I want sweet baby lips drawing +fresh life from mine. . . . I want the little feet, resting together +in my hand. . . . All Nature sings of life, and the power to bestow +life. Yet mine arms are empty, and my strength does but carry mine own +self to and fro. . . . Oh, give me grace to turn my thoughts from Life +to Sacrifice." + +The Prioress rose, crossed the floor, and knelt long in prayer and +contemplation before the crucifix. + +The moonlight fell upon the dying face of the suffering Saviour, upon +the crown of thorns, the helpless arms out-stretched, the bleeding feet. + +O, Infinite Redeemer! O, mighty Sacrifice! O, Love of God, made +manifest! + + +The Prioress knelt long in adoring contemplation. At intervals she +prostrated herself, pressing her forehead against the base of the cross. + + +At length she rose and moved toward the inner room, where stood her +couch. + +But even as she reached the threshold she turned quickly back, and +kneeling before the Virgin and Child clasped the little marble foot of +the Babe, covered it with kisses, and pressed it to her breast. + +Then, lifting despairing eyes to the tender face of the Madonna: "O, +Mother of God," she cried, "grant unto me to love the piercèd feet of +thy dear Son crucified, more than I love the little, baby feet of the +Infant Jesus on thy knees." + +A great calm fell upon her after this final prayer. It seemed, of a +sudden, more efficacious than all the long hours of vigil. She felt +persuaded that it would be granted. + +She rose to her feet, almost too much dazed and too weary to cross to +the inner cell. + +A breath of exquisite fragrance filled the air. + +At the feet of the Madonna stood a wondrous bouquet of lilies of the +valley and white roses. + +Pale but radiant, the Prioress passed into her sleeping-chamber. The +loving heart of old Mary Antony had been full of lilies and roses. It +was not her fault that her old hands had been filled with weeds. +Divine Love, understanding, had wrought this gracious miracle. + +As the Prioress stretched herself upon her couch, she murmured softly: +"The Lord seeth not as man seeth: for man looketh on the outward +appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart. + +"And, after all, this miracle of the Divine perception doth take place +daily. + +"Alas, when our vaunted roses and lilies appear, in His sight, as mere +worthless weeds. + +"The Lord looketh on the heart." + + * * * * * * + +When the Prioress awoke, the sunlight filled her chamber. + +She hastened to the archway between the cells, and looked. + +The dandelions seemed more gaily golden, in the morning light. The +bindweed had faded. + +The Prioress was disappointed. She had counted upon sending early for +old Mary Antony. She had pictured her bewildered joy. Yet now the +nosegay was as before. + +Morning light is ever a test for transformations. Things are apt to +look again as they were. + +But a fragrance of roses and lilies still lingered in the chamber. + +The blessèd Virgin smiled upon the Babe. + +And there was peace in the heart of the Prioress. Her long vigil, her +hours of prayer, had won for her the sense of a calm certainty of +coming victory. + +Strong in that certainty, she bent, and gently kissed the little feet +of the holy Babe. + + +Then, as was her wont, she sounded the bell which called the entire +community to arise, and to begin a new day. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +ON THE WINGS OF THE STORM + +In the afternoon of that day, Mary Antony awaited, in the cloisters, +the return of the White Ladies from Vespers. Twenty only, had gone; +and, fearful lest she should make mistake with the unusual number, the +old lay-sister spent the time of waiting in counting the twenty peas +afresh, passing them back and forth from one hand to the other. + +Mother Sub-Prioress was still unable to leave her bed. + +Sister Mary Augustine stayed to tend her. + +Sister Teresa was in less pain, but fevered still, and strangely weak. +The Reverend Mother forbade her to rise. + +Shortly before the bell rang calling the nuns to form procession in the +cloisters, Sister Seraphine declared herself unable for the walk, and +begged to be allowed to remain behind. The Prioress found herself +misdoubting this sudden indisposition of Sister Seraphine who, though +flushed and excited, shewed none of the usual signs of sickness. + +Not wishing, however, to risk having a third patient upon her hands, +the Reverend Mother gave leave for her to stay, but also elected to +remain behind, herself; letting Sister Mary Rebecca, who had recovered +from her indisposition, lead the procession. + +Thus the Reverend Mother contrived to keep Sister Seraphine with her +during the absence of the other nuns, giving her translations from the +Sacramentaries to copy upon strips of vellum, until shortly before the +hour when the White Ladies would return from Vespers, when she sent her +to her cell for the time of prayer and meditation. + +Left alone, the Prioress examined the copies, fairly legible, but sadly +unlike her own beautiful work. She sighed and, putting them away, rose +and paced the room, questioning how best to deal with the pretty but +wayward young nun. + +Two definite causes led the Prioress to mistrust Sister Seraphine: one, +that she had called upon "Wilfred" to come and save her, and had +admitted having expected him to appear and carry her off before she +made her final profession; the other, that she had tried to start an +evil report concerning the old lay-sister, Mary Antony. The Prioress +pondered what means to take in order to bring Sister Seraphine to a +better mind. + +As the Prioress walked to and fro, unconsciously missing the daily +exercise of the passage to the Cathedral, she noted a sudden darkening +of her chamber. Going to the window, she saw the sky grown black with +thunder clouds. So quickly the storm gathered, that the bright summer +world without seemed suddenly hung over with a deep purple pall. + +Birds screamed and darted by, on hurried wing; then, reaching home, +fell silent. All nature seemed to hold its breath, awaiting the first +flash, and the first roll of thunder. + +Still standing at her window, the Prioress questioned whether the nuns +were returned, and safely in their cells. While underground they would +know nothing of it; but they loved not passing along the cloisters in a +storm. + +The Prioress wondered why she had not heard the bell announcing their +return, and calling to the hour of prayer and silence. Also why Mary +Antony had not brought in the key and her report. + +Thinking to inquire into this, she turned from the window, just as a +darting snake of fire cleft the sky. A crash of thunder followed; and, +at that moment, the door of the chamber bursting open, old Mary Antony, +breathless, stumbled in, forgetting to knock, omitting to kneel, not +waiting leave to speak, both hands outstretched, one tightly clenched, +the other holding the great key: "Oh, Reverend Mother!" she gasped. +Then the stern displeasure on that loved face silenced her. She +dropped upon her knees, ashen and trembling. + +Now the Prioress held personal fear in high scorn; and if, after ninety +years' experience of lightning and thunder, Mary Antony was not better +proof against their terrors, the Prioress felt scant patience with her. +She spoke sternly. + +"How now, Mary Antony! Why this unseemly haste? Why this rush into my +presence; no knock; no pause until I bid thee enter? Is the +storm-fiend at thy heels? Now shame upon thee!" + +For only answer, Mary Antony opened her clenched hand: whereupon twenty +peas fell pattering to the floor, chasing one another across the +Reverend Mother's cell. + +The Prioress frowned, growing suddenly weary of these games with peas. + +"Have the Ladies returned?" she asked. + +Mary Antony grovelled nearer, let fall the key, and seized the robe of +the Prioress with both hands, not to carry it to her lips, but to cling +to it as if for protection. + +With the clang of the key on the flags, a twisted blade of fire rent +the sky. + +As the roar which followed rolled away, echoed and re-echoed by distant +hills, the old lay-sister lifted her face. + +Her lips moved, her gums rattled; the terror in her eyes pleaded for +help. + +This was the moment when it dawned on the Prioress that there was more +here than fear of a storm. + +Stooping she laid her hands firmly, yet with kindness in their +strength, on the shaking shoulders. + +"What is it, dear Antony?" she said. + +"Twenty White Ladies went," whispered the old lay-sister. "I counted +them. Twenty White Ladies went; but----" + +"Well?" + +"_Twenty-one_ returned," chattered Mary Antony, and hid her face in the +Reverend Mother's robe. + +Two flashes, with their accompanying peals of thunder passed, before +the Prioress moved or spoke. Then raising Mary Antony she placed her +in a chair, disengaged her robe from the shaking hands, passed out into +the cell passage, and herself sounded the call to silence and prayer. + +Returning to her cell she shut the door, poured out a cordial and put +it to the trembling lips of Mary Antony. Then taking a seat just +opposite, she looked with calm eyes at the lay-sister. + +"What means this story?" said the Prioress. + +"Reverend Mother, twenty holy Ladies went----" + +"I know. And twenty returned." + +"Aye," said the old woman more firmly, nettled out of her +speechlessness; "twenty returned; and twenty peas I dropped from hand +to hand. Then--when no pea remained--yet another White Lady glided by; +and with her went an icy wind, and around her came the blackness of the +storm. + +"Down the steps I fled, locked the door, and took the key. How I +mounted again, I know not. As I drew level with the cloisters, I saw +that twenty-first White Lady, for whom--Saint Peter knows--I held no +pea, passing from the cloisters into the cell passage. As I hastened +on, fain to see whither she went, a blinding flash, like an evil +twisting snake, shot betwixt her and me. When I could see again, she +was gone. I fled to the Reverend Mother, and ran in on the roar of the +thunder." + +"Saw you her face, Mary Antony?" + +"Nay, Reverend Mother. But, of late, the holy Ladies mostly walk by +with their faces shrouded." + +"I know. Now, see here, dear Antony. Two peas dropped together, the +while you counted one." + +"Nay, Reverend Mother. Twenty peas dropped one by one; also I counted +twenty White Ladies. And, after I had counted twenty, yet another +passed." + +"But how could that be?" objected the Prioress. "If twenty went, but +twenty could return. Who should be the twenty-first?" + +Then old Mary Antony leaned forward, crossing herself. + +"Sister Agatha," she whispered, tremulously. "Poor Sister Agatha +returned to us again." + +But, even as she said it, swift came a name to the mind of the +Prioress, answering her own question, and filling her with +consternation and a great anger. "Wilfred! Wilfred, are you come to +save me?" foolish little Seraphine had said. Was such sacrilege +possible? Could one from the outside world have dared to intrude into +their holy Sanctuary? + +Yet old Antony's tale carried conviction. Her abject fear was now +explained. + +That the Dead should come again, and walk and move among the haunts of +men, seeking out the surroundings they have loved and left, seems +always to hold terror for the untutored mind, which knows not that the +Dead are more alive than the living; and that there is no death, saving +the death of sin. + +But to the Reverend Mother, guarding her flock from sin or shame, a +visitor from the Unseen World held less of horror than a possible +intruder from the Seen. + +A rapid glance as she sounded the bell, had shown her that the passage +was empty. + +Which cell now sheltered two, where there should be but one? + +The Prioress walked across to a recess near the south window, touched a +spring, and slid back a portion of the oak panelling. Passing her hand +into a secret hiding place in the wall, she drew forth a beautifully +fashioned dagger, with carved ivory handle, crossed metal thumb-guard, +blade of bevelled steel, polished and narrowing to a sharp needle +point. She tested the point, then slipped the weapon into her belt, +beneath her scapulary. As she closed the panel, and turned back into +the chamber, a light of high resolve was in her eyes. Her whole +bearing betokened so fine a fearlessness, such noble fixity of purpose +that, looking on her, Mary Antony felt her own fears vanishing. + +"Now listen, dear Antony," said the Prioress, holding the old woman +with her look. "I must make sure that this twenty-first White Lady of +thine is but a trick played on thee by thy peas. Should she be +anywhere in the Convent I shall most certainly have speech with her. + +"Meanwhile, go thou to thy kitchens, and give thy mind to the preparing +of the evening meal. But ring not the Refectory bell until I bid thee. +Nay, I myself will sound it this evening. It may suit me to keep the +nuns somewhat longer at their devotions. + +"Should I sound the alarm bell, let all thy helpers run up here; but go +thou to the cell of Mother Sub-Prioress and persuade her not to rise. +If needful say that it is my command that she keep her bed. . . . +Great heavens! What a crash! May our Lady defend us! The lightning +inclines to strike. I shall pass to each cell and make sure that none +are too greatly alarmed." + +"Now, haste thee, Antony; and not a word concerning thy fears must pass +thy lips to any; no mention of a twenty-first White Lady nor"--the +Prioress crossed herself--"of Sister Agatha, to whom may our Lord grant +everlasting rest." + +Mary Antony, kneeling, kissed the hem of the Prioress's robe. Then, +rising, she said--with unwonted solemnity and restraint: "The Lord +defend you, Reverend Mother, from foes, seen and unseen," and, followed +by another blinding flash of lightning, she left the cell. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +THE PRIORESS SHUTS THE DOOR + +The Prioress waited until the old lay-sister's shuffling footsteps died +away. + +Then she passed out into the long, stone passage, leaving her own door +open wide. + +Into each cell the Prioress went. + +In each she found a kneeling nun, absorbed in her devotions. In no +cell were there two white figures. So simple were the fittings of +these cells, that no place of concealment was possible. One look, from +the doorway, sufficed. + +Outside the cell of Sister Seraphine the Prioress paused, hearing words +within; then entered swiftly. But Sister Seraphine was alone, reciting +aloud, for love of hearing her own voice. + +The Prioress now moved toward the heavy door in the archway leading +into the cloisters. It opened inwards, and had been left standing +wide, by Mary Antony. Indeed, in summer it stood open day and night, +for coolness. + +As the Prioress walked along the dimly lighted passage, she could see, +through the open door, sheets of rain driving through the cloisters. +The storm-clouds had burst, at last, and were descending in floods. + +The Prioress stood in the shelter of the doorway, looking out into the +cloisters. The only places she could not view, were the entrance to +the subterranean way, and the flight of steps leading thereto. She +would have wished to examine these; but it seemed scarcely worth +passing into the driving rain, now sweeping through the cloister +arches. After all, whatever possible danger lurked down those steps, +the safety of the Convent would be assured if she closed this door, +between the passage and the cloisters, and locked it. + +Stepping back into the passage, she seized the heavy door and swung it +to, noting as she did so, how far too heavy it was for the feeble arms +of old Mary Antony, and deciding for the future to allot the task of +closing it to a young lay-sister, leaving to Mary Antony merely the +responsibility of turning the key in the lock. + +This the Prioress was herself proceeding to do, when something impelled +her to turn her eyes to the angle of wall laid bare by the closing of +the door. + +In that dark corner, motionless, with shrouded face, stood a tall +figure, garbed in the dress of the nuns of the Order of the White +Ladies of Worcester. + + +Perhaps the habit of silence is never of greater value than in moments +of sudden shock and horror. + +One cry from the Prioress would have meant the instant opening of many +doors, and the arrival, on flying feet, of a score of frightened nuns. + +Instead of screaming, the Prioress stood silent and perfectly still; +while every pulse in her body ceased beating, during one moment of +uncontrollable, cold horror. Then, with a leap, her heart went on; +pounding so loudly, that she could hear it in the silence. Yet she +kept command of every impulse which drove to sound or motion. + +Before long her pulses quieted; her heart, beating steadily, was once +again the well-managed steed upon which her high courage could ride to +victory. + +And, all the while, her eyes never left the white figure; knowing it +knew itself discovered and observed. + +Her hand was still upon the key. + +She turned it, and withdrew it from the lock. + +A deafening crash of thunder shook the walls. A swirl of wind and rain +beat on the door. + +When the last echo of the thunder had died away, the Prioress spoke; +and that calm voice, sounding amid the storm, fell on the only ears +that heard it, like the Voice of Power on Galilee, which bid the +tempest cease, and the wild waves be still. + + +"Who art thou, and what doest thou here?" + +The figure answered not. + +"Art thou a ghostly visitor come back amongst us, from the Realm of the +Unseen?" + +The figure made no sign. "Art thou then flesh and blood, and mortal as +ourselves?" + +Slowly the figure bowed its head. + +"Now I adjure thee by our blessèd Lady to tell me truly. Art thou, in +very deed a holy nun, a member of our sacred Order? Answer me, yea or +nay?" + +The figure shook its head. + +The Prioress advanced a step, passed the key into her left hand and, +slipping her right beneath her scapulary, took firm grip of the dagger +at her girdle. + +"Then, masquerader in our sacred dress," she said, "to me you have to +answer for double sacrilege: the wearing of these robes, and your +presence here, unbidden. I warn you that your life has never hung by +frailer thread than now it hangs. Your only hope of safety lies in +doing as I bid you. Pass before me along this passage until you reach +a chamber on the right, of which the door stands open. Enter, and +place yourself against the wall on the side farthest from the door. +There I will speak with you." + +With the shuffling steps of a woman, and the bent shoulders of the very +old, the figure moved slowly forward, stepped upon the front of the +white robe, stumbled, but recovered. + +The Prioress watching, laughed--a short scornful laugh, holding more of +anger than of merriment. + +With an abrupt movement the figure straightened, stood at its full +height, and strode forward. The Prioress marked the squaring of the +broad shoulders; the height, greater than her own, though she was more +than common tall; the stride, beneath the folds of the long robe; and +she knit her level brows, for well she knew with whom she had to deal. +She was called to face a desperate danger. Single-handed, she had to +meet a subtle foe. She asked no help from others, but she took no +needless risks. + +As she passed the cell of Mary Seraphine, using her master-key, she +locked that lady in! + + + + +CHAPTER X + +"I KNOW YOU FOR A MAN" + +Entering her cell, the Prioress saw at once that her orders had been +obeyed. + +The hooded figure stood on the far side of the chamber, leaning broad +shoulders against the wall. Under the cape, the arms were folded; she +could see that the feet were crossed beneath the robe. The dress was +indeed the dress of a White Lady, but the form within it was so +obviously that of a man--a big man, at bay, and inclined to be +defiant--that, despite the strange situation, despite her anger, and +her fears, the contrast between the holy habit and its hidden wearer, +forced from the Prioress an unwilling smile. + +Closing the door, she drew forward a chair of dark Spanish wood, the +gift of the Lord Bishop; a chair which well betokened the dignity of +her high office. + +Seating herself, she laid her left hand lightly upon the mane of one of +the carved lions which formed, on either side, the arms of the chair; +but her right hand still gripped unseen the ivory hilt; while leaning +slightly forward, with feet firmly planted, she was ready at any moment +to spring erect. + +"I know you for a man," she said. + +The thunder rumbled far away in the distance. + +The rain still splashed against the casement, but the storm had spent +itself; the sky was brightening. A pale slant of sunshine broke +through the parting clouds and, entering the casement, gleamed on the +jewelled cross at the breast of the Prioress, and kindled into peculiar +radiance the searching light of her clear eyes. + +"I know you for a man," she said again. "You stand there, revealed; +and surely you stand there, shamed. By plotting and planning, by +assuming our dress, you have succeeded in forcing your undesired +presence into this sacred cloister, where dwells a little company of +women who have left the world, never to return to it again; who have +given up much in order to devote themselves to a life of continual +worship and adoration, gaining thereby a power in intercession which +brings down blessing upon those who still fight life's battles in the +world without. + +"But it has meant the breaking of many a tender tie. There are fathers +and brothers dear to them, whom the nuns would love to see again; but +they cannot do so, save, on rare occasions, in the guest-room at the +gate; and then, with the grille between. + +"Saving Bishop or Priest, no foot of man may tread our cloisters; no +voice of man may be heard in these cells. + +"Yet--by trick and subterfuge--you have intruded. Methinks I scarce +should let you leave this place alive, to boast what you have done." + +The Prioress paused. + +The figure stood, with folded arms, immovable, leaning against the +wall. There was a quality in this motionless silence such as the +Prioress had not connected with her idea of Mary Seraphine's "Cousin +Wilfred." + +This was not a man to threaten. Her threat came back to her, as if she +had flung it against a stone wall. She tried another line of reasoning. + +"I know you, Sir Wilfred," she said. "And I know why you are here. +You have come to tempt away, or mayhap, if possible, to force away one +of our number who but lately took her final vows. There was a time, +not long ago, when you might have thwarted her desire to seek and find +the best and highest. But now you come too late. No bride of Heaven +turns from her high estate. Her choice is made. She will abide by it; +and so, Sir Knight, must you." + +The rain had ceased. The storm was over. Sunshine flooded the cell. + +Once more the Prioress spoke, and her voice was gentle. + +"I know the disappointment to you must be grievous. You took great +risks; you adventured much. How long you have plotted this intrusion, +I know not. You have been thwarted in your evil purpose by the +faithfulness of one old woman, our aged lay-sister, Mary Antony, who +never fails to count the White Ladies as they go and as they return, +and who reported at once to me that one more had returned than went. + +"Do you not see in this the Hand of God? Will you not bow in penitence +before Him, confessing the sinfulness of the thing you had in mind to +do?" + +The shrouded head was lifted higher, as if with a proud gesture of +disavowal. At the same time, the hood slightly parting, the hand of a +man, lean and brown, gripped it close. + + +The Prioress looked long at that lean, brown hand. + + +Then she rose slowly to her feet. + + +"Shew me--thy--face," she said; and the tension of each word was like a +naked blade passing in and out of quivering flesh. + +At sound of it the figure stood erect, took one step forward, flung +back the hood, tore open the robe and scapulary, loosing his arms from +the wide sleeves. + +And--as the hood fell back--the Prioress found herself looking into a +face she had not thought to see again in life--the face of him who once +had been her lover. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +THE YEARS ROLL BACK + +"Hugh!" exclaimed the Prioress. + +And again, in utter bewilderment: "Hugh?" + +And yet a third time, in a low whisper of horror, passing her left hand +across her eyes, as if to clear from her outer vision some nightmare of +the inner mind: "Hugh!" + +The silent Knight still made no answer; but he flung aside the clinging +robes, stepped from out them, and strode forward, both arms +outstretched. + +"Back!" cried the Prioress. But her hand had left the hilt of the +dagger. "Come no nearer," she commanded. + +Then she sank into her chair, spreading her trembling hands upon the +carven manes of the lions. + +The Knight, still silent, folded his arms across his breast. + +Thus for a space they gazed on one another--these two, who had parted, +eight years before, with clinging lips and straining arms, a deep, pure +passion of love surging within them; a union of heart, made closer by +the wrench of outward separation. + +The Knight looked at the lips of the noble woman before him; and as he +looked those firm lips quivered, trembled, parted---- + +Then--the years rolled back---- + + * * * * * * + +It was moonlight on the battlements. The horses champed in the +courtyard below. They two had climbed to the topmost turret, that they +might part as near the stars as possible, and that, unseen by others, +she might watch him ride away. + +How radiant she looked, in her robe of sapphire velvet, jewels at her +breast and girdle, a mantle of ermine hanging from her shoulders. But +brighter than any jewels were the eyes full of love and tears; and +softer than softest velvet, the beautiful hair which, covered her, as +with a golden veil. Standing with his arms around her, it flowed over +his hands. Silent he stood, looking deep into her eyes. + +Below they could hear Martin Goodfellow calling to the men-at-arms. + +Her lips being free, she spoke. + +"Thou wilt come back to me, Hugh," she said. "The Saracens will not +slay thee, will not wound thee, will not touch thee. My love will ever +be around thee, as a silver shield." + +She flung her strong young arms about him, long and supple, enfolding +him closely, even as his enfolded her. + +He filled his hands with her soft hair, straining her closer. + +"I would I left thee wife, not maid. Could I have wed thee first, I +would go with a lighter heart." + +"Wife or maid," she answered, her face lifted to his, "I am all thine +own. Go with a light heart, dear man of mine, for it makes no +difference. Maid or wife, I am thine, and none other's, forever." + +"Let those be the last words I hear thee say," he murmured, as his lips +sought hers. + +So, a little later, standing above him on the turret steps, she bent +and clasped her hands about his head, pushing her fingers into the +thickness of his hair. Then: "Maid or wife," she said, and her voice +now steady, was deep and tender; "Maid or wife, God knows, I am all +thine own." Then she caught his face to her breast. "Thine and none +other's, forever," she said; and he felt her bosom heave with one deep +sob. + +Then turning quickly he ran down the winding stair, reached the +courtyard, mounted, and rode out through the gates of Castle Norelle, +and into the fir wood; and so down south to follow the King, who +already had started on the great Crusade. + +And, as he rode, in moonlight or in shadow, always he saw the sweet +lips that trembled, always he felt the soft heave of that sob, and the +low voice so tender, said: "Thine and none other's, forever." + + * * * * * * + +And now---- + +The Prioress sat in her chair of state. + +Each moment her face grew calmer and more stern. + +The Knight let his eyes dwell on the fingers which once crept so +tenderly into his hair. + +She hid them beneath her scapulary, as if his gaze scorched them. + +He looked at the bosom against which his head had been pressed. + +A jewelled cross gleamed, there where his face had laid hidden. + +Then the Knight lifted his eyes again to that stern, cold face. Yet +still he kept silence. + +At length the Prioress spoke. + +"So it is you," she said. + +"Yes," said the Knight, "it is I." + +Wroth with her own poor heart because it thrilled at his voice, the +Prioress spoke with anger. + +"How did you dare to force your way into this sacred cloister?" + +The Knight smiled. "I have yet to find the thing I dare not do." + +"Why are you not with your wife?" demanded the Prioress; and her tone +was terrible. + +"I am with my wife," replied the Knight. "The only wife I have ever +wanted, the only woman I shall ever wed, is here." + +"Coward!" cried the Prioress, white with anger. "Traitor!" She leaned +forward, clenching her hands upon the lions' heads. "Liar! You wedded +your cousin, Alfrida, less than one year after you went from me." + +"Cease to be angry," said the Knight. "Thine anger affrights me not, +yet it hurts thyself. Listen, mine own belovèd, and I will tell thee +the cruel, and yet blessèd, truth. + +"Seven months after I left thee, a messenger reached our camp, bearing +letters from England; no word for me from thee; but a long missive from +thy half-sister Eleanor, breaking to me the news that, being weary of +my absence, and somewhat over-persuaded, thou hadst wedded Humphry; +Earl of Carnforth. + +"It was no news to me, that Humphry sought to win thee; but, that thou +hadst let thyself be won away from thy vow to me, was hell's own +tidings. + +"In my first rage of grief I would have speech with none. But, +by-and-by, I sought the messenger, and asked him casually of things at +home. He told me he had seen thy splendid nuptials with the lord of +Carnforth, had been present at the marriage, and joined in the after +revels and festivities. He said thou didst make a lovely bride, but +somewhat sad, as if thy mind strayed elsewhere. The fellow was a kind +of lawyer's clerk, but lean, and out at elbow. + +"Then I sought 'Frida, my cousin. She too had had a letter, giving the +news. She told me she long had feared this thing for me, knowing the +heart of Humphry to be set on winning thee, and that Eleanor approved +his suit, and having already heard that of late thou hadst inclined to +smile on him. She begged me to do nothing rash or hasty. + +"'What good were it,' she said, 'to beg the King for leave to hasten +home? If you kill Humphry, Hugh, you do but make a widow of the woman +you have loved; nor could you wed the widow of a man yourself had +slain. If Humphry kills you--well, a valiant arm is lost to the Holy +Cause, and other hearts, more faithful than hers, may come nigh to +breaking. Stay here, and play the man.' + +"So, by the messenger, I sent thee back a letter, asking thee to write +me word how it was that thou, being my betrothed, hadst come to do this +thing; and whether Humphry was good to thee, and making thy life +pleasant. To Humphry I sent a letter saying that, thy love being round +him as a silver shield, I would not slay him, wound him, or touch him! +But--if he used thee ill, or gave thee any grief or sorrow, then would +I come, forthwith, and send him straight to hell. + +"These letters, with others from the camp, went back to England by that +clerkly messenger. No answers were returned to mine. + +"Meanwhile I went, with my despair, out to the battlefield. + +"No tender shield was round me any more. I fought, like a mad wild +beast. So often was I wounded, that they dubbed me 'The Knight of the +Bloody Vest.' + +"At last they brought me back to camp, delirious and dying. My cousin +'Frida, there biding her time, nursed me back to life, and sought to +win for herself (I shame to say it) the love which thou hadst flouted. +I need not tell thee, my cousin 'Frida failed. The Queen herself as +good as bid me wed her favourite Lady. The Queen herself had to +discover that she could command an English soldier's life, but not his +love. + +"Back in the field again, I found myself one day, cut off, surrounded, +hewn down, taken prisoner; but by a generous foe. + +"Thereafter followed years of much adventure; escapes, far distant +wanderings, strange company. Many months I spent in a mountain +fastness with a wise Hebrew Rabbi, who taught me his sacred Scriptures; +going back to the beginning of all things, before the world was; yet +shrewd in judgment of the present, and throwing a weird light forward +upon the future. A strange man; wise, as are all of that Chosen Race; +and a faithful friend. He did much to heal my hurt and woo me back to +sanity. + +"Later, more than a year with a band of holy monks in a desert +monastery, high among the rocks; good Fathers who believed in Greek and +Latin as surest of all balsams for a wounded spirit, and who made me to +become deeply learned in Apostolic writings, and in the teachings of +the Church. But, for all their best endeavours, I could not feel +called to the perpetual calm of the Cloister. We are a line of +fighters and hunters, men to whom pride of race and love of hearth and +home, are primal instincts. + +"Thus, after many further wanderings and much varying adventure, having +by a strange chance heard news of the death of my father, and that my +mother mourned. In solitude, the opening of this year found me landed +in England--I who, by most, had long been given up for dead; though +Martin Goodfellow, failing to find trace of me in Palestine, had gone +back to Cumberland, and staunchly maintained his belief that I lived, a +captive, and should some day make my escape, and return. + +"I passed with all speed to our Castle on the moors, knowing a mother's +heart waited here, for mothers never cease to watch and hope. And, +sure enough, as I rode up, the great doors flew wide; the house waited +its master; the mother was on the threshold to greet her son. Aye! It +was good to be at home once more--even in the land where _my_ woman was +bearing children to another man. + +"We spent a few happy days, I and my mother, together. Then--the joy +of hope fulfilled being sometimes a swifter harbinger to another world +than the heaviest load of sorrow--she passed, without pain or sickness, +smiling, in her sleep; she passed--leaving my home desolate indeed. + +"Not having known of my betrothal to thee, because of the old feud +between our families, and my reluctance to cross her wish that I should +wed Alfrida, thy name was not spoken between us; but I learned from her +that my cousin 'Frida lay dying at her manor, nigh to Chester, of some +lingering disease contracted in eastern lands." + + +"With the first stirrings of Spring in forest and pasture, I felt moved +to ride south to the Court, and report my return to the King; yet +waited, strangely loath to go abroad where any turn of the road might +bring me face to face with Humphry. I doubted, should we meet, if I +could pass, without slaying him, the man who had stolen my betrothed +from me. So I stayed in my own domain, bringing things into order, +working in the armoury, and striving by hard exercise to throttle the +grim demon of despair. + +"April brought a burst of early summer; and, on the first day of May, I +set off for Windsor. + +"Passing through Carnforth on my way, I found the town keeping high +holiday. I asked the reason, and was told of a Tourney now in progress +in the neighbourhood, to which the Earl had that morning ridden in +state, accompanied by his Countess, who indeed was chosen Queen of +Beauty, and was to sit enthroned, attended by her little daughter, two +tiny sons acting as pages. + +"A sudden mad desire came on me, to look upon thy face again; to see +thee with the man who stole thee from me; with the children, who should +have been mine own. + +"Ten minutes later, I rode on to the field. Pushing in amid the gay +crowd, I seemed almost at once to find myself right in front of the +throne. + +"I saw the Queen of Beauty, in cloth of gold. I saw the little maiden +and the pages in attendance. I saw Humphry, proud husband and father, +beside them. All this I saw, which I had come to see. But--the face +of Humphry's Countess was not thy face! In that moment I knew that, +for seven long years, I had been fooled! + +"I started on a frenzied quest after the truth, and news of thee. + +"Thy sister Eleanor had died the year before. To thy beautiful castle +and lands, so near mine own, Eleanor's son had succeeded, and ruled +there in thy stead. He being at Court just then, I saw him not, nor +could I hear direct news of thee, though rumour said a convent. + +"Then I remembered my cousin, Alfrida, lying sick at her manor in +Chester. To her I went; and, walking in unannounced--I, whom she had +long thought dead--I forced the truth from her. The whole plot stood +revealed. She and Eleanor had hatched it between them. Eleanor +desiring thy lands for herself and her boy, and knowing children of +thine would put hers out of succession; Alfrida--it shames me to say +it--desiring for herself, thy lover. + +"The messenger who brought the letters was bribed to give details of +thy supposed marriage. On his return to England, my letters to thee +and to Humphry he handed to Eleanor; also a lying letter from 'Frida, +telling of her marriage with me, with the Queen's consent and approval, +and asking Eleanor to break the news to thee. The messenger then +mingled with thy household, describing my nuptials in detail, as, when +abroad, he had done thine. Hearing of this, my poor Love did even as I +had done, sent for him, questioned him, heard the full tale he had to +tell, and saw, alas! no reason to misdoubt him. + +"By the way, my cousin 'Frida knew where to lay her hand upon that +clerkly fellow. Therefore we sent for him. He came in haste to see +the Lady Alfrida, from whom, during all the years, he had extorted +endless hush-money. + +"I and my men awaited him. + +"He had fattened on his hush-money! He was no longer lean and out at +elbow. + +"He screeched at sight of me, thinking me risen from the dead. + +"He screeched still louder when he saw the noose, flung over a strong +bough. + +"We left him hanging, when we rode away. That Judas kind will do the +darkest deeds for greed of gain. The first of the tribe himself shewed +the way by which it was most fitting to speed them from a world into +which it had been good for them never to have been born. + +"From Alfrida I learned that, as Eleanor had foreseen, thy grief at my +perfidy drove thee to the Cloister. Also that thy Convent was near +Worcester. + +"To Worcester I came, and made myself known to the Lord Bishop, with +whom I supped; and finding him most pleasant to talk with, and ready to +understand, deemed it best, in perfect frankness, to tell him the whole +matter; being careful not to mention thy name, nor to give any clue to +thy person. + +"Through chance remarks let fall by the Bishop while giving me the +history of the Order, I learned that already thou wert Prioress of the +White Ladies. 'The youngest Prioress in the kingdom,' said the Bishop, +'yet none could be wiser or better fitted to hold high authority.' +Little did he dream that any mention of thee was as water to the +parched desert; yet he talked on, for love of speaking of thee, while I +sat praying he might tell me more; yet barely answering yea or nay, +seeming to be absorbed in mine own melancholy thoughts. + +"From the Bishop I learned that the Order was a strictly close one, and +that no man could, on any pretext whatsoever, gain speech alone with +one of the White Ladies. + +"But I also heard of the underground way leading from the Cathedral to +the Convent, and of the daily walk to and from Vespers. + +"I went to the crypt, and saw the doorway through which the White +Ladies pass. Standing unseen amid the many pillars, I daily watched +the long line of silent figures, noted that they all walked veiled, +with faces hidden, keeping a measured distance apart. Also that +several were above usual height. Then I conceived the plan of wearing +the outer dress, and of stepping in amongst those veiled figures just +at the foot of the winding stair in the wall, leading down from the +clerestory to the crypt. I marked that the nun descending, could not +keep in view the nun in front who had just stepped forth into the +crypt; while she, moving forward, would not perceive it if, slipping +from behind a pillar, another white figure silently joined the +procession behind her. Once within the Convent, I trusted to our Lady +to help me to speech alone with thee; and our blessèd Lady hath not +failed me. + +"Now I have told thee all." + +With that the Knight left speaking; and, after the long steady +recitation, the ceasing of his voice caused a silence which, seemed, to +hold the very air suspended. + +Not once had the Prioress made interruption. She had sat immovable, +her eyes upon his face, her hands gripping the arms of her chair. Long +before the tale was finished her sad eyes had overflowed, the tears +raining down her cheeks, and falling upon the cross at her breast. + +When he had told all, when the deep, manly voice--now resolute, now +eager, now vibrant with fierce indignation, yet tender always when +speaking of her--at last fell silent, the Prioress fought with her +emotion, and mastered it; then, so soon as she could safely trust her +voice, she spoke. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +ALAS, THE PITY OF IT! + +At length the Prioress spoke. + +"Alas," she said, "the pity of it! Ah, the cruel, _cruel_ pity of it!" + +Her voice, so sweet and tender, yet so hopeless in the unquestioning +finality of its regret, struck cold upon the heart of the Knight. + +"But, my belovèd, I have found thee," he said, and dropping upon one +knee at her feet, he put out his hands to cover both hers. But the +Prioress was too quick for him. She hid her hands beneath her +scapulary. The Knight's brown fingers closed on the lions' heads. + +"Touch me not," said the Prioress. + +The Knight flushed, darkly. + +"You are mine," he said. "Mine to have and to keep. During these +wretched years we have schooled ourselves each to think of the other as +wedded. Now we know that neither has been faithless. I have found +thee, my belovèd, and I will not let thee go." + +"Hugh," said the Prioress, "I _am_ wedded. You come too late. Saw you +not the sacred ring upon my hand? Know you not that every nun is the +bride of Christ?" + +"You are mine!" said the Knight, fiercely; and he laid his great hand +upon her knee. + +From beneath her scapulary, the Prioress drew the dagger. + +"Before I went to the cloister door," she said, "I took this from its +hiding-place, and put it in my girdle. I guessed I had a man to deal +with; though, Heaven knows, I dreamed not it was thou! But I tell +thee, Hugh, if thou, or any man, attempt to lay defiling touch upon any +nun in this Priory--myself, or another--I strike, and I strike home. +This blade will be driven up to the hilt in the offender's heart." + +The Knight rose to his feet, stepped to the window and leaned, with +folded arms, against the wall. + +"Put back thy weapon," he said, sternly, "into its hiding-place. No +other man is here; yet, should another come, my sword would well +suffice to guard thine honour, and the honour of thy nuns." + +She looked at his dark face, scornful in its pain; then went at once, +obedient, to the secret panel. + +"Yes, Hugh," she said. "That much of trust indeed I owe thy love." + +As she placed the dagger in the wall and closed the panel, something +fell from her, intangible, yet real. + +For so long, she had had to command. Bowing, kneeling, hurrying women +flew to do her behests. Each vied with the others to magnify her +Office. Often, she felt lonely by reason of her dignity. + +And now--a man's dark face frowned on her in scornful anger; a man's +stern voice flung back her elaborate threat with a short command, which +disarmed her, yet which she obeyed. Moreover, she found it strangely +sweet to obey. Behind the sternness, behind the scornful anger, there +throbbed a great love. In that love she trusted; but with that love +she had to deal, putting it from her with a finality which should be +beyond question. + +Yet the "Prioress" fell from her, as she closed the panel. It was the +Woman and the Saint who moved over to the window and stood beside the +Knight, in the radiance of a golden sunset after storm. + +There was about her, as she spoke, a wistful humbleness; and a patient +sadness, infinitely touching. + +"Sir Hugh," she said, "my dear Knight, whom I ever found brave and +tender, and whom I now know to have been always loyal and true--there +is no need that I should add a word to your recital. The facts you +wrung from Alfrida--God grant forgiveness to that tormented heart--are +all true. Believing the messenger, not dreaming of doubting Eleanor, +my one thought was to hide from the world my broken heart, my shattered +pride. I hastened to offer to God the love and the life which had been +slighted by man. I confess this has since seemed to me but a poor +second-best to have brought to Him, Who indeed should have our very +best. But, daily kneeling at His Feet, I said: 'A broken and a +contrite heart, Lord, Thou wilt not despise.' My heart was 'broken,' +when I brought it here. It has been 'contrite' since. And well I +know, although so far from worthy, it has not been despised." + +She lifted her eyes to the golden glory behind the battlements of +purple cloud. + +"Our blessèd Lady interceded," she said, simply; "she, who understands +a woman's heart." + +The Knight was breathing hard. The folded arms rose and fell, with the +heaving of his chest. But he kept his lips firm shut; though praying, +all the while, that our Lady might have, also, some understanding of +the heart of a man! + +"I think it right that you should know, dear Hugh," went on the sad +voice, gently; "that, at first, I suffered greatly. I spent long +agonizing nights, kneeling before our Lady's shrine, imploring strength +to conquer the love and the longing which had become sin." + +A stifled groan broke from the Knight. + +The golden light shone in her steadfast eyes, and played about her +noble brow. + +"And strength was given," she said, very low. + +"Mora!" cried the Knight--She started. It was so long since she had +heard her own name--"You prayed for strength to conquer, when you +thought it sin; just as I rode out to meet the foe, to fight and slay, +and afterward wrestled with unknown tongues, doing all those things +which were hardest, while striving to quench my love for you. But when +I knew that no other man had right to you or ever had had right, why +then I found that nothing had slain my love, nor ever could. And Mora, +now you know that I am free, is your love dead?" + +She clasped her hands over the cross at her breast. His voice held a +deep passion of appeal; yet he strove, loyally, to keep it calm. + +"Listen, Hugh," she said. "If, thinking me faithless, you had turned +for consolation to another; if, though you brought her but your second +best, you yet had won and wed her; now, finding after all that I had +not wedded Humphry, would you leave your bride, and try to wake again +your love for me?" + +"You seek to place me," he said, "in straits in which, by mine own act, +I shall never be. Loving you as I love you, I could wed no other while +you live." + +She paled, but persisted. + +"But, _if_, Hugh? _If_?" + +"Then, no," he said. "I should not leave one I had wed. But----" + +"Hugh," she said, "thinking you faithless, I took the holy vows which +wedded me to Heaven. How can I leave my heavenly Bridegroom, for love +of any man upon this earth?" + +"Not 'any man,'" he answered; "but your betrothed, returned to claim +you; the man to whom you said as parting words: 'Maid or wife, I am all +thine own; thine and none other's forever.' Ah, that brings the warm +blood to thy cheek! Oh, my Heart's Life, if it was true then, it is +true still! God is not a man that he should lie, or rob another of his +bride. If I had wed another woman, I should have done that thing, +honestly believing thee the wife of another man. But, all these years, +while thou and I were both deceived, He, Who knoweth all, has known the +truth. He knew thee betrothed to me. He heard thee say, upon the +battlements, when last we stood together: 'God knows, I am all thine +own.' He knew how, when I thought I had lost thee, I yet lived +faithful to the pure memory of our love. The day thy vows were made, +He knew that I was free, and thou, therefore, still pledged to me. +Shall a man rob God? Ay, he may. But shall God rob a man? Nay, then, +never!" + +She trembled, wavered; then fled to the shrine of the Virgin, kneeling +with hands outstretched. + +"Holy Mother of God," she sobbed, "teach him that I dare not do this +thing! Shew him that I cannot break my vows. Help him to understand +that I would not, if I could." + +He followed, and kneeled beside her; his proud head bent; his voice +breaking with emotion. + +"Blessèd Virgin," he said. "Thou who didst dwell in the earthly home +at Nazareth, help this woman of mine to understand, that if she break +her troth to me, holding herself from me, now when I am come to claim +her, she sends me forth to an empty life, to a hearth beside which no +woman will sit, to a home forever desolate." + +Together they knelt, before the tender image of Mother and Child; +together, yet apart; he, loyally mindful not so much as to brush +against a fold of her veil. + +The dark face, and the fair, were lifted, side by side, as they knelt +before the Madonna. For a while so motionless they kneeled, they might +have been finely-modelled figures; he, bronze; she, marble. + +Then, with a sudden movement, she put out her right hand, and caught +his left. + +Firmly his fingers closed over hers; but he drew no nearer. + +Yet as they knelt thus with clasped hands, his pulsing life seemed to +flow through her, undoing, in one wild, sweet moment, the work of years +of fast and vigil. + +"Ah, Hugh," she cried, suddenly, "spare me! Spare me! Tempt me not!" + +Loosing her hand from his, she clasped both upon her breast. + +The Knight rose, and stood beside her. + +"Mora," he said, and his voice held a new tone, a tone of sadness and +solemnity; "far be it from me to tempt you. I will plead with you but +once again, in presence of our Lady and of the Holy Child; and, having +so done, I will say no more. + +"I ask you to leave this place, which you would never have entered had +you known your lover was yours, and needing you. I ask you to keep +your plighted word to me, and to become my wife. If you refuse, I go, +returning not again. I leave you here, to kneel in peace, by night or +day, before the shrine of the Madonna. But--I bid you to remember, day +and night, that because of this which you have done, there can be no +Madonna in my home. No woman will ever sit beside my hearth, holding a +little child upon her knees. + +"You leave to me the crucifix--heart broken, love betrayed; feet and +hands nailed to the wood of cruel circumstance; side pierced by spear +of treachery--lonely, forsaken. But you take from me all the best, +both in life and in religion; all that tells of love, of joy, of hope +for the years to come. + +"Oh, my belovèd, weigh it well! There are so many, with a true +vocation, serving Heaven in Convent and in Cloister. There is but one +woman in the whole world for me. In the sight of Heaven, nothing +divides us. Convent walls now stand between--but they were built by +man, not God. Vows of celibacy were not meant to sunder loving hearts. +Mora? . . . Come!" + + +The Prioress rose and faced him. + +"I cannot come," she said. "That which I have taught to others, I must +myself perform. Hugh, I am dead to the world; and if I be dead to the +world, how can I live to you? Had I, in very deed, died and been +entombed, you would not have gone down into the vaults and forced my +resting-place, that you might look upon my face, clasp my cold hand, +and pour into deaf ears a tale of love. Yet that is what, by trick and +artifice, you now have done. You come to a dead woman, saying; 'Love +me, and be my wife.' She must, perforce, make answer: 'How shall I, +who am dead to the world, live any longer therein?' Take a wife from +among the Living, Hugh. Come not to seek a bride among the Dead." + +"Mother of God!" exclaimed the Knight, "is this religion?" + +He turned to the window, then to the door. "How can I go from here?" + +The stifled horror in his voice chilled the very soul of the woman to +whom he spoke. She had, indeed at last made him to understand. + +"I must get you hence unseen," she said. "I dare not pass you out by +the Convent gate. I fear me, you must go back the way you came; nor +can you go alone. We hold the key to unlock the door leading from our +passage into the Cathedral crypt. I will now send all the nuns to the +Refectory. Then I myself must take you to the crypt." + +"Can I not walk alone," asked the Knight, brusquely; "returning you the +key by messenger?" + +"Nay," said the Prioress, "I dare run no risks. So quickly rumours are +afloat. To-morrow, this strange hour must be a dream; and you and I +alone, the dreamers. Now, while I go and make safe the way, put you on +again the robe and hood. When I return and beckon, follow silently." + +The Prioress passed out, closing the door behind her. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +"SEND HER TO ME!" + +The Prioress stood for a moment outside the closed door. The peaceful +silence of the passage helped her to the outward calm which must be +hers before she could bring herself to face her nuns. + +Moving slowly to the farther end, she unlocked the cell of Sister Mary +Seraphine, feeling a shamed humility that she should have made so sure +she had to deal with "Wilfred," and have thought such scorn of him and +Seraphine. Alas! The wrong deeds of those they love, oft humble the +purest, noblest spirits into the soiling dust. + +Next, the Prioress herself rang the Refectory bell. + +The hour for the evening meal was long passed; the nuns hastened out, +readily. + +As they trooped toward the stairs leading down to the Refectory, they +saw their Prioress, very pale, very erect, standing with her back to +the door of her chamber. + +Each nun made a genuflexion as she passed; and to each, the Prioress +slightly inclined her head. + +To Sister Mary Rebecca, who kneeled at once, she spoke: "I come not to +the meal this evening. In the absence of Mother Sub-Prioress, you will +take my place." + +"Yes, Reverend Mother," said Sister Mary Rebecca, meekly, and kissed +the hem of the robe of the Prioress; then rising, hastened on, charmed +to have a position of authority, however temporary. + +When all had passed, the Prioress went into the cloisters, walked round +them; looked over into the garden, observing every possible place from +which prying eyes might have sight of the way from the passage to the +crypt entrance. But the garden, already full of purple shadows, was +left to the circling swifts. The robin sang an evening song from the +bough, of the pieman's tree. + +The Prioress returned along the passage, looking into every cell. Each +door stood open wide; each cell was empty. The sick nuns were on a +further passage, round the corner, beyond the Refectory stairs. Yet +she passed along this also, making sure that the door of each occupied +cell was shut. + +Standing motionless at the top of the Refectory steps, she could hear +the distant clatter of platters, the shuffling feet of the lay-sisters +as they carried the dishes to and from the kitchens; and, above it all, +the monotonous voice of Sister Mary Rebecca reading aloud to the nuns +while they supped. + +Then the Prioress took down one of the crypt lanterns and lighted it. + + * * * * * * + +Meanwhile the Knight, left alone, stood for a few moments, as if +stunned. + +He had played for a big stake and lost; yet he felt more unnerved by +the unexpected finality of his own acquiescence in defeat, than by the +firm refusal which had brought that defeat about. + +It seemed to him, as he now stood alone, that suddenly he had realised +the extraordinary detachment wrought by years of cloistered life. +Aflame with love and longing he had come, seeking the Living among the +Dead. It would have been less bitter to have knelt beside her tomb, +knowing the heart forever still had, to the last, beat true with love +for him; knowing the dead arms, lying cold and stiff, had he come +sooner, would have been flung around him; knowing the lips, now silent +in death, living, would have called to him in tenderest greeting. + +But this cold travesty of the radiant woman he had left, said: "Touch +me not," and bade him seek a wife elsewhere; he, who had remained +faithful to her, even when he had thought her faithless. + +And yet, cold though she was, in her saintly aloofness, she was still +the woman he loved. Moreover she still had the noble carriage, the +rich womanly beauty, the look of vital, physical vigour, which marked +her out as meant by Nature to be the mother of brave sons and fair +daughters. Yet he must leave her--to this! + +He looked round the room, noted the low archway leading to the sleeping +chamber, took a step toward it, then fell back as from a sanctuary; +marked the great table, covered with missals, parchments, and vellum. +It might well have been the cell of a learned monk, rather than the +chamber of the woman he loved. His eye, travelling round, fell upon +the Madonna and Child. + +In the pure evening light there was a strangely arresting quality about +the marble group; something infinitely human in the brooding tenderness +of the Mother, as she bent over the smiling Babe. It spoke of home, +rather than of the cloister. It struck a chord in the heart of the +Knight, a chord which rang clear and true, above the jangle of +disputation and bitterness. + +He put out his hand and touched the little foot of the Holy Babe. + +"Mother of God," he said aloud, "send her to me! Take pity on a hungry +heart, a lonely home, a desolate hearth. Send her to me!" + +Then he lifted from the floor the white robe and hood, and drew them on. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +FAREWELL--HERE, AND NOW + +When the Prioress, a lighted lantern in her hand, opened the door of +her chamber, a tall figure in the dress of the White Ladies of +Worcester stood motionless against the wall, facing the door. + +"Come!" she whispered, beckoning; and, noiselessly, it stood beside +her. Then she closed the door and, using her master-key, locked it +behind her. + +Silently the two white figures passed along the passage, through the +cloister, and down the flight of steps into the Convent crypt. The +Prioress unlocked the door and stooping they passed under the arch, and +entered the subterranean way. + +Placing the lantern on the ground, the Prioress drew out the key, +closed the door, and locked it on the inside. + +She turned, and lifting the lantern, saw that the Knight had rid +himself of his disguise, and now stood before her, very straight and +tall, just within the circle of light cast by her lantern. + +With the closing and locking of the door a strange sense came over +them, as of standing together in a third world--neither his nor +hers--tomblike in its complete isolation and darkness; heavy with a +smell of earth and damp stones; the slightest sound reverberating in +hollow exaggeration; yet, in itself, silent as the grave. + +This tomblike quality in their surroundings seemed to make their own +vitality stronger and more palpitating. + +The seconds of silence, after the grating of the key in the lock +ceased, seemed hours. + +Then the Knight spoke. + +"Give me the lantern," he said. + +She met his eyes. Again the dignity of her Office slipped from her. +Again it was sweet to obey. + +He held the lantern so that its light illumined her face and his. + +"Mora," he said, "it is long since thou and I last walked together over +the sunny fields, amid buttercups and cowslips, and the sweet-smelling +clover. To-night we walk beneath the fields instead of through them. +We are under the grass, my sweet. I seem to stand beside thee in the +grave. And truly my hopes lie slain; the promise of our love is dead, +and shall soon be buried. Yet thou and I still live, and now must walk +together side by side, the sad ghosts of our former selves. + +"So now I ask thee, Mora, for the sake of those past walks among the +flowers, to lay thy hand within my arm and walk with me in gentle +fellowship, here in this place of gloom and darkness, as, long ago, we +walked among the flowers." + +His dark eyes searched her face. An almost youthful eagerness vibrated +in his voice. + +She hesitated, lifting her eyes to his. Then slowly moved toward him +and laid her hand within his arm. + +Then, side by side, they paced on through the darkness; he, in his +right hand, holding the lantern, swinging low, to light their feet; +she, leaning on his left arm, keeping slow pace with him. + +Over their heads, in the meadows, walked lovers, arm in arm; young men +and maidens out in the gathering twilight. All nature, refreshed, +poured forth a fragrant sweetness. But the rose, with its dewy petals, +seemed to the youth less sweet than the lips of the maid. This, he +shyly ventured to tell her; whereupon, as she bent to its fragrance, +her cheeks reflected the crimson of those delicate folds. + +So walked and talked young lovers in the Worcester meadows; little +dreaming that, beneath their happy feet, the Knight and the Prioress +paced slowly, side by side, through the darkness. + +No word passed between them. With, her hand upon his arm, her face so +near his shoulder, his arm pressing her hand closer and closer against +his heart, silence said more than speech. And in silence they walked. + +They passed beneath the city wall, under the Foregate. + +The Sheriff rode home to supper, well pleased with a stroke of business +accomplished in a house in which he had chanced to shelter during the +storm. + +The good people of Worcester bought and sold in the market. Men whose +day's work was over, hastened to reach the rest and comfort of wife and +home. Crowds jostled gaily through the streets, little dreaming that +beneath their hurrying, busy feet, the Knight and the Prioress paced +slowly, side by side, through the darkness. + +Had the Knight spoken, her mind would have been up in arms to resist +him. But, because he walked in silence, her heart had leisure to +remember; and, remembering, it grew sorely tender. + +At length they reached the doorway leading into the Cathedral crypt. + +The Prioress carried the key in her left hand. Freeing her right from +the grip of his arm, she slipped the key noiselessly into the lock; +but, leaving it there unturned, she paused, and faced the Knight. + +"Hugh," she said, "I beg you, for my sake and for the sake of all whose +fair fame is under my care, to pass through quickly into the crypt, and +to go from thence, if possible, unseen, or in such manner as shall +prevent any suspicion that you come from out this hidden way. Tales of +wrong are told so readily, and so quickly grow." + +"I will observe the utmost caution," said the Knight. + +"Hugh," she said, "I grieve to have had, perforce, to disappoint you." +The brave voice shook. "This is our final farewell. Do you forgive +me, Hugh? Will you think kindly, if you ever think on me?" + +The Knight held the lantern so that its rays illumined both her face +and his. + +"Mora," he said, "I cannot as yet take thine answer as final. I will +return no more, nor try to speak with thee again. But five days +longer, I shall wait. I shall have plans made with the utmost care, to +bear thee, in safety and unseen, from the Cathedral. I know the doors +are watched, and that all who pass in and out are noted and observed. +But, if thou wilt but come to me, belovèd, trust me to know how to +guard mine own. . . . Nay, speak not! Hear me out. + +"Daily, after Vespers, I shall stand hidden among the pillars, close to +the winding stair. One step aside--only one step--and my arm will be +around thee. A new life of love and home will lie before us. I shall +take thee, safely concealed, to the hostel where I and my men now +lodge. There, horses will stand ready, and we shall ride at once to +Warwick. At Warwick we shall find a priest--one in high favour, both +in Church and State--who knows all, and is prepared to wed us without +delay. After which, by easy stages, my wife, I shall take thee home." + +He swung the lantern high. She saw the lovelight and the triumph, in +his eyes. "I shall take thee home!" he said. + +She stepped back a pace, lifting both hands toward him, palms outward, +and stood thus gazing, with eyes full of sorrow. + +"My poor Hugh," she whispered; "it is useless to wait. I shall not +come." + +"Yet five days," said the Knight, "I shall tarry in Worcester. Each +day, after Vespers, I shall be here." + +"Go to-day, dear Hugh. Ride to Warwick and tell thy priest, that which +indeed he should know without the telling: that a nun does not break +her vows. This is our final farewell, Hugh. Thou hadst best believe +it, and go." + +"Our last farewell?" he said. + +"Our last." + +"Here and now?" + +"Here and now, dear Hugh." + +Looking into that calm face, so lovely in its sadness, he saw that she +meant it. + +Of a sudden he knew he had lost her; he knew life's way stretched +lonely before him, evermore. + +"Yes," he said, "yes. It is indeed farewell--here and now--forever." + +The dull despair in the voice which, but a few moments before, had +vibrated with love and hope, wrung her heart. + +She still held her hands before her, as if to ward him off. + +"Ah, Hugh," she cried, sharply, "be merciful, and go! Spare me, and go +quickly." + +The Knight heard in her voice a tone it had not hitherto held. But he +loved her loyally; therefore he kept his own anguish under strong +control. + +Placing the lantern on the ground, he knelt on one knee before her. + +"Farewell, my Love," he said. "Our Lady comfort thee; and may Heaven +forgive me, for that I have disturbed thy peace." + +With which he lifted the hem of her robe, and pressed his lips upon it. + +Thus he knelt, for a space, his dark head bent. + +Slowly, slowly, the Prioress let drop her hands until, lightly as the +fall of autumn leaves,--sad autumn leaves--they rested upon his head, +in blessing and farewell. + +But feeling his hair beneath her hands, she could not keep from softly +smoothing it, nor from passing her fingers gently in and out of its +crisp thickness. + +Then her heart stood still, for of a sudden, in the silence, she heard +a shuddering sob. + +With a cry, she bent and gathered him to her, holding his head first +against her knees, then stooping lower to clasp it to her breast; then +as his strong arms were flung around her, she loosed his head, and, as +he rose to his feet, slipped her arms about his neck, and surrendered +to his embrace. + +His lips sought hers, and at once she yielded them. His strong hands +held her, and she, feeling the force of their constraint, did but clasp +him closer. + +Long they stood thus. In that embrace a life-time of pain passed from +them, a life-time of bliss was born, and came with a rush to maturity, +bringing with it a sense of utter completeness. A world of sweetest +trust and certainty filled them; a joy so perfect, that the lonely +vista of future years seemed, in that moment, to matter not at all. + +All about them was darkness, silence as of the tomb; the heavy smell of +earth; the dank chill of the grave. + +Yet theirs was life more abundant; theirs, joy undreamed of; theirs, +love beyond all imagining, while those moments lasted. + +Then---- + +The hands about his neck loosened, unclasped, fell gently away. + +He set free her lips, and they took their liberty. + +He unlocked his arms, and stepping back she stood erect, like a fair +white lily, needing no prop nor stay. + +So they stood for a space, looking upon one another in silence. This +thing which had happened, was too wonderful for speech. + +Then the Prioress turned the key in the lock. + +The heavy door swung open. + +A dim, grey light, like a pearly dawn at sea, came downwards from the +crypt. + +Without a word the Knight, bending his head, passed under the archway, +mounted the steps, and was lost to view among the many pillars. + +She closed the door, locked it, and withdrawing the key, stood alone +where they had stood together. + +Then, sinking to the ground, she laid her face in the dust, there where +his feet had been. + + +It was farewell, here and now; farewell forever. + + * * * * * * + +After a while the Prioress rose, took up the lantern, and started upon +her lonely journey, back to the cloister door. + + + + +CHAPTER XV + +"SHARPEN THE WITS OF MARY ANTONY" + +When the Prioress started upon her pilgrimage to the Cathedral with the +Knight, she locked the door of her chamber, knowing that thus her +absence would remain undiscovered; for if any, knocking on the door, +received no answer, or trying it, found it fast, they would hasten away +without question; concluding that some special hour of devotion or time +of study demanded that the Reverend Mother should be free from +intrusion. + +The atmosphere of the empty cell, charged during the past hour with +such unaccustomed forces of conflict and of passion, settled into the +quietude of an unbroken stillness. + +The Madonna smiled serenely upon the Holy Babe. The dead Christ, with +bowed head, hung forlorn upon the wooden cross. The ponderous volumes +in black and silver bindings, lay undisturbed upon the table; and the +Bishop's chair stood empty, with that obtrusive emptiness which, in an +empty seat, seems to suggest an unseen presence filling it. The +silence was complete. + +But presently a queer shuffling sound began in the inner cell, as of +something stiff and torpid compelling itself to action. + +Then a weird figure, the wizen face distorted by grief and terror, +appeared in the doorway--old Mary Antony, holding a meat chopper in her +shaking hands, and staring, with chattering gums, into the empty cell. + +That faithful soul, although dismissed, had resolved that the adored +Reverend Mother should not go forth to meet dangers--ghostly or +corporeal--alone and unprotected. + +Hastening to the kitchens, she had given instructions that the evening +meal was not to be served until the Reverend Mother herself should +sound the bell. + +Then, catching up a meat chopper, as being the most murderous-looking +weapon at hand, and the most likely to strike terror into the ghostly +heart of Sister Agatha, old Antony had hastened back to the passage. + +Creeping up the stairs, hugging the wall, she had reached the top just +in time to see, in the dim distance, the two tall white figures +confronting one another. + +Clinging to her chopper, motionless with horror, she had watched them, +until they began, to come toward her, moving in the direction of the +Reverend Mother's cell. They were still thirty yards away, at the +cloister end of the passage. Old Antony was close to the open door. + +Through it she had scurried, unheard, unseen, a terrified black shadow; +yet brave withal; for with her went the meat chopper. Also she might +have turned and fled back down the stairs, rather than into the very +place whither she knew the Reverend Mother was conducting this tall +spectre of the long dead Sister Agatha, grown to most alarming +proportions during her fifty years' entombment! But being brave and +faithful old Antony had sped into the inner cell, and crouched there in +a corner; ready to call for help or strike with her chopper, should +need arise. + +Thus it came to pass that this old weaver of romances had perforce +become a listener to a true romance so thrilling, so soul-stirring, +that she had had to thrust the end of the wooden handle of the chopper +into her mouth, lest she should applaud the noble Knight, cry counsel +in his extremities, or invoke blessings on his enterprise. At each +mention of the Ladies Eleanor and Alfrida, she shook her fist, and made +signs with her old fingers, as of throttling, in the air. And when the +clerkly messenger, arriving to speak with the Lady Alfrida--who, Saint +Luke be praised, was by that time dying--found the Knight awaiting him +with a noose flung over a strong bough, old Antony had laid down the +chopper that she might the better hug herself with silent glee; and +when the Knight rode away and left him hanging, she had whispered +"Pieman! Pieman!" then clapped her hands over her mouth, rocking to +and fro with merriment. When the Knight made mention that they called +him "Knight of the Bloody Vest," old Antony had started; then had +shaken her finger toward the entrance, as she was used to shake it at +the robin, and had opened her wallet to search for crumbs of cheese. +But soon again the story held her and, oblivious of the present, she +had been back in the realms of romance. + +Not until the Knight ceased speaking and the Reverend Mother's sad +voice fell upon her ear, had old Antony realised the true bearing of +the tale. Thereafter her heart had been torn by grief and terror. +When they kneeled together, before the Madonna, with uplifted faces, +Mary Antony had crawled forward and peeped. She had seen them +kneeling--a noble pair--had seen the Prioress catch at his hand and +clasp it; then, crawling back had fallen prostrate, overwhelmed, a +huddled heap upon the floor. + +The ringing of the Refectory bell had roused her from her stupor in +time to hear the impassioned appeal of the Knight, as he kneeled alone +before the Virgin's shrine. + +Then, the Knight and the Prioress both being gone, Mary Antony had +arisen, lifted her chopper with hands that trembled, and now stood with +distraught mien, surveying the empty cell. + +At length it dawned upon her that she and her weapon were locked into +the Reverend Mother's cell; she, who had been most explicitly bidden to +go to the kitchens and to remain there. It had been a sense of the +enormity of her offence in having disobeyed the Reverend Mother's +orders which, unconsciously, had caused her to stifle all ejaculations +and move without noise, lest she should be discovered. + +Yet now her first care was not for her own predicament, but for the two +noble hearts, of whose tragic grief she had secretly been a witness. + +Her eye fell on the Madonna, calmly smiling. + +She tottered forward, kneeling where the Prioress had knelt. + +"Holy Mother of God," she whispered, "teach him that she cannot do this +thing!" + +Then, moving along on her knees to where the Knight had kneeled: +"Blessèd Virgin!" she cried, "shew her that she cannot leave him +desolate!" + +Then shuffling back to the centre, and kneeling between the two places: +"Sweetest Lady," she said, "be pleased to sharpen the old wits of Mary +Antony." + +Looking furtively at the Madonna, she saw that our Lady smiled. The +blessèd Infant, also, looked merry. Mary Antony chuckled, and took +heart. When the Reverend Mother smiled, she always knew herself +forgiven. + +Moreover, without delay, her request was granted; for scarcely had she +arisen from her knees, when she remembered the place where the Reverend +Mother kept the key of her cell; and she, having locked the door, on +leaving, with her own master-key, the other was quickly in old Antony's +hand, and she out once more in the passage, locking the door behind +her; sure of being able to restore the key to its place, before it +should be missed by the Reverend Mother. + + +Sister Mary Antony slipped unseen past the Refectory and into the +kitchens. Once there, she fussed and scolded and made her presence +felt, implying that she had been waiting, a good hour gone, for the +thing for which she had but that moment asked. + +The younger lay-sisters might make no retort; but Sister Mary Martha +presently asked: "What have you been doing since Vespers, Sister +Antony?" + +By aid of the wits our Lady had sharpened, old Antony, at that moment, +realised that sometimes, when you needs must deceive, there is nothing +so deceptive as the actual truth. + +"Listening to a wondrous romantic tale," she made answer, "told by the +Knight of the Bloody Vest." + +"You verily are foolish about that robin, Sister Antony," remarked Mary +Martha; "and you will take your death of cold, sitting out in the +garden in the damp, after sunset." + +"Well--so long as I take only that which is mine own, others have no +cause to grumble," snapped Mary Antony, and turned her mind upon the +making of a savoury broth, favoured by the Reverend Mother. + +And all the while the Devil was whispering in the old woman's ear: "She +will not return. . . . Make thy broth, fool; but she will not be here +to drink it. . . . The World and the Flesh have called; the Reverend +Mother will not come back. . . . Stir the broth well, but flavour it +to thine own taste. Thou wilt sup on it thyself this night. When the +World and the Flesh call loudly enough, the best of women go to the +Devil." + +"Liar!" said Mary Antony, brandishing her wooden spoon. "Get thee +behind me--nay, rather, get thee in front of me! I have had thee +skulking behind me long enough. Also in front of me, just now, being +into the fire, thou wilt feel at home, Master Devil! Only, put not thy +tail into the Reverend Mother's broth." + + +When the White Ladies passed up from the Refectory, Mary Antony chanced +to be polishing the panelling around the picture of Saint Mary +Magdalen, beside the door of the Reverend Mother's cell. + +Presently Sister Mary Rebecca, arriving, lifted her hand to knock. + +"Stay!" whispered Mary Antony. "The Reverend Mother may not be +disturbed." + +Sister Mary Rebecca veiled her scowl with a smile. + +"And wherefore not, good Sister Antony?" + +"'Wherefore not' is not my business," retorted old Antony, as rudely as +she knew how. "It may be for special study; it may be for an hour of +extra devotion; it may be only the very natural desire for a little +respite from the sight of two such ugly faces as yours and mine. But, +be the reason what it may, Reverend Mother has locked her door, and +sees nobody this even." After which old Antony proceeded to polish the +outside of the Reverend Mother's door panels. + +Sister Mary Rebecca lifted her knuckles to rap; but old Antony's not +over clean clout was pushed each time between Sister Mary Rebecca's +tap, and the woodwork. + +Muttering concerning the report she would make to the Prioress in the +morning, Sister Mary Rebecca went to her cell. + +When all was quiet, when every door was closed, the old lay-sister +crept into the cloisters and, crouching in an archway just beyond the +flight of steps leading to the underground way, watched and waited. + +Storm clouds were gathering again, black on a purple sky. The +after-glow in the west had faded. It was dark in the cloisters. +Thunder growled in the distance; an owl hooted in the Pieman's tree. + +Mary Antony's old bones ached sorely, and her heart failed her. She +had sat so long in cramped positions, and she had not tasted food since +the mid-day meal. + +The Devil drew near, as he is wont to do, when those who have fasted +long, seek to keep vigil. + +"The Reverend Mother will not return," he whispered. "What wait you +for?" + +"Be off!" said Mary Antony. "I am too old to be keeping company, even +with thee. Also Sister Mary Rebecca awaits thee in her cell." + +"The Reverend Mother ever walked with her head among the stars," +sneered the Devil. "Why do the highest fall the lowest, when +temptation comes?" + +"Ask that of Mother Sub-Prioress," said Mary Antony, "next time she +bids thee to supper." + +Then she clasped her old hands upon her breast; for, very softly, in +the lock below, a key turned. + +Steps, felt rather than heard, passed up into the cloister. + +Then, in the dim light, the tall figure of the Prioress moved +noiselessly over the flagstones, passed through the open door and up +the deserted passage. + +Peering eagerly forward, the old lay-sister saw the Prioress pause +outside the door of her chamber, lift her master-key, unlock the door, +and pass within. + +As the faint sound of the closing of the door reached her straining +ears, old Mary Antony began to sob, helplessly. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +THE ECHO OF WILD VOICES + +When the Prioress entered her cell, she stood for a moment bewildered +by the rapid walk in the darkness. She could hardly realise that the +long strain was over; that she had safely regained her chamber. + +All was as she had left it. Apparently she had not been missed, and +had returned unobserved. Hugh was by now safely in the hostel at +Worcester. None need ever know that he had been here. + +None need ever know--Yet, alas, it was that knowledge which held the +Prioress rooted to the spot on which she stood, gazing round her cell. + +Hugh had been here; and when he was here, her one desire had been to +get him speedily away. + +But now? + +Dumb with the pain of a great yearning, she looked about her. + +Yes; just there he had stood; here he had knelt, and there he had stood +again. + +This calm monastic air had vibrated to the fervour of his voice. + +It had grown calm again. + +Would her poor heart in time also grow calm? Would her lips stop +trembling, and cease to feel the fire of his? + +Yet for one moment, only, her mind dwelt upon herself. Then all +thought of self was merged in the realisation of his loneliness, his +suffering, his bitter disillusion. To have found her dead, would have +been hard; to have lost her living, was almost past bearing. Would it +cost him his faith in God, in truth, in purity, in honour? + +The Prioress felt the insistent need of prayer. But passing the +gracious image of the Virgin and Child, she cast herself down at the +foot of the crucifix. + +She had seen a strong man in agony, nailed, by the cruel iron of +circumstance, to the cross-beams of sacrifice and surrender. To the +suffering Saviour she turned, instinctively, for help and consolation. + +Thus speedily had her prayer of the previous night been granted. The +piercèd feet of our dear Lord, crucified, had become more to her than +the baby feet of the Infant Jesus, on His Mother's knee. + +Yet, even as she knelt--supplicating, interceding, adoring--there +echoed in her memory the wicked shriek of Mary Seraphine: "A dead God +cannot help me! I want life, not death!" followed almost instantly by +Hugh's stern question: "Is this religion?" + +Truly, of late, wild voices had taken liberty of speech in the cell of +the Prioress, and had left their impious utterances echoing behind them. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +THE DIMNESS OF MARY ANTONY + +The Prioress had been back in her cell for nearly an hour, when a +gentle tap came on the door. + +"Enter," commanded the Prioress, and Mary Antony appeared, bearing +broth and bread, fruit and a cup of wine. + +The Prioress sat at her table, parchment and an open missal before her. +Her face was very white; also there were dark shadows beneath her eyes. +She did not smile at sight of old Antony, thus laden. + +"How now, Antony?" she said, almost sternly. "I did not bid thee to +bring me food." + +"Reverend Mother," said the old lay-sister, in a voice which strove to +be steady, yet quavered; "for long hours you have studied, not heeding +that the evening meal was over. Chide not old Antony for bringing you +some of that broth, which you like the best. You will not sleep unless +you eat." + +The Prioress looked at her uncomprehendingly; as if, for the moment, +words conveyed no meaning to her mind. Then she saw those old hands +trembling, and a sudden flood of colour flushed the pallor of her face. + +This sweet stirring of fresh life within her own heart gave her to see, +in the old woman's untiring devotion, a human element hitherto +unperceived. It brought a rush of comfort, in her sadness. + +She closed the volume, and pushed aside the parchment. "How kind of +thee, dear Antony, to take so much thought for me. Place the bowls on +the table. . . . Now draw up that stool, and stay near me while I sup. +I am weary this night, and shall like thy company." + +Had the golden gates of heaven opened before her, and Saint Peter +himself invited her to enter, Sister Mary Antony would not have been +more astonished and certainly could hardly have been more gratified. +It was a thing undreamed of, that she should be bidden to sit with the +Reverend Mother in her cell. + +Drawing the carven stool two feet from the wall, Mary Antony took her +seat upon it. + +"Nearer, Antony, nearer," said the Prioress. "Place the stool here, +close beside the corner of my table. I have much to say to thee, and +would wish to speak low." + +Truly Sister Antony found herself in the seventh heaven! + +Yet, quietly observing, the Prioress could not fail to note the drawn +weariness on the old face, the yellow pallor of the wizen skin, which +usually wore the bright tint of a russet apple. + +The Prioress took a portion of the broth; then pushed the bowl from +her, and turned to the fruit. + +"There, Antony," she said. "The broth is excellent; but I have enough. +Finish it thyself. It will pleasure me to see thee enjoy it." + +Faint and thankful, old Antony seized the bowl. And as she drank the +broth, her shrewd eyes twinkled. For had not the Devil said she would +sup on it herself; knowing that much, yet not knowing that she would +receive it from the hand of the Reverend Mother? + +It has been ever so, from Eden onwards, when the Devil tries his hand +at prophecy. + +For a while the Prioress talked lightly, of flowers and birds; of the +garden and the orchard; of the gift of three fine salmon, sent to them +by the good monks of the Priory at Worcester. + +But, presently, when the broth was finished and a faint colour tinted +the old cheeks, she passed on to the storm and the sunset, the rolling +thunder and the torrents of rain. Then of a sudden she said: + +"By the way, Antony, hast thou made mention, to any, of thy fearsome +tale of the walking through the cloisters, in line with the White +Ladies, of the Spectre of the saintly Sister Agatha?" + +"Nay, Reverend Mother," said Mary Antony. "Did not you forbid me to +speak of it?" + +"True," said the Prioress. "Well, Antony, I went in the storm, to look +for her; but--I found not Sister Agatha." + +"That I already knew," said Mary Antony, nodding her head sagaciously. + +The Prioress cast upon her a quick, anxious look. + +"What mean you, Antony?" + +Then old Mary Antony fell upon her knees, and kissed the hem of the +Prioress's robe. "Oh, Reverend Mother," she stammered, "I have a +confession to make!" + +"Make it," said the Prioress, with white lips. + +"Reverend Mother, when you sent me from you, after making my report, I +went first, as commanded, to the kitchens. But afterward, in my cell, +I found these." + +Mary Antony opened her wallet and drew out the linen bag in which she +kept her peas. Shaking its contents into the palm of her hand, she +held out six peas to view. + +"Reverend Mother," she said, "there were twenty-five in the bag. I +thought I had counted twenty out into my hand; so when all the peas had +dropped and yet another holy Lady passed, I thought that made +twenty-one. But when I found six peas in my bag, I became aware of my +folly. I had but counted nineteen, and had no pea to let fall for the +twentieth holy Lady. Yet I ran in haste with my false report, when, +had I but thought to look in my wallet, all would have been made clear. +Will the Reverend Mother forgive old Mary Antony?" + +She shot a quick glance at the Prioress; and, at sight of the immense +relief on that loved face, felt ready for any punishment with which it +might please Heaven to visit her deceit. + +"Dear Antony," began the Reverend Mother, smiling. + +"Dear Antony--" she said, and laughed aloud. + +Then she placed her hand beneath the old woman's arm, and gently raised +her. "Mistakes arise so easily," she said. "With the best of +intentions, we all sometimes make mistakes. There is nothing to +forgive, my Antony." + +"I am old, and dim, and stupid," said the lay-sister, humbly; "but I +have begged of our sweet Lady to sharpen the old wits of Mary Antony." + +After which statement, made in a voice of humble penitence, Mary +Antony, unseen by the thankful Prioress, did give a knowing wink with +the eye next to the Madonna. Our blessèd Lady smiled. The sweet Babe +looked merry. The Prioress rose, a great light of relief illumining +her weary face. + +"Let us to bed, dear Antony; then, with the dawn of a new day we shall +all arise with hearts refreshed and wits more keen. So now--God rest +thee." + + +Left alone, the Prioress knelt long in prayer before the shrine of the +Madonna. Once, she reached out her right hand to the empty space where +Hugh had knelt, striving to feel remembrance of his strong clasp. + +At length she sought her couch. But sleep refused to come, and +presently she crept back in the white moonlight, and kneeling pressed +her lips to the stone on which Hugh had kneeled; then fled, in shame +that our Lady should see such weakness; and dared not glance toward the +shadowy form of the dead Christ, crucified. For with the coming of +Love to seek her, Life had come; and where Life enters, Death is put to +flight; even as before the triumphant march of the rising sun, darkness +and shadows flee away. + + +Yet, even then, our Lady gently smiled, and the Babe on her knees +looked merry. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +IN THE CATHEDRAL CRYPT + +On the day following, in the afternoon, shortly before the hour of +Vespers, a stretcher was carried through the streets of Worcester, by +four men-at-arms wearing the livery of Sir Hugh d'Argent. + +Beside it walked the Knight, with bent head, his eyes upon the ground. + +The body of the man upon the stretcher was covered by a fine linen +sheet, over which lay a blue cloak, richly embroidered with silver. +His head was swathed in a bandage of many folds, partially concealing +the face. + +The little procession passed through the Precincts; then entered the +Cathedral by the great door leading into the nave. + +Here a monk stood, taking careful note of all who passed in or out of +the building. As the stretcher approached, he stepped forward with +hand upraised. + +There was a pause in the measured tramp of the bearers' feet. + +The Knight lifted his eyes, and seeing the monk barring the way, he +drew forth a parchment and tendered it. + +"I have the leave of the Lord Bishop, good father," he said, "to carry +this man upon the stretcher daily into the crypt, and there to let him +lie before the shrine of Saint Oswald, during the hour of Vespers; from +which daily pilgrimage and prayer, we hope a great recovery and +restoration." + +At sight of the Lord Bishop's signature and seal, the monk made deep +obeisance, and hastened to call the Sacristan, bidding him attend the +Knight on his passage to the crypt and give him every facility in +placing the sick man there where he might most conveniently lie before +the holy altar of the blessèd Saint Oswald. + +So presently, the stretcher being safely deposited, the men-at-arms +stood each against a pillar, and the Knight folded back the coverings, +in order that the man who lay beneath, might have sight of the altar +and the shrine. + +As the Knight stood gazing through the vista of many columns, he found +the old Sacristan standing at his elbow. + +"Most worshipful Knight," said the old man, with deference, "our Lord +Bishop's mandate supersedes all rules. Were it not so, it would be my +duty to clear the crypt before Vespers. See you that stairway yonder, +beneath the arch? Not many minutes hence, up those steps will pass the +holy nuns from the Convent of the White Ladies at Whytstone--noble +ladies all, and of great repute for saintliness. Daily they come to +Vespers by a secret way; entering the crypt, they pass across to a +winding stair in the wall, and so arrive at a gallery above the choir, +from which they can, unseen, hear the chanting of the monks. I must to +my duties above. Will you undertake, Sir Knight, that your men go not +nigh where the White Ladies pass, nor in any way molest them?" + +"None shall stir hand or foot, as they pass, nor in any way molest +them," said the Knight. + + +Hugh d'Argent was kneeling before the altar, his folded hands resting +upon the cross on the hilt of his sword, when the faint sound of a key +turning in a distant lock, caught his ear. + +Then up the steps and across the crypt passed, in silent procession, +the White Ladies of Worcester. + +There was something ghostly and awe-inspiring about those veiled +figures, moving noiselessly among the pillars in the dimly-lighted +crypt; then vanishing, one by one, up the winding stairway in the wall. + +The Knight did not stir. He stayed upon his knees, his hands clasped +upon his sword-hilt; but he followed each silent figure with his eyes. + +The last had barely disappeared from view when, from above, came the +solemn chanting of monks and choristers. + +This harmony, descending from above, seemed to uplift the soul all the +more readily, because the sacred words and noble sounds reached the +listener, unhampered by association with the personalities, either +youthful or ponderous, of the singers. All that was of the earth +remained unseen; while that which was so near akin to heaven, entered +the listening ear. + +Kneeling in lowly reverence with bowed head, the Knight found himself +wondering whether the ascending sounds reached that distant gallery in +the clerestory where the White Ladies knelt, as greatly softened, +sweetened, and enriched, as they now came stealing down into the crypt. +Were the hearts of those veiled worshippers also lifted heavenward; +or--being already above the music--did the ascending voices rather tend +to draw them down to earth? + +Upon which the Knight fell to meditating as to whether that which is +higher always uplifts; whereas that which is lower tends to debase. +Certainly the upward look betokens hope and joy; while the downward +casting of the eye, is sign of sorrow and despondency. + + +"_Levavi oculos meos in montes_"--chanted the monks, in the choir above. + + +He certainly looked high when he lifted the eyes of his insistent +desire to the Prioress of the White Ladies. So high did he lift them, +and so unattainable was she, that most men would say he might as well +ask the silvery moon, sailing across the firmament, to come down and be +his bride! + +He had held her high, in her maiden loveliness and purity. But now +that he had found her, a noble woman, matured, ripened by sorrow rather +than hardened, yet firm in her determination to die to the world, to +deny self, crucify the flesh, and resist the Devil--he felt indeed that +she walked among the stars. + +Yet he could not bring himself to regard her as unattainable. It had +ever been his firm belief that a man could win any woman upon whom he +wholly set his heart--always supposing that no other man had already +won her. And this woman had been his own betrothed, when treachery +intervened and sundered them. Yet that did not now count for much. + +He had left a girl; he had come back to find a woman. That woman had +infinitely more to give; but it would be infinitely more difficult to +persuade her to give it. + +At the close of their interview in her cell, the day before, all hope +had left him. But later, as they paced together in the darkness, hope +had revived. + +The strange isolation in which they then found themselves--between +locked doors a mile apart, earth above, earth beneath, earth all around +them, they two alone, entombed yet vividly conscious of glowing +life--had brought her nearer to him; and when at last the moment of +parting arrived and again he faced it as final, there had come--all +unheralded--the sudden wonder of her surrender. + +True, she had afterwards withdrawn herself; true, she had sent him from +her; true, he had gone, without a word. But that was because no +promise could have been so binding, as that silent embrace. + +He had gone from her on the impulse of the sweetness of obeying +instantly her slightest wish; buoyed up by the certainty that no +Convent walls could long divide lips which had met and clung with such +a passion of mutual need. + +That evening when, after much adventure, he at length gained the +streets of the city, he had trodden them with the mien of a victor. + +That night he had slept as he had not slept since the hour when his +whole life had been embittered by a lying letter and a traitorous +tongue. + +But morning, alas, had brought its doubts; noon, its dark +uncertainties; and as the hour of Vespers drew near, he had realised, +with the helpless misery of despair, that it was madness to expect the +Prioress of the White Ladies to break her vows, leave her Nunnery, and +fly with him to Warwick. + +Yet he carried out his plan, and kept to his undertaking, though here, +in the calm atmosphere of the crypt, holy chanting descending from +above, the remembrance still with him of the aloofness of those stately +white figures gliding between the pillars in the distance, he faced the +madness of his hopes, and the mournful prospect of a life of loneliness. + + +Presently he arose, crossed the crypt, and took up his position behind +a pillar to the right of the exit from the winding stair. + + +The chanting ceased. Vespers were over. + +He heard the sound of soft footsteps drawing nearer. + +The White Ladies were coming. + +They came. + +The Knight was not kept long in suspense. The Prioress walked first. +Her face was hidden, but her height and carriage revealed her to her +lover. She looked neither to right nor left but, turning away from the +pillar behind which the Knight stood concealed, crossed to the steps +leading down to the subterranean way, and so passed swiftly out of +sight. + +The Knight stood motionless until all had appeared, and had vanished +once more from view. + +One, tall but ungainly, crooked of body, and doubtless short of vision, +missed her way among the columns and passed perilously near to the +Knight. With his long arm, he could have clasped her. How old Antony +would have chuckled, could she but have known! "Sister Mary Rebecca +embraced by the Knight of the Bloody Vest? Nay then; the Saints +forbid!" + + +The stretcher, borne by four men-at-arms, passed out from the Cathedral. + +The Knight walked beside it, with bent head, and eyes upon the ground. + +As it passed through the Precincts, the Lord Bishop himself rode out on +his white palfrey, on his way to the Nunnery at Whytstone. + +The Knight, being downhearted, did not lift his eyes. + +The Bishop looked, kindly, upon the stretcher and upon the Knight's +dark face. + +The Bishop had known Hugh d'Argent as a boy. + +He grieved to see him thus in sorrow. + +Yet the Bishop smiled as he rode on. + +Perhaps he did not put much faith in the efficacy of relics, for so +heavily bandaged a broken head as that upon the stretcher. + +For there was a whimsical tenderness about the Bishop's smile. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +THE BISHOP PUTS ON HIS BIRETTA + +Symon, Lord Bishop of Worcester, having received a letter from the +Prioress of the White Ladies, praying him for an interview at his +leisure, sent back at once a most courtly and gracious answer, that he +would that same day give himself the pleasure of visiting the Reverend +Mother, at the Nunnery, an hour after Vespers. + +The great gates were thrown open, and the Bishop rode his palfrey into +the courtyard. + +The Prioress herself met him at the door and, kneeling, kissed his +ring; then led him through the lower hall, where the nuns knelt to +receive his blessing, and up the wide staircase, to the privacy of her +own cell. + +There she presently unfolded to him the history of her difficulties +with that wayward little nun, Sister Mary Seraphine. + +"But the point which I chiefly desire to lay before you, Reverend +Father," concluded the Prioress, "is this: If the neighing of a palfrey +calls more loudly to her than the voice of God; if her mind is still +set upon the things of the world; if she professed without a true +vocation, merely because she wished to be the central figure of a great +ceremony, yet was all the while expecting a man to intervene and carry +her off; if all this bespeaks her true state of heart, then to my mind +there comes the question: Is she doing good, either to herself or to +others, by belonging to our Order? Would she not be better away? + +"My lord, I fear I greatly shock you by naming such a possibility. But +truly I am pursued by the remembrance of that young thing, beating the +floor with her hands, and singing a mournful dirge about the crimson +trappings of her palfrey. And, alas! when I reasoned with her and +exhorted, she broke out, as I have told you, Reverend Father, into +grievous blasphemy--for which she was severely dealt with by Mother +Sub-Prioress, and has since been outwardly amenable to rules and +discipline. + +"But, though she may outwardly conform, how about her inward state? +Well I know that our vows are lifelong vows; all who belong to our +Order are wedded to Heaven; we are thankful to know that the calm of +the Cloister shall be exchanged only for the greater peace of Paradise. +But, supposing a young heart has mistaken its vocation; supposing the +voice of an earthly lover calls when it is too late; would it seem +right or possible to you, Reverend Father, to grant any sort of +absolution from the vows; tacitly to allow the opening of the cage +door, that the little foolish bird might, if it wished, escape into the +liberty for which it chafes and sighs?" + +The Bishop sat in the Spanish chair, drawn up near the oriel window, so +that he could either gaze at the glories of the distant sunset, or, by +slightly turning his head, look on the beautiful but grave face of the +Prioress, seated before him. + +While she was speaking he watched her keenly, with those bright +searching eyes, so much more youthful than aught else about him. But +now that he must make reply, he looked away to the sunset. + +The light shone on the plain gold cross at his breast, and on the +violet silk of his cassock. His face, against the background of the +black Spanish wood, looked strangely white and thin; strong in contour, +with a virile strength; in expression, sensitive as a woman's. He had +removed his biretta, and placed it upon the table. His silvery hair +rolled back from his forehead in silky waves. His was the look of the +saint and the scholar, almost of the mystic--save for the tender humour +in those keen blue eyes, gleaming like beacon lights from beneath the +level eyebrows; eyes which had won the confidence of many a man who +else had not dared unfold his very human story, to one of such saintly +aspect as Symon, Bishop of Worcester. They were turned toward the +sunset, as he made answer to the Prioress. + +"The little foolish bird," said the Bishop--and he spoke in that gently +musing tone, which conveys to the mind of the hearer a sense of +infinite leisure in which to weigh and consider the subject in +hand--"The little foolish bird might soon wish herself back in the +safety of the cage. On such as she, the cruel hawks of life do love to +prey. Absorbed in the contemplation of her own charms, she sees not, +until too late, the dangers which surround her. Such little foolish +birds, my daughter, are best in the safe shelter of the cloister. +Moreover, of what value are they in the world? None. If Popinjays wed +them, they do but hatch out broods of foolish little Popinjays. If +true men, caught by mere surface beauty, wed them, it can mean naught +save heartbreak and sorrow, and deterioration of the race. Women of +finer mould"--for an instant the Bishop's eyes strayed from the +sunset--"are needed, to be the mothers of the men who, in the years to +come, are to make England great. Nay, rather than let one escape, I +would shut up all the little foolish birds in a Nunnery, with our +excellent Sub-Prioress to administer necessary discipline." + +With his elbows resting upon the arms of the chair, the Bishop put his +fingers together, so that the tips met most precisely; then bent his +lips to them, and looked at the Prioress. + +She, troubled and sick at heart, lifting deep pools of silent misery, +met the merry twinkle in the Bishop's eyes, and sat astonished. What +was it like? Why it was like the song of a robin, perched on a frosty +bough, on Christmas morning! It was so young and gay; so jocund, and +so hopeful. + +Meeting it, the Prioress realised fully, what she had many times +half-divined, that the revered and reverend Prelate sitting opposite, +for all his robes and dignity, his panoply of Church and State, had the +heart of a merry schoolboy out on a holiday. + +For the moment she felt much older than the Bishop, infinitely sadder; +more travel-worn and worldly-wise. + +Then she looked at the silver hair; the firm mouth, with a shrewd curve +at either corner; the thoughtful brow. + +And then she looked at the Bishop's ring. + +The Bishop wore a remarkable ring; not a signet, but a large gem of +great value, beautifully cut in many facets, and clear set in massive +gold. This precious stone, said to be a chrysoprasus, had been given +to the Bishop by a Russian prince, in acknowledgment of a great service +rendered him when he came on pilgrimage to Rome. The rarity of these +gems arose partly from the fact that the sovereigns of Russia had +decreed that they should be held exclusively for royal ornament, +forbidding their use or purchase by people of lesser degree. + +But its beauty and its rarity were not the only qualities of the +precious stone in the Bishop's ring. The strangest thing about it was +that its colour varied, according to the Bishop's mood and surroundings. + +When the Prioress looked up and met the gay twinkle, the stone in the +Bishop's ring was a heavenly blue, the colour of forget-me-nots beside +a meadow brook, or the clear azure of the sky above a rosy sunset. But +presently he passed his hand over his eyes, as if to shut out some +bright vision, and to turn his mind to more sober thought; and, at that +moment, the stone in his ring gleamed a pale opal, threaded with +flashes of green. + +The Prioress returned to the subject, with studied seriousness. + +"I did not suppose, Reverend Father, that it was to be of any advantage +to the world, that Sister Seraphine should return to it. The advantage +was to be to her, and also to this whole Community, well rid of the +presence of one who finds our sacred exercises irksome; our beautiful +Nunnery, a prison; her cell, a living tomb. She cries out for life. +'I want to live,' she said, 'I am young, I am gay, I am beautiful! I +want life.'" + +"To such as Sister Seraphine," remarked the Bishop, gravely, "life is +but a mirror which reflects themselves. Other forms and faces may flit +by, in the background; dimly seen, scarcely noticed. There is but one +face and form occupying the entire foreground. Life is, to such, the +mirror which ministers to vanity. Should a husband appear in the +picture, he is soon relegated to the background, receiving only +occasional glances over the shoulder. If children dance into the field +of vision, they are petulantly driven elsewhere. Tell me? Did Sister +Seraphine's desire for life include any expression of the desire to +give life?" + +Involuntarily the Prioress glanced at the sweet Babe upon the Virgin's +knees. + +"No," she said, very low. + +"I thought not," said the Bishop. "Self-centred, shallow natures are +not capable of the sublime passion for motherhood; partly, no doubt, +because they themselves possess no life worth passing on." + +The Prioress rose quickly and, moving to the window, flung open a +second casement. It was imperative, at that moment, to hide her face; +for the uncontrollable flood of emotion at her heart, could scarce fail +to send a tell-tale wave to disturb the calm of her countenance. + +Whereupon the Bishop turned, to see at what the Prioress had glanced +before answering his question. + +"No," he mused, as she resumed her seat, his eyes upon the tree-tops +beyond the casement, "the Seraphines have not the instinct of +motherhood. And the future greatness of our race depends upon those +noble women who are able to pass on to their sons and daughters a life +which is true, and brave, and worthy; a life whose foundation is +self-sacrifice, whose cornerstone is loyalty, and from whose summit +waves the banner of unsullied love of hearth and home. + +"A woman with the true instinct of motherhood cannot see a little child +without yearning to clasp it to her bosom. When she finds her mate, +she thinks more of being the mother of his children than the object of +his devotion, because the Self in her is subservient to the maternal +instinct for self-sacrifice. These women are pure as snow, and they +hold their men to the highest and the best. Such women are needed in +the world. Our Lady knoweth, I speak not lightly, unadvisedly nor +wantonly; but were Seraphine such an one as this, I should say; 'Leave +the door on the latch. Without permission, yet without reproach--let +her go.'" + +"Were Seraphine such an one as that, my lord," said the Prioress, +firmly, "then would there be no question of her going. If the +cornerstone of character be loyalty, the very essential of loyalty is +the keeping of vows." + +"Quite so," murmured the Bishop; "undoubtedly, my daughter. Unless, by +some strange fatality, those vows were made under a total +misapprehension. You tell me Sister Seraphine expected a man to +intervene?" + +The Bishop sat up, of a sudden keenly alert. His eyes, no longer +humorous and tender, became searching and bright--young still, but with +the fire of youth, rather than its merriment. As he leaned forward in +his chair, his hands gripped his knees. Looking at his ring the +Prioress saw the stone the colour of red wine. + +"What if, after all, I can help you in this," he said. "What if I can +throw light upon the whole situation, and find a cause for the little +foolish bird's restless condition, proving to you that she may have +heard something more than the mere neighing of a palfrey! Listen! + +"A Knight arrived in this city, rather more than a month ago; a very +noble Knight, splendid to look upon; one of our bravest Crusaders. He +arrived here in sore anguish of heart. His betrothed had been taken +from him during his absence from England, waging war against the Turks +in Palestine--taken from him by a most dastardly and heartless plot. +He made many inquiries concerning this Nunnery and Order, rode north +again on urgent business, but returned, with a large retinue, five days +since." + +The Prioress did not stir. She maintained her quiet posture as an +attentive listener. But her face grew as white as her wimple, and she +folded her hands to steady their trembling. + +But the Bishop, now eagerly launched, had no interest in pallor, or +possible palsy. His vigorous words cut the calm atmosphere. The gem +on his finger sparkled like red wine in a goblet. + +"I knew him of old," he said; "knew him as a high-spirited lad, yet +loving, and much belovèd. He came to me, in his grief, distraught with +anguish of heart, and told me this tale of treachery and wrong. Never +did I hear of such a network of evil device, such a tragedy of loving +hearts sundered. And when at last he returned to this land, he found +that the girl whom he had thought false, thinking him so, had entered a +Nunnery. Also he seemed convinced that she was to be found among our +White Ladies of Worcester. Now tell me, dear Prioress, think you she +could be Seraphine?" + +The Prioress smiled; and truly it was a very creditable smile for a +face which might have been carved in marble. + +"From my knowledge of Sister Mary Seraphine," she said, "it seems +unlikely that for loss of her, so noble a Knight as you describe would +be distraught with anguish of heart." + +"Nay, there I do not agree," said the Bishop. "It is ever opposites +which attract. The tall wed the short; the stout, the lean; the dark, +the fair; the grave, the gay. Wherefore my stern Crusader may be +breaking his heart for your foolish little bird." + +"I do not think so," said the Prioress, shortly; then hastened to add: +"Not that I would presume to differ from you, Reverend Father. +Doubtless you are better versed in such matters than I. But--if it be +as you suppose--what measures do you suggest? How am I to deal with +Sister Mary Seraphine?" + +The Bishop leaned forward and whispered, though not another soul was +within hearing; but at this juncture in the conversation, a whisper was +both dramatic and effective. Also, when he leaned forward, he could +almost hear the angry beating of the heart of the Prioress. + +The Bishop held the Prioress in high regard, and loved not to distress +her. But he did not think it right that a woman should have such +complete mastery over herself, and therefore over others. A fine +quality in a man, may be a blemish in a woman. For which reason the +Bishop leaned forward and whispered. + +"Let her fly, my daughter; let her fly. If his arms await her, she +will not have far to go, nor many dangers to face. Her lover will know +how to guard his own." + +"My lord," said the Prioress, now flushed with anger, "you amaze me! +Am I to understand that you would have me open the Convent door, so +that a renegade nun may escape to her lover? Or perhaps, my lord, it +would better meet your ideas if I bid the porteress stand wide the +great gates, so that this high-spirited Knight may ride in and carry +off the nun he desires, in sight of all! My Lord Bishop! You rule in +Worcester and in the cities of the diocese. But _I_ rule in this +Nunnery; and while I rule here, such a thing as this shall never be." + +The Prioress flashed and quivered; rose to her feet and towered; flung +her arms wide, and paced the floor. + +"The Knight has bewitched you, my lord," she said. "You forget the +rules of our holy Church. You fail in your trust toward the women who +look to you as their spiritual Father and guide." + +The Prioress walked up and down the cell, and each time she passed her +chair she wheeled, and gripping the back with her strong fingers, shook +it. Not being able to shake the Bishop, she needs must shake something. + +"You amaze me!" she said. "Truly, my lord, you amaze me!" + +The Bishop put on his biretta. + +Only once before, in his eventful life, had he made a woman as angry as +this. Very young he was, then; and the angry woman had seized him by +his hair. + +The Bishop did not really think the Prioress would do this; but it +amused him to fancy he was afraid, and to put on his biretta. + +Then, as he leaned back in his chair, and his finger tips met, the +stone in his ring was blue again, and his eyes were more than ever the +eyes of a merry schoolboy out on a holiday. + +Yet, presently, he sought to calm the tempest he had raised. + +"My daughter," he said, "I did but agree to that which you yourself +suggested. Did you not ask whether it would seem to me right or +possible to grant absolution from her vows, tacitly to allow the +opening of the cage door, that the little foolish bird might, if she +wished it, escape? Why this exceeding indignation, when I do but yield +to your arguments and fall in with your suggestions?" + +"I did not suggest that a lover's arms were awaiting one of my nuns," +said the angry Prioress. + +"You did not mention arms," replied the Bishop, gently; "but you most +explicitly mentioned a voice. 'Supposing the voice of an earthly lover +calls,' you said. And--having admitted that I am better versed in such +matters than you--you must forgive me, dear Prioress, if I amaze you +further by acquainting you with the undoubted fact, recognised, in the +outer world, as beyond dispute, that when a lover's _voice_ calls, a +lover's _arms_ are likely to be waiting. Earthly lovers, my daughter, +by no means resemble those charming cherubs which you may have observed +on the carved woodwork in our Cathedral. Otherwise you might have just +a voice, flanked by seraphic wings. Some such fanciful creation must +have been in your mind for Sister Mary Seraphine; for, until I made +mention of the noble Knight who had arrived in Worcester distraught +with anguish of heart by reason of his loss, you had decided leanings +toward tacitly allowing flight. Therefore it was not the fact of the +broken vows, but the idea of Seraphine wedded to the brave Crusader, +which so greatly roused your ire." + +The Prioress stood silent. Her hot anger cooled, enveloped in the +chill mantle of self-revelation and self-scorn. + +It seemed to her that the gentle words of the Bishop indeed expressed +the truth far more correctly than he knew. + +The thought of Hugh, consoling himself with some foolish, vain, +unworthy, little Seraphine, had stung with intolerable pain. + +Yet, how should she, the cause of his despair, begrudge him any comfort +he might find in the love of another? + +Then, suddenly, the Prioress knelt at the feet of the Bishop. + +"Forgive me, most Reverend Father," she said. "I did wrong to be +angry." + +Symon of Worcester extended his hand, and the Prioress kissed the ring. +As she withdrew her lips from the precious stone, she saw it blood-red +and sparkling, as the juice of purple grapes in a goblet. + +The Bishop laid his biretta once more upon the table, and smiled very +tenderly on the Prioress, as he motioned her to rise from her knees and +to resume her seat. + +"You did right to be angry, my daughter," he said. "You were not angry +with me, nor with the brave Crusader, nor with the foolish Seraphine. +Your anger, all unconsciously, was aroused by a system, a method of +life which is contrary to Nature, and therefore surely at variance with +the will of God. I have long had my doubts concerning these vows of +perpetual celibacy for women. For men, it is different. The creative +powers in a man, if denied their natural functions, stir him to great +enterprise, move him to beget fine phantasies, creations of his brain, +children of his intellect. If he stamp not his image on brave sons and +fair daughters, he leaves his mark on life in many other ways, both +brave and fair. But it is not so with woman; in the very nature of +things it cannot be. Methinks these Nunneries would serve a better +purpose were they schools from which to send women forth into the world +to be good wives and mothers, rather than store-houses filled with sad +samples of Nature's great purposes deliberately unfulfilled." + +The merry schoolboy look had vanished. The Bishop's eyes were stern +and searching; yet he looked not on the Prioress as he spoke. + +Amazement was writ larger than ever, on her face; but she held herself +well under control. + +"Such views, my lord, if freely expressed and adopted, would change the +entire monastic system." + +"I know it," said the Bishop. "And I would not express them, saving to +you and to one other, to whom I also talk freely. But the older I +grow, the more clearly do I see that systems are man-made, and +therefore often mistaken, injurious, pernicious. But Nature is Divine. +Those who live in close touch with Nature, who rule their lives by +Nature's rules, do not stray far from the Divine plan of the Creator. +But when man takes upon himself to say 'Thou shalt,' or 'Thou shalt +not,' quickly confusion enters. A false premise becomes the +starting-point; and the goal, if it stop short of perdition, is, at +best, folly and failure." + +The Bishop paused. + +The eyes of the woman before him were dark with sorrow, regret, and the +dawning of a great fear. Presently she spoke. + +"To say these things here, my lord, is to say them too late." + +"It is never too late," replied Symon of Worcester. "'Too late' tolls +the knell of the coward heart. If we find out a mistake while we yet +walk the earth where we made it, it is not too late to amend it." + +"Think you so, Reverend Father? Then what do you counsel me to +do--with Seraphine?" + +"Speak to her gently, and with great care and prudence. Say to her +much of that which you have said to me, and a little of that which I +have said to you, but expressed in such manner as will be suited to a +foolish mind. You and I can hurl bricks at one another, my dear +Prioress, and be the better for the exercise. But we must not fling at +little Seraphine aught harder than a pillow of down. Empty heads, like +empty eggshells, are soon broken. Tell her you have consulted me +concerning her desire to return to the world; and that I, being +lenient, and holding somewhat wider views on this subject than the +majority of prelates, also being well acquainted with the mind of His +Holiness the Pope concerning those who embrace the religious life for +reasons other than a true vocation, have promised to arrange the matter +of a dispensation. But add that there must be no possibility of any +scandal connected with the Nunnery. Since the Lady Wulgeova, mother of +Bishop Wulstan, of blessèd memory, took the veil here a century and a +half ago, this house has ever been above reproach. You will tacitly +allow her to slip away; and, once away, I will set matters right for +her. But nothing must transpire which could stumble or scandalise the +other members of the Community. The peculiar circumstances which the +Knight made known to me--always, of course, without making any mention +of the name of Seraphine--can hardly have occurred in any other case. +It is not likely, for instance, that our worthy Sub-Prioress was torn +by treachery from the arms of a despairing lover; and she would +undoubtedly share your very limiting ideas of a lover's physical +qualities and requirements; possibly not even allowing him a voice. + +"Now I happen to know that the Knight daily spends the hour of Vespers +in the Cathedral crypt, kneeling before the shrine of Saint Oswald +beside a stretcher whereon lies one of his men, much bandaged about the +head, swathed in linen, and covered with a cloak. The Knight has my +leave to lay the sick man before the holy relics, daily, for five days. +I asked of him what he expected would result from so doing. He made +answer: 'A great recovery and restoration.'" + +The Bishop paused, as if meditating upon the words. Then he slowly +repeated them, taking evident pleasure in each syllable. + +"A great recovery and restoration," said the Bishop, and smiled. + +"Well? The blessèd relics can do much. They may avail to mend a +broken head. Could they mend a broken heart? I know not. That were, +of the two, the greater miracle." + +The Bishop glanced at the Prioress. + +Her face was averted. + +"Well, my daughter, matters being as they are, you may inform Sister +Mary Seraphine that, should she chance to lose her way among the +hundred and forty-two columns, when passing through the crypt after +Vespers, she will find a Knight, who will doubtless know what to do +next. If he can contrive to take her safely from the Cathedral and out +of the Precincts, she will have to ride with him to Warwick, where a +priest will be in readiness to wed them. But it would be well that +Sister Mary Seraphine should have some practice in mounting and riding, +before she goes on so adventurous a journey. She may remember the +crimson trappings of her palfrey, and yet have forgotten how to sit +him. It is for us to make sure that the Knight's brave plans for the +safe capture of his lady, do not fail for lack of any help which we may +lawfully give." + +The Bishop stretched out his hand and took up his biretta. + +"When did the nuns last have a Play Day?" he asked. + +"Not a month ago," replied the Prioress. "They made the hay in the +river meadow, and carried it themselves. They thought it rare sport." + +The Bishop put on his biretta. + +"Give them a Play Day, dear Prioress, in honour of my visit. Tell them +I asked that they should have it the day after to-morrow. I will then +send you my white palfrey, suitably caparisoned. Brother Philip, who +attends me when I ride, and who has the palfrey well controlled, shall +lead him in. The nuns can then ride in turns, in the river meadow; and +our little foolish bird can try her wings, before she attempts the long +flight from Worcester to Warwick." + +The Bishop rose, crossed the cell, and knelt long, in prayer, before +the crucifix. + +When he turned toward the door, the Prioress said: "I pray you, give me +your blessing, Reverend Father, before you go." + +She knelt, and the Bishop extended his hand over her bowed head. + +Expecting a Latin formula, she was almost startled when tender words, +in the English tongue, fell softly from the Bishop's lips. + +"The Lord bless thee, and keep thee; and grant unto thee grace and +strength to choose and to do the harder part, when the harder part is +His will for thee." + +After which: "_Benedictio Domini sit vobiscum_," said the Bishop; and +made the sign of the cross over the bowed head of the Prioress. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + +HOLLY AND MISTLETOE + +Symon, Bishop of Worcester, had bidden Sir Hugh d'Argent to sup with +him at the Palace. + +It was upon the second day after the Bishop's conversation with the +Prioress in the Convent at Whytstone; the evening of the Nun's Play +Day, granted in honour of his visit. + +The Bishop and the Knight supped together, with much stately ceremony, +in the great banqueting hall. + +Knowing the Bishop's love of the beautiful, and his habit of being +punctilious in matters of array and deportment, acquired no doubt +during his lengthy sojourns in France and Italy, the Knight had donned +his finest court suit--white satin, embroidered with silver; jewelled +collar, belt, and shoes; a small-sword of exquisite workmanship at his +side. A white cloak, also richly embroidered with silver, hung from +his shoulders; white silk hose set off the shapely length of his limbs. +The blood-red gleam of the magnificent rubies on his breast, +sword-belt, and shoe-buckles, were the only points of colour in his +attire. + +The Bishop's keen eyes noted with quiet pleasure how greatly this +somewhat fantastically beautiful dress enhanced the dark splendour of +the Knight's noble countenance, displayed his superb carriage, and +shewed off the supple grace of his limbs, which, in his ordinary garb, +rather gave the idea of massive strength alone. + +The Bishop himself wore crimson and gold; and, just as the dark beauty +of the Knight was enhanced by the fair white and silver of his dress, +so did these gorgeous Italian robes set off the frail whiteness of the +Bishop's delicate face, the silvery softness of his abundant hair. And +just as the collar of rubies gleamed like fiery eyes upon the Knight's +white satin doublet, so from out the pallor of the Prelate's +countenance the eyes shone forth, bright with the fires of eternal, +youth, the gay joy of life, the twinkling humour of a shrewd yet kindly +wit. + +They supped at a round table of small size, in the very centre of the +huge apartment. It formed a point of light and brightness from which +all else merged into shadow, and yet deeper shadow, until the eye +reached the dark panelling of the walls. + +The light seemed to centre in the Knight--white and silver; the colour, +in the figure of the Bishop--crimson and gold. + +In and out of the shadows, swift and silent, on sandalled feet, moved +the lay-brothers serving the feast; watchful of each detail; quickly +supplying every need. + +At length they loaded the table with fruit; put upon it fresh flagons +of wine, and finally withdrew; each black-robed figure merging into the +black shadows, and vanishing in silence. + +The Bishop's Chaplain appeared in a distant doorway. + +"_Benedicite_," said Symon of Worcester, looking up. + +"_Deus_," replied the Chaplain, making a profound obeisance. + +Then he stood erect--a grim, austere figure, hard features, hollow +eyes, half-shrouded within his cowl. + +He looked with sinister disapproval at the distant table, laden with +fruit and flagons; at the Bishop and the Knight, now sitting nigh to +one another; the Bishop in his chair of state facing the door, the +Knight, on a high-backed seat at the Bishop's right hand, half-way +round the table. + +"Holly and Mistletoe," muttered the Chaplain, as he closed the great +door. + +"Yea, verily! Mistletoe and Holly," he repeated, as he strode to his +cell. "The Reverend Father sups with the World, and indulges the +Flesh. Methinks the Devil cannot be far off." + +Nor was he. + +He was very near. + +He had looked over the Chaplain's shoulder as he made his false +obeisance in the doorway. + +But he liked not the pure white of the Knight's dress, and he feared +the clear light in the Prelate's eyes. So, when the Chaplain closed +the door, the Devil stayed on the outside, and now walked beside the +Chaplain along the passage leading to his cell. + +There is no surer way of securing the company of the Devil, than to +make sure he is at that moment busy with another--particularly if that +other chance to be the most saintly man you know, and merely +displeasing to you, at the moment, because he hath not bidden you to +sup with him. The Devil and the Chaplain made a night of it. + + +The Bishop's gentle "_Benedicite_" spread white wings and flew, like an +affrighted dove, over the head of the bowing Chaplain, into the chill +passage beyond. + +But, just as the great door was closing, it darted in again, circled +round the banqueting hall, and came back to rest in the safe nest of +the kindly heart which had sent it forth. + +No blessing, truly vitalised, ever ceases to live. If the blessed be +unworthy, it returns on swift wing to the blesser. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +SO MUCH FOR SERAPHINE! + +A sense of peace fell upon the banqueting hall, with the closing of the +door. All unrest and suspicion seemed to have departed. An atmosphere +of confidence and serenity pervaded the great chamber. It was in the +Bishop's smile, as he turned to the Knight. + +"At length the time has come when we may talk freely; and truly, my +son, we have much to say." + +The Knight glanced round the spacious hall, and his look implied that +he would prefer to talk in a smaller chamber. + +"Nay, then," said the Bishop. "No situation can be better for a +private conversation than the very centre of a very large room. Have +you not heard it said that walls have ears? Well, in a small room, +they may use them to some purpose. But here, we sit so far removed +from the walls that, strain their ears as they may, they will hear +nothing; even the very key-hole, opening wide its naughty eye, will see +naught, neither will the adjacent ear hear anything. We may speak +freely." + +The Bishop, signing to the Knight to help himself to fruit, moved the +wine toward him. At his own right hand stood a Venetian flagon and +goblet of ruby glass, ornamented with vine leaves and clusters of +grapes. The Bishop drank only from this flagon, pouring its contents +himself into the goblet which he held to the light before he drank from +it, enjoying the rich glow of colour, and the beauty of the engraving. +His guests sometimes wondered what specially choice kind of wine the +Bishop kept for his own, exclusive use. If they asked, he told them. + +"The kind used at the marriage feast at Cana in Galilee, when the +supply of an inferior quality had failed. This, my friends, is pure +water, wholesome, refreshing, and not costly. I drink it from glass +which gives to it the colour of the juice of the grape, partly in order +that my guests may not feel chilled in their own enjoyment of more gay +and luscious beverage; partly because I enjoy the emblem. + +"The gifts of circumstance, life, and nature, vary, not so much in +themselves, as in the human vessels which contain them. If the heart +be a ruby goblet, the humblest form of pure love filling it, will +assume the rich tint and fervour of romance. If the mind be, in +itself, a thing of vivid tints and glowing colours, the dullest thought +within it will take on a lustre, a sparkle, a glow of brilliancy. +Thus, whensoever men or matters seem to me dull or wearisome, to myself +I say: 'Symon! Thou art this day, thyself, a pewter pot.'" + +Then the Bishop would fill up his goblet and hold it to the light. + +"Aye, the best wine!" he would say. "'Thou hast kept the best wine +until now.' The water of earth--drawn by faithful servants, acting in +unquestioning obedience to the commands of the blessèd Mother of our +Lord--transmuted by the word and power of the Divine Son; outpoured for +others, in loving service; this is ever 'the best wine.'" + + +The Knight filled his goblet and took some fruit. Then, leaving both +untouched, turned his chair sidewise, that he might the better face the +Bishop, crossed his knees, leaned his right elbow on the table and his +head upon his hand, pushing his fingers into his hair. + +Thus, for a while, they sat in silence; the Knight's eyes searching the +Bishop's face; the Bishop, intent upon the colour of his ruby goblet. + +At length Hugh d'Argent spoke. + +"I have been through deep waters, Reverend Father, since last I supped +with you." + +The Bishop put down the goblet. + +"So I supposed, my son. Now tell me what you will, neither more nor +less. I will then give you what counsel I can. On the one point +concerning which you must not tell me more than I may rightly know, I +will question you. Have you contrived to see the woman you loved, and +lost, and are now seeking to regain? Tell me not how, nor when, nor +where; but have you had speech with her? Have you made clear to her +the treachery which sundered you? Have you pleaded with her to +remember her early betrothal, to renounce these later vows, and to fly +with you?" + +The Knight looked straight into the Bishop's keen eyes. + +At first he could not bring himself to answer. + +This princely figure, with his crimson robes and golden cross, so +visibly represented the power and authority of the Church. + +His own intrusion into the Nunnery, his attempt to win away a holy nun, +suddenly appeared to him, as the most appalling sacrilege. + +With awe and consternation in his own, he met the Bishop's eyes. + +At first they were merely clear and searching, and the Knight sat +tongue-tied. But presently there flicked into them a look so human, so +tender, so completely understanding, that straightway the tongue of the +Knight was loosed. + +"My lord, I have," he said. "All those things have I done. I have +been in heaven, Reverend Father, and I have been in hell----" + +"Sh, my son," murmured the Bishop. "Methinks you have been in a place +which is neither heaven nor hell; though it may, on occasion, +approximate somewhat nearly to both. How you got there, is a marvel to +me; and how you escaped, without creating a scandal, an even greater +wonder. Yet I think it wise, for the present, not to know too much. I +merely required to be certain that you had actually found your lost +betrothed, made her aware of your proximity, your discovery, and your +desires. I gathered that you had succeeded in so doing; for, two days +ago, the Prioress herself sent to beg a private interview with me, in +order to ask whether, under certain circumstances, I could approve the +return of a nun to the world, and obtain absolution from her vows." + +The rubies on the Knight's breast suddenly glittered, as if a bound of +his heart had caused them all to leap together. But, except for that +quick sparkle, he sat immovable, and made no sign. + +The Bishop had marked the gleam of the rubies. + +He lifted his Venetian goblet to the light and observed it carefully, +as he continued: "The Prioress--a most wise and noble lady, of whom I +told you on the day when you first questioned me concerning the +Nunnery--has been having trouble with a nun, by name Sister Mary +Seraphine. This young and lovely lady has, just lately, heard the +world loudly calling--on her own shewing, through the neighing of a +palfrey bringing to mind past scenes of gaiety. But--the Prioress +suspicioned the voice of an earthly lover; and I, knowing how reckless +and resolute an earthly lover was attempting to invade the Nunnery, we +both--the Prioress and I--drew our own conclusions, and proceeded to +face the problem with which we found ourselves confronted, +namely:--whether to allow or to thwart the flight of Seraphine." + +The Knight, toying with walnuts, held at the moment four in the palm of +his right hand. They broke with a four-fold crack, which sounded but +as one mighty crunch. Then, all unconscious of what he did, the Knight +opened his great hand and let fall upon the table, a little heap of +crushed nuts, shells and white flesh inextricably mixed. + +The Bishop glanced at the small heap. The veiled twinkle in his eyes +seemed to say; "So much for Seraphine!" + +"I know not any lady of that name," said the Knight. + +"Not by that name, my son. The nuns are not known in the Convent by +the names they bore before they left the world. I happen to know that +the Prioress, before she professed, was Mora, Countess of Norelle. I +know this because, years ago, I saw her at the Court, when she was a +maid of honour to the Queen; very young and lovely; yet, even then +remarkable for wisdom, piety, and a certain sweet dignity of +deportment. Sometimes now, when she receives me in the severe habit of +her Order, I find myself remembering the flow of beautiful hair, soft +as spun silk, bound by a circlet of gold round the regal head; the +velvet and ermine; the jewels at her breast. Yet do I chide myself for +recalling things which these holy women have renounced, and doubtless +would fain forget." + +The Bishop struck a silver gong with his left hand. + +At once a distant door opened in the dark panelling and two black-robed +figures glided in. + +"Kindle a fire on the hearth," commanded the Bishop; adding to his +guest: "The evening air strikes chilly. Also I greatly love the smell +of burning wood. It is pungent to the nostrils, and refreshing to the +brain." + +The monks hastened to kindle the wood and to fan it into a flame. + +Presently, the fire blazing brightly, the Bishop rose, and signed to +the monks to place the chairs near the great fireplace. This they did; +and, making profound obeisance, withdrew. + +Thus the Bishop and the Knight, alone once more, were seated in the +firelight. As it illumined the white and silver doublet, and glowed in +the rubies, the Bishop conceived the whimsical fancy that the Knight +might well be some splendid archangel, come down to force the Convent +gates and carry off a nun to heaven. And the Knight, watching the +leaping flame flicker on the Bishop's crimson robes and silvery hair, +saw the lenient smile upon the saintly face and took courage as he +realised how kindly was the heart, filled with most human sympathy, +which beat beneath the cross of gold upon the Prelate's breast. + +Leaning forward, the Bishop lifted the faggot-fork and moved one of the +burning logs so that a jet of blue smoke, instead of mounting the +chimney, came out toward them on the hearth. + +Symon of Worcester sat back and inhaled it with enjoyment. + +"This is refreshing," he said. "This soothes and yet braces the mind. +And now, my son, let us return to the question of your own private +concerns. First, let me ask--Hugh, dear lad, as friend and counsellor +I ask it--are you able now to tell me the name of the woman you desire +to wed?" + +"Nay, my dear lord," replied the Knight, "that I cannot do. I guard +her name, as I would guard mine honour. If--as may our Lady be pleased +to grant--she consent to fly with me, her name will still be mine to +guard; yet then all men may know it, so they speak it with due respect +and reverence. But if--as may our blessèd Lady forbid--she withhold +herself from me, so that three days hence I ride away alone; then must +I ride away leaving no shadow of reproach on her fair fame. Her name +will be forever in my heart; but no word of mine shall have left it, in +the mind of any man, linked with broken vows, or a forsaken lover." + +The Bishop looked long and earnestly at the Knight. + +"That being so, my son," he said at length, "for want of any better +name, I needs must call her by the name she bears in the Nunnery, and +now speak with you of Sister Mary Seraphine." + +Hugh d'Argent frowned. + +"I care not to hear of this Seraphine," he said. + +"Yet I fear me you must summon patience to hear of Seraphine for a few +moments," said the Bishop, quietly; "seeing that I have here a letter +from the Prioress herself, in which she sends you a message. . . . Ah! +I marvel not that you are taken by surprise, my dear Knight; but keep +your seat, and let not your hand fly so readily to your sword. To +transfix the Reverend Mother's gracious epistle on your blade's keen +point, would not tend to elucidate her meaning; nor could it alter the +fact that she sends you important counsel concerning Sister Mary +Seraphine." + +The Bishop lighted a wax taper standing at his elbow, drew a letter +from the folds of his sash, slowly unfolded and held it to the light. + +The Knight sat silent, his face in shadow. The leaping flame of the +fire played on his sword hilt and on the rubies across his breast. + +As the parchment crackled between the Bishop's fingers, the Knight kept +himself well in hand; but he prayed he might not have need to speak, +nor to meet the Bishop's eyes. These--the saints be praised--were now +intent upon the closely written page. + +The light of the taper illumined the almost waxen whiteness of the +gentle face, and gleamed upon the Bishop's ring. The Knight, fixing +his eyes upon the stone, saw it the colour of red wine. + +At last the Bishop began to speak with careful deliberation, his eyes +upon the letter, yet telling, instead of reading; a method ofttimes +maddening to an anxious listener, eager to snatch the parchment and +master its contents for himself; yet who must perforce wait to receive +them, with due patience, from another. + +"The Prioress relates to me first of all a conversation she had, by my +suggestion, with Sister Mary Serephine, in which she told that lady +much of what passed between herself and me when she consulted me upon +the apparent desire of this nun to escape from the Convent, renounce +her vows, and return to her lover and the world--her lover who had come +to save her." + +The Bishop paused. + +The Knight stirred uneasily in his seat. A net seemed to be closing +around him. Almost he saw himself compelled to ride to Warwick in +company with this most undesired and undesirable nun, Mary Seraphine. + +The Bishop raised his eyes from the letter and looked pensively into +the fire. + +"A most piteous scene took place," he said, "on the day when Sister +Seraphine first heard again the call of the outer world. Most moving +it was, as told me by the Prioress. The distraught nun lay upon the +floor of her cell in an abandonment of frantic weeping. She imitated +the galloping of a horse with her hands and feet, a ride of some sort +evidently being in her mind. At length she lifted a swollen +countenance, crying that her lover had come to save her." + +The Knight clenched his teeth, in despair. Almost, he and this +fearsome nun had arrived at Warwick, and she was lifting a swollen +countenance to him that he might embrace it. + +Yet Mora well knew that he had not come for any Seraphine! Mora might +deny herself to him; but she would not foist another upon him. Only, +alas! this grave and Reverend Prioress of whom the Bishop spoke, hardly +seemed one with the woman of his desire; she who, but three evenings +before, had yielded her lips to his, clasping her arms around him; +loving, even while she denied him. + +The Bishop's eyes were again upon the letter. + +"The Prioress," he said, "with her usual instinctive sense of the +helpfulness of outward surroundings, and desiring, with a fine justice, +to give Seraphine--and her lover--every possible advantage, arranged +that the conversation should take place in the Nunnery garden, in a +secluded spot where they could not be overheard, yet where the sunshine +glinted, through overhanging branches, flecking, in golden patches, the +soft turf; where birds carolled, and spread swift wings; where white +clouds chased one another across the blue sky; in fact, my son," said +the Bishop, suddenly looking up, "where all Nature sang aloud of +liberty and nonrestraint." + +The Knight's eyes, frowning from beneath a shading hand, were gloomy +and full of sombre fury. + +It mattered not to him in what surroundings this preposterous offer, +that she should leave the Convent and fly with him to Warwick, had been +made to Seraphine. Her swollen countenance would be equally +unattractive, whether lifted in cell or cloister, or where white clouds +chased one another across the blue sky! + +The Knight felt as if he were being chased, and by something more to be +feared than a white cloud. Grim Nemesis pursued him. This reverend +prelate, whom he had deemed so wise, was well-nigh witless. Yet Mora +knew the truth. Would her kind hands deal him so base a blow? + +The Bishop saw the brooding rage in the Knight's eyes, and he lowered +his own to the letter, in time to hide their twinkling. + +Even the best and bravest of Knights, for having forced his way into a +Nunnery, pressed a suit upon a nun, and escaped unscathed, deserved +some punishment at the hands of the Church! + +"Which was generous in the Reverend Mother," said the Bishop, "since +she was inclined, upon the whole, to disapprove this offering of +liberty to the restless nun. You can well understand that, the +responsibility for the good conduct of that entire Community resting +upon the Prioress, she is bound to regard with disfavour any innovation +which might tend to provoke a scandal." + +The Bishop did not look up, or he would have seen dull despair +displacing the Knight's anger. + +"However she appears faithfully to have laid before Sister Mary +Seraphine, my view of the matter, giving her to understand that I am +inclined to be lenient concerning vows made under misapprehension; also +that, when there is not a true vocation, and a worldly spirit chafes +against the cloistered life, I regard its presence within the Community +as more likely to be harmful to the common weal, than the short-lived +scandal which might arise if those in power should connive at an +escape." + +The Knight moved impatiently in his seat. + +"Could we arrive, my lord," he said, "at the Lady Prioress's message, +of which you spoke?" + +"We are tending thither, my son," replied the Bishop, unruffled. "Curb +your impatience. We of the Cloister are wont to move slowly, with +measured tread--each step a careful following up of the step which went +before--not with the leaps and bounds and capers of the laity. In due +time we shall reach the message. + +"Well, in this conversation the Prioress appears to have complied with +my suggestions, excepting in the matter of one most important detail, +concerning which she used her own discretion. I distinctly advised her +to tell Seraphine that we were aware of your arrival, and that to my +certain knowledge you were in the crypt each afternoon at the hour when +the White Ladies pass to and from Vespers. In fact, my dear Knight, I +even went so far as to suggest to the Reverend Mother to give Sister +Mary Seraphine to understand that if she stepped aside, losing her way +among the many pillars, you would probably know what to do next. + +"But the Reverend Mother writes"--at last the Bishop began to read: "'I +felt so sure from your description of the noble Knight who came to you +in his trouble, that he cannot be the lover of this shallow-hearted +little Seraphine, that I deemed it wise not to tell her of his arrival, +nor to mention your idea, that the woman he seeks is to be found in +this Nunnery.'" + +The smothered sound which broke from the Knight was a mixture of +triumph, relief, and most bitter laughter. + +"Now that is like the Prioress," said the Bishop; "thus to use her own +judgment, setting at naught my superior knowledge of the facts, and +flouting my authority! A noble nature, Hugh, and most lovable; yet an +imperious will, and a strength of character and purpose unusual in a +woman. Had she remained in the world and married, her husband would +have found it somewhat difficult wholly to mould her to his will. Yet +to possess such a woman would have been worth adventuring much. But I +must not fret you, dear lad, by talking of the Prioress, when your mind +is intent upon arriving at the decision of Seraphine. + +"Well, I fear me, I have but sorry news for you. The Reverend Mother +writes: 'Sister Mary Seraphine expressed herself as completely +satisfied with the cloistered life. She declared that her desire to +return to the world had been but a passing phase, of which she was +completely purged by the timely discipline of Mother Sub-Prioress, and +by the fact that she has been appointed, with Sister Mary Gabriel, to +embroider the new altar-cloth for the Chapel. She talked more eagerly +about a stitch she is learning from Mary Gabriel, than about any of +those by-gone memories, which certainly had seemed most poignantly +revived in her; and I had no small difficulty in turning her mind from +the all-absorbing question as to how to obtain the right tint for the +pomegranates. My lord, to a mind thus intent upon needle-work for the +Altar of God, I could scarce have brought myself to mention the call of +an earthly lover, even had I believed your Knight to be seeking +Seraphine. Her heart is now wedded to the Cloister.'" + +The Bishop looked up. + +"Therefore, my son, we must conclude that your secret interview, +whenever or wherever it took place, had no effect--will bear no lasting +fruit." The Bishop could not resist this allusion to the pomegranates +of Seraphine. + +But Hugh d'Argent, face to face with the suspended portcullis of his +fate, trampled all such gossamer beneath impatient feet. + +He moistened his dry lips. + +"The message," he said. + +The Bishop lifted the letter. + +"'But,'" he read, "'if you still believe your noble Knight to be the +lover of Seraphine, then I pray you to tell him this from me. No nun +worthy of a brave man's love, would consent to break her vows. A nun +who could renounce her vows to go to him, would wrong herself and him, +bringing no blessing to his home. Better an empty hearth, than a +hearth where broods a curse. I ask you, my lord, to give this as a +message to that noble Knight from me--the Prioress of this House--and +to bid him go in peace, praying for a heart submissive to the will of +God.'" + +The Bishop's voice fell silent. He had maintained its quiet tones, yet +perforce had had to rise to something of the dignity of this final +pronouncement of the Prioress, and he spoke the last words with deep +emotion. + +Hugh d'Argent leaned forward, his elbows on his knees; then dropped his +head upon his hands, and so stayed motionless. + +The portcullis had fallen. Its iron spikes transfixed his very soul. + +She was his, yet lost to him. + +This final word of her authority, this speaking, through the Bishop's +mouth, yet with the dignity of her own high office, all seemed of set +intent, to beat out the last ray of hope within him. + +As he sat silent, with bowed head, wild thoughts chased through his +brain. He was back with her in the subterranean way. He knelt at her +feet in the yellow circle of the lantern's light. Her tender hands, +her woman's hands, her firm yet gentle hands, fell on his head; the +fingers moved, with soothing touch, in and out of his hair. Then--when +his love and longing broke through his control--came her surrender. + +Ah, when she was in his arms, why did he loose her? Or, when she had +unlocked the door, and the dim, grey light, like a pearly dawn at sea, +stole downward from the crypt, why, like a fool, did he mount the steps +alone, and leave her standing there? Why did he not fling his cloak +about her, and carry her up, whether she would or no? "Why?" cried the +demon of despair in his soul. "Ah, why!" + +But, even then, his own true heart made answer. He had loosed her +because he loved her too well to hold her to him when she had seemed to +wish to stand free. And he had gone alone, because never would he +force a woman to come with him against her will. His very strength was +safeguard to her weakness. + +Presently Hugh heard the Bishop folding the Prioress's letter. He +lifted his head and held out his hand. + +The Bishop was slipping the letter into his sash. + +He paused. Those eyes implored. That outstretched hand demanded. + +"Nay, dear lad," said the Bishop. "I may not give it you, because it +mentions the White Ladies by name, the Order, and poor little shallow, +changeful Seraphine herself, But this much I will do: as _you_ may not +have it, none other shall." With which the Bishop, unfolding the +Prioress's letter, flung it upon the burning logs. + +Together they watched it curl and blacken; uncurl again, and slowly +flake away. Long after the rest had fallen to ashes, this sentence +remained clear: "Better an empty hearth; than a hearth where broods a +curse." The flames played about it, but still it remained legible; +white letters, upon a black ground; then, letters of fire upon grey +ashes. + +Of a sudden the Knight, seizing the faggot-fork, dashed out the words +with a stroke. + +"I would risk the curse," he cried, with passion. "By Pilate's water, +I would risk the curse!" + +"I know you would, my son," said the Bishop, "and, by our Lady's crown, +I would have let you risk it, believing, as I do, that it would end in +blessing. But--listen, Hugh. In asking what you asked, you scarce +know what you did. You need not say 'yea,' nor 'nay,' but I incline to +think with the Reverend Mother, that the woman you sought was not +foolish little Seraphine, turned one way by the neighing of a palfrey, +another by the embroidering of a pomegranate. There are women of finer +mould in that Nunnery, any one of whom may be your lost betrothed. But +of this we may be sure: whosoever she be, the Prioress knows her, and +knew of whom she wrote when she sent you that message. She has the +entire confidence of all in the Nunnery. I verily believe she knows +them better than does their confessor--a saintly old man, but dim. + +"Now, listen to me. I said you knew not what you asked. Hugh, my lad, +if you had won your betrothed away, you would have had much to learn +and much to unlearn. Believe me, I know women, as only a priest of +many years' standing can know them. Women are either bad or good. The +bad are bad below man's understanding, because their badness is not +leavened by one grain of honour; a fact the worst of men will ever fail +to grasp. The good are good above man's comprehension, because their +perfect purity of heart causeth the spirit ever to triumph over the +flesh; and their love-instinct is the instinct of self-sacrifice. +Every true woman is a Madonna in the home, or fain would be, if her man +would let her. To such a woman, each promise of a child is an +Annunciation; our Lady's awe and wonder, whisper again in the temple of +her inner being; for her love has deified the man she loves; and, it +seems to her, a child of his and hers must be a holy babe, born into +the world to help redeem it. And so it would be, could she but have +her way. But too often the man fails to understand, and so spoils the +perfect plan. And she to whom love means self-sacrifice, sacrifices +all--even her noblest ideals--sooner than fail a call upon her love. +Yet I say again, could the Madonna instinct have had full sway, the +world would have been redeemed ere now to holiness, to happiness, to +health. + +"You looked high, my son, by your own shewing. You loved high. Your +love was worthy, for you remained faithful, when you believed you had +been betrayed. Let your consolation now be the knowledge that she also +was faithful, and that it is a double faithfulness which keeps her from +responding to the call of your love. Seek union with her on the +spiritual plane, and some day--in the Realm where all noble things +shall attain unto full perfection--you may yet give thanks that your +love was not allowed to pass through the perilous pitfalls of an +earthly union." + +The Knight looked at the delicate face of the Bishop, with its wistful +smile, its charm of extreme refinement. + +Yes! Here spoke the Prelate, the Idealist, the Mystic. + +But the Knight was a man and a lover. + +His dark face flushed, and his eyes grew bright with inward fires such +as the Bishop could hardly be expected to understand. + +"I want not spiritual planes," he said, "nor realms of perfection. I +want my own wife, in my own home; and, could I have won her there, I +have not much doubt but that I could have lifted her over any perilous +pitfalls that came in her way." + +"True, my son," said the Bishop, at once gently acquiescent; for Symon +of Worcester invariably yielded a point which had been misunderstood. +For over-rating a mind with which he conversed, this was ever his +self-imposed penance. "Your great strength would be fully equal to +lifting ladies over pitfalls. Which recalls to my mind a scene in this +day's events, which I would fain describe to you before we part." + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +WHAT BROTHER PHILIP HAD TO TELL + +The Bishop sat back in his chair, smiling, as at a mental picture which +gave him pleasure, coupled with some amusement. + +Ignoring the Knight's sullen silence, he began his story in the +cheerful voice which takes for granted a willing and an interested +listener. + +"When the Prioress and myself were discussing your hopes, my son, and I +was urging, in your interests, liberty of flight for Sister Mary +Seraphine, I informed the Reverend Mother that the carrying out of your +plans, carefully laid in order to keep any scandal concerning the White +Ladies from reaching the city, would involve for Seraphine a ride of +many hours to Warwick, almost immediately upon safely reaching the Star +hostel. This seemed as nothing to the lover who, by his own shewing, +had ofttimes seen her 'ride like a bird, all day, on the moors.' But +to us who know the effect of monastic life and how quickly such matters +as these become lost arts through disuse, this romantic ride in the +late afternoon and on into the summer night, loomed large as a possible +obstacle to the successful flight of Seraphine. + +"Therefore, in order that our little bird might try her wings, regain +her seat and mastery of a horse, and rid herself of a first painful +stiffness, I persuaded the Reverend Mother to grant the nuns a Play +Day, in honour of my visit, promising to send them my white palfrey, +suitably caparisoned, in safe charge of a good lay-brother, so that all +nuns who pleased, might ride in the river meadow. You would not think +it," said the Bishop, with a smile, "but the White Ladies dearly love +such sport, when it is lawful. They have an agèd ass which they +gleefully mount in turns, on Play Days, in the courtyard and in the +meadow. Therefore riding is not altogether strange to them, although +my palfrey, Iconoklastes, is somewhat of an advance upon their mild +ass, Sheba." + +The Knight's sad face had brightened at mention of the beasts. + +"Wherefore 'Iconoklastes'?" he asked, with interest. It struck him as +a curious name for a palfrey. + +"Because," replied the Bishop, "soon after I had bought him he trampled +to ruin, in a fit of misplaced merriment, some flower beds on which I +had spent much precious time and care, and of which I was inordinately +fond." + +"Brute," said the Knight, puzzled, but unwilling to admit it. +"Methinks I should have named him 'Devil,' for the doing of such +diabolic mischief." + +"Nay," said the Bishop, gently. "The Devil would have spared my flower +beds. They were a snare unto me." + +"And wherefore 'Sheba'?" queried the Knight. + +"I named her so, when I gave her to the Prioress," said the Bishop, "in +reply to a question put to me by the Reverend Mother. The ass was +elderly and mild, even then, but a handsome creature, of good breed. +The Prioress asked me whether she still had too much spirit to be +easily managed by the lay-sisters. I answered that her name was +'Sheba.'" + +The Bishop paused and rubbed his hands softly over each other, in +gleeful enjoyment of the recollection. + +But the Knight again looked blank. + +"Did that content the Prioress?" he asked; but chiefly for love of +mentioning her name. + +"Perfectly," replied the Bishop. "She smiled and said: 'That is well.' +And the name stuck to the ass, though the Reverend Mother and I alone +understood its meaning." + +"About the Play Day?" suggested the Knight, growing restive. + +"Ah, yes! About the Play Day. The time chosen was after noon on this +day, in order that the Prioress might first accomplish her talk with +Seraphine, thus clearing the way for our experiment. Although written +last evening, I had not received the Reverend Mother's decisive letter, +when Iconoklastes set forth; and, I confess, I looked forward with keen +interest, to questioning the lay-brother on his return. As I have told +you, I had doubts concerning Seraphine; but I knew the Prioress would +see to it that my meaning and intention reached the member of the +Community actually concerned, were she Seraphine or another; and I +should have light, both on the identity of the lady and on her probable +course of action, when report reached me as to which of the nuns had +taken the riding seriously. Therefore, with no little interest, I +awaited the return of Iconoklastes, in charge of Brother Philip." + +The Bishop lifted the faggot-fork and, bending over the hearth, began +to build the logs, quickening the dying flame. + +"Well?" cried the Knight, chafing like a charger on the curb. "Well, +my lord? And then?" + +The Bishop stood the faggot-fork in its corner. + +"I paused, my son, that you might say: 'Wherefore "Philip"?'" + +"The names of men interest me not," said the Knight, with impatience. +"I care but to know the reason for the names of beasts." + +"Quite right," said the Bishop. "Adam named the beasts; Eve named the +men. Yet, I would like you to ask 'Wherefore "Philip,"' because the +Prioress at once put that question, when she heard me call Brother Mark +by his new name." + +"Wherefore 'Philip'?" asked the Knight, with averted eyes. + +"Because 'Philip' signifies 'a lover of horses.' I named the good +brother so, when he developed a great affection for all the steeds in +my stables. + +"Well, at length Brother Philip returned, leading the palfrey. I had +been riding upon the heights above the town, on my comely black mare, +Shulamite." + +Again the Bishop paused, and shot a merry challenge at Hugh d'Argent; +but realising at once that the Knight could brook no more delay, he +hastened on. + +"Riding into the courtyard, just as Philip led in the palfrey, I bade +him first to see to Icon's comfort; then come to my chamber and report. +Before long the lay-brother appeared. + +"Now Brother Philip is an excellent teller of stories. He does not +need to mar them by additions, because his quickness of observation +takes in every detail, and his excellent memory lets nothing slip. He +has a faculty for recalling past scenes in pictures, and tells a story +as if describing a thing just happening before his mental vision: the +sole draw-back to so vivid a memory being, that if the picture grows +too mirth provoking, Brother Philip is seized with spasms of the +diaphragm, and further description becomes impossible. On this +occasion, I saw at once that the good brother's inner vision teemed +with pictures. I settled myself to listen. + +"Aye, it had been a wonderful scene, and more merriment, so the +lay-sisters afterwards told Brother Philip, than ever known before at +any Play Day. + +"Icon was led in state from the courtyard, down into the river meadow. + +"At first the great delight was to crowd round him, pat him, stroke his +mane, finger his trappings; cry out words of ecstatic praise and +admiration, and attempt to feed him with all manner of unsuitable food. + +"Icon, I gather, behaved much as most males behave on finding +themselves the centre of a crowd of admiring women. He pawed the +ground, and swished his tail; arched his neck, and looked from side to +side; munched cakes he did not want, winking a large and roguish eye at +Brother Philip; and finally, ignoring all the rest, fixed a languorous +gaze upon the Prioress, she being the only lady present who stood +apart, regarding the scene, but taking no share in the general +adulation. + +"At length the riding began; Brother Philip keeping firm hold on Icon, +while the entire party of nuns undertook to mount the nun who had +elected to ride. Each time Brother Philip attempted a description of +this part of the proceedings he was at once seized with such spasms in +the region of his girdle, that speech became an impossibility; he could +but hold himself helplessly, looking at me from out streaming eyes, +until a fresh peep at his mental picture again bent him double. + +"Much as I prefer a story complete, from start to finish, I was +constrained to command Brother Philip to pass on to scenes which would +allow him some possibility of articulate speech. + +"The sternness of my tones gave to the good brother the necessary +assistance. In a voice still weak and faltering, but gaining firmness +as it proceeded, he described the riding. + +"Most of the nuns rode but a few yards, held in place by so many +willing hands that, from a distance, only the noble head of Icon could +be seen above the moving crowd, surmounted by the terrified face of the +riding nun; who, hastening to exclaim that her own delight must not +cause her to keep others from participation, would promptly fall off +into the waiting arms held out to catch her; at once becoming, when +safely on her feet, the boldest encourager of the next aspirant to a +seat upon the back of Icon. + +"Sister Mary Seraphine proved a disappointment. She had been wont to +boast so much of her own palfrey, her riding, and her hunting, that the +other nuns had counted upon seeing her gallop gaily over the field. + +"The humble and short-lived attempts were all made first. Then Sister +Mary Seraphine, bidding the others stand aside, was swung by one tall +sister, acting according to her instructions, neatly into the saddle. + +"She gathered up the reins, as to the manner born," and bade Brother +Philip loose the bridle. But the palfrey, finding himself no longer +hemmed in by a heated, pressing crowd, gave, for very gladness of +heart, a gay little gambol. + +"Whereupon, Sister Mary Seraphine, almost unseated, shrieked to Brother +Philip to hold the bridle, rating him soundly for having let go. + +"He then led Icon about the meadow, the nuns following in procession; +Sister Seraphine all the while complaining; first of the saddle, which +gripped her where it should not, leaving an empty space there where +support was needed; then of the palfrey's paces; then of a twist in her +garments--twice the procession stopped to adjust them; then of the ears +of the horse which twitched for no reason, and presently pointed at +nothing--a sure sign of frenzy; and next of his eye, which rolled round +and was vicious. + +"At this, Mother Sub-Prioress, long weary of promenading, yet +determined not to be left behind while others followed on, exclaimed +that if the eye of the creature were vicious, then must Sister Mary +Seraphine straightway dismount, and the brute be led back to the seat +where the Prioress sat watching. + +"To this Seraphine gladly agreed, and a greatly sobered procession +returned to the top of the field. + +"But gaiety was quickly restored by the old lay-sister, Mary Antony, +who, armed with the Reverend Mother's permission, insisted on mounting. + +"Willing hands, miscalculating the exceeding lightness of her aged +body, lifted her higher than need be, above the back of the palfrey. +Whereupon Mary Antony, parting her feet, came down straddling! + +"Firm as a limpet, she sat thus upon Icon. No efforts of the nuns +could induce her to shift her position. Commanding Brother Philip, +seeing 'the Lord Bishop' was now safely mounted, to lead on and not +keep him standing, old Antony rode off in triumph, blessing the nuns +right and left, as she passed. + +"Never were heard such shrieks of merriment! Even Mother Sub-Prioress +sank upon a seat to laugh with less fatigue. Sister Seraphine's +fretful complaints were forgotten. + +"Twice round the field went old Antony, with fingers uplifted. Icon +stepped carefully, arching his neck and walking as if he well knew that +he bore on his back, ninety odd years of brave gaiety. + +"Well, that made of the Play Day a success. But--the best of all was +yet to come." + +The Bishop took up the faggot-fork, and again tended the fire. He +seemed to find it difficult to tell that which must next be told. + +The Knight was breathing quickly. He sat immovable; yet the rubies on +his breast glittered continuously, like so many eager, fiery eyes. + +The Bishop went on, speaking rapidly, the faggot-fork still in his +hand, his face turned to the fire. + +"They had lifted Mary Antony down, and were crowding round Icon, +patting and praising him, when a message came from the Reverend Mother, +bidding Brother Philip to bring the palfrey into the courtyard; the +nuns to remain in the field. + +"They watched the beautiful creature pace through the archway and +disappear, and none knew quite what would happen next. Philip heard +them discussing it later. + +"Some thought the Bishop had sent for his palfrey. Others, that the +Reverend Mother had feared for the safety of the old lay-sister; or, +lest her brave example should fire the rest to be too venturesome. Yet +all eyes were turned toward the archway, vaguely expectant. + +"And then---- + +"They heard the hoofs of Icon ring on the flagstones of the courtyard. + +"They heard the calm voice of the Prioress. Could it be she who was +coming? + +"Out from the archway, into the sunshine, alone and fearless; the +Prioress rode upon Icon. On her face was the light of a purposeful +radiance. The palfrey stepped as if proud of the burden he carried. + +"She smiled and would have cried out gaily to the groups as she passed. +But, with one accord, the nuns dropped to their knees, with clasped +hands, and faces uplifted, adoring. Always they loved her, revered +her, and thought her beautiful. But this vision of the Prioress, whom +none had ever seen mounted, riding forth into the sunshine on the +snow-white palfrey, filled their hearts with praise and with wonder. + +"Brother Philip leaned against the archway, watching. He knew his hand +upon the bridle was no longer needed, from the moment when he saw the +Reverend Mother gather up the reins in her left hand, lay her right +gently on the neck of Icon, and, bending, speak low in his ear. + +"She sat a horse--said Philip--as only they can sit, who have ridden +from childhood. + +"She walked him round the meadow once, then gently shook the reins, and +he broke into a trot. + +"The watching nuns, now on their feet again, shrieked aloud, with +fright and glee. + +"At the extreme end of the meadow, wheeling sharply, she let him out +into a canter. + +"The nuns at this were petrified into dumbness. One and all held their +breath; while Mother Sub-Prioress--nobody quite knew why--turned upon +Sister Mary Seraphine, and shook her. + +"And the next moment the Prioress was among them, walking the palfrey +slowly, settling her veil, which had streamed behind her as she +cantered, bending to speak to one and another, as she passed. + +"And the light of new life was in her eyes. Her cheeks glowed, she +seemed a girl again. + +"Reining in Iconoklastes, she paused beside Mother Sub-Prioress and +said----" + +The Bishop broke off, while he carefully stood the faggot-fork up in +its corner. + +"She paused and said: 'None need remain here longer than they will. +But, being up and mounted, and our Lord Bishop in no haste for the +return of his palfrey, it is my intention to ride for an hour.'" + +Symon of Worcester turned and looked full at the Knight. + +"And the Prioress rode for an hour," he said. "For a full hour, in the +sunshine, on the soft turf of the river meadow, THE PRIORESS TRIED HER +WINGS." + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +THE MIDNIGHT ARRIVAL + +Hugh d'Argent sat speechless, returning the Bishop's steady gaze. + +No fear was in his face; only a great surprise. + +Presently into the eyes of both there crept a look which was +half-smile, half-wistful sorrow, but wholly trustful; a look to which, +as yet, the Bishop alone held the key. + +"So you know, my lord," said Hugh d'Argent. + +"Yes, my son; I know." + +"Since this morning?" + +"Nay, then! Since the first day you arrived with your story; asking +such careful questions, carelessly. But be not wroth with yourself, +Hugh. Faithful to the hilt, have you been. Only--no true lover was +ever a diplomat! Matters which mean more than life, cannot be +dissembled by true hearts from keen eyes." + +"Then why all the talk concerning Seraphine?" demanded the Knight. + +"Seraphine, my son, has served a useful purpose in various +conversations. Never before, in the whole of her little shallow, +selfish life has Seraphine been so disinterestedly helpful. That you +sat here just now, thinking me witless beyond belief, just when I most +desired not to appear to know too much, I owe to the swollen +countenance of Seraphine." + +"My lord," exclaimed the Knight, overcome with shame. "My lord! How +knew you----" + +"Peace, lad! Fash not thyself over it. Is it not a part of my sacred +office to follow in the footsteps of my Master and to be a discerner of +the thoughts and intents of the heart? Also, respecting, yea, +approving your reasons for reticence, I would have let you depart not +suspecting my knowledge of that which you wished to conceal, were it +not that we must now face this fact together:--Since penning that +message of apparent finality, the Prioress has tried her wings." + +A rush of bewildered joy flooded the face of the Knight. + +"Reverend Father!" he said, "think you that means hope for me?" + +Symon of Worcester considered this question carefully, sitting in his +favourite attitude, his lips compressed against his finger-tips. + +At length; "I think it means just this," he said. "A conflict, in her, +between the mental and the physical; between reason and instinct; +thought and feeling. The calm, collected mind sent you that reasoned +message of final refusal. The sentient body, vibrant with bounding +life, instinctively prepares itself for the possibility of the ride +with you to Warwick. This gives equal balance to the scale. But a +third factor will be called in, finally to decide the matter. By that +she will abide; and neither you nor I, neither earth nor hell, neither +things past, things present, nor things to come, could avail to move +her." + +"And that third factor?" questioned the Knight. + +"Is the Spiritual," replied the Bishop, solemnly, with uplifted face. + +"With that, there came over the Knight a sudden sense of compunction. +He began for the first time to see the matter as it must appear to the +Bishop and the nun. His own obstinate and determined self-seeking +shamed him. + +"You have been very good to me, my lord," he said humbly. "You have +been most kind and most generous, when indeed you had just cause to be +angry." + +The Bishop lowered his eyes from the rafters, and bent them in +questioning gaze upon Hugh d'Argent. + +"Angry, my son? And wherefore should I be angry?" + +"That I should have sought, and should still be seeking, to tempt the +Prioress to wrong-doing." + +The Bishop's questioning gaze took on a brightness which almost became +the light of sublime contempt. + +"_You_--tempt _her_?" he said. "Tempt her to wrong-doing! The man +lives not, who could succeed in that! She will not come to you unless +she knows it to be right to come, and believes it to be wrong to stay. +If I thought you were tempting her, think you I would stand aside and +watch the conflict? Nay! But I stand aside and wait while she--of +purer, clearer vision, and walking nearer Heaven than you or +I--discerns the right, and, choosing it, rejects the wrong. Should she +be satisfied that life with you is indeed God's will for her--and I +tell you honestly, it will take a miracle to bring this about--she will +come to you. But she will not come to you unless, in so doing, she is +choosing what to her is the harder part." + +"The harder part!" exclaimed the Knight. "You forget, my lord, she +loves me." + +"Do I forget?" replied the Bishop. "Have you found me given to +forgetting? The very fact that she loves you, is the heaviest factor +against you--just now. To such women there comes ever the instinctive +feeling, that that which would be sweet must be wrong, and the hard +path of renunciation the only right one. They climb not Zion's mount +to reach the crown. They turn and wend their way through Gethsemane to +Calvary, sure that thus alone can they at last inherit. And what can +we say? Are they not following in the footsteps of the Son of God? I +fear my nature turns another way. I incline to follow King David, or +Solomon in all his glory, chanting glad Songs of Ascent, from the +Palace on Mount Zion to the Temple on Mount Moriah. All things +harmonious, in sound, form, or colour, seem to me good and, therefore, +right. But long years in Italy have soaked me in the worship of the +beautiful, inextricably intermingled with the adoration of the Divine. +I mistrust mine own judgment, and I fear me"--said the Prelate, whose +gentle charity had won so many to religion--"I greatly fear me, I am +far from being Christlike. But I recognise the spirit of +self-crucifixion, when I see it. And the warning that I give you, is +not because I forget, but because I remember." + +As the last words fell in solemn utterance from the Bishop's lips, the +silence without was broken by the loud clanging of the outer bell; +followed by hurrying feet in the courtyard below, the flare of torches +shining up upon the casements, and the unbarring of the gate. + +"It must be close on midnight," said Hugh d'Argent; "a strange hour for +an arrival." + +The banqueting hall, on the upper floor of the Palace, had casements at +the extreme end, facing the door, which gave upon the courtyard. + +The Knight walked over to one of these casements standing open, kneeled +upon the high window-seat, and looked down. + +"A horseman has ridden in," he said, "and ridden fast. His steed is +flecked with foam, and stands with spreading nostrils, panting. . . . +The rider has passed within. . . . Your men, my lord, are leading away +the steed." The Knight returned to his place. "Brave beast! Methinks +they would do well to mix his warm mash with ale." + +Symon of Worcester made no reply. + +He sat erect, with folded hands, a slight flush upon his cheeks, +listening for footsteps which must be drawing near. + +They came. + +The door, at the far end of the hall, opened. + +The gaunt Chaplain stood in the archway, making obeisance. + +"Well?" said the Bishop, dispensing with the usual formalities. + +"My lord, your messenger has returned, and requests an audience without +delay." + +"Bid him enter," said the Bishop, gripping the arms of the chair, and +leaning forward. + +The Chaplain, half-turning, beckoned with uplifted hand; then stood +aside, as rapid feet approached. + +A young man, clad in a brown riding-suit, dusty and travel-stained, +appeared in the doorway. Not pausing for any monkish salutations or +genuflections, he strode some half-dozen paces up the hall; then swung +off his hat, stopped short with his spurs together, and bowed in +soldierly fashion toward the great fireplace. + +Thrusting his hand into his breast, he drew out a packet, heavily +sealed. + +"I bring from Rome," he said--and his voice rang through the +chamber--"for my Lord Bishop of Worcester, a letter from His Holiness +the Pope." + +The Knight sprang to his feet. The Bishop rose, a noble figure in +crimson and gold, and the dignity of his high office straightway +enveloped him. + +In complete silence, he stretched out his right hand for the letter. + +The dusty traveller came forward quickly, knelt at the Bishop's feet, +and placed the missive in his hands. + +As the Bishop lifted the Pope's letter and, stooping his head, kissed +the papal seal, the Knight kneeled on one knee, his hand upon his +sword-hilt, his eyes bent on the ground. + +So for a moment there was silence. The sovereignty of Rome, stretching +a mighty arm across the seas, asserted its power in the English hall. + +Then the Bishop placed the letter upon a small table at his right hand, +seated himself, and signed to both men to rise. + +"How has it fared with you, Roger?" he asked, kindly. + +"Am I in time, Reverend Father?" exclaimed the youth, eagerly. "I +acted on your orders. No expense was spared. I chartered the best +vessel I could find, and had set sail within an hour of galloping into +the port. We made a good passage, and being fortunate in securing +relays of horses along the route, I was in Rome twenty-four hours +sooner than we had reckoned. I rode in at sunset; and, your name and +seal passing me on everywhere, your letter, my lord, was in the Holy +Father's hands ere the glow had faded from the distant hills. + +"I was right royally entertained by Cardinal Ferrari; and, truth to +tell, a soft couch and silken quilts were welcome, after many nights of +rough lodging, in the wayside inns of Normandy and Italy. Moreover, +having galloped ahead of time, I felt free to take a long night's +repose. + +"But next morning, soon after the pigeons began to coo and circle, I +was called and bid to hasten. Then, while I broke my fast with many +strange and tasty dishes, seated in a marble court, with fountains +playing and vines o'erhanging, the Cardinal returned, he having been +summoned already to the bedchamber of the Pope, where the reply of His +Holiness lay, ready sealed. + +"Whereupon, my lord, I lost no time in setting forth, picking up on my +return journey each mount there where I had left it, until I galloped +into the port where our vessel waited. + +"Then, alas, came delay, and glad indeed was I, that I had not been +tempted to linger in Rome; for the winds were contrary; some days +passed before we could set sail; and when at last I prevailed upon the +mariners to venture, a great storm caught us in mid-channel, +threatening to rend the sails to ribbons and, lifting us high, hurl us +all to perdition. Helpless and desperate, for the sailors had lost all +control, I vowed that if the storm might abate and we come safe to +harbour I would--when I succeed to my father's lands in +Gloucestershire--give to the worthy Abbot of an Abbey adjoining our +estate, a meadow, concerning which he and his monks have long broken +the tenth commandment and other commands as well, a trout stream +running through it, and the dearest delight of the Abbot being fat +trout for supper; and of the monks, to lie on their bellies tickling +the trout as they hide in the cool holes under the banks of the stream. +But when my father finds the monks thus poaching, he comes up behind +them, and up they get quickly--or try to! So, in mid-channel, +remembering my sins, I remembered running to tell my father that if he +came quickly he would find the good Brothers flat on their bellies, +sleeves rolled back, heads hanging over the water, toes well tucked +into the turf, deeply intent upon tickling. Then I would run by a +short cut, hide in the hazels, and watch while my father stalked up +through the meadow, caught and belaboured the poachers. My derisive +young laughter seemed now to howl and shriek through the rigging. So I +vowed that if the storm abated and we came safe to port, the monks +should be given that meadow. Upon which the storm did abate, and to +port we came--and what my father will say, I know not! Fearing +vexation to you, my lord, from this untoward delay, on landing I rode +as fast as mine own good horse could carry me. Am I in time?" + +The Bishop smiled as he looked into the blue eyes and open countenance +of young Roger de Berchelai, a youth wholly devoted to his service. +Here was another who remembered in pictures, and Symon of Worcester +loved the gallop, and rush, and breeze of the sea, which had swept +through the chamber, in the eager young voice of his envoy. + +"Yes, my son," said the Bishop. "You have returned, not merely in +time, but with two days to spare. Was there ever fleeter messenger! +Indeed my choice was well made and my trust well placed. Now you must +sup and then take a much-needed rest, dear lad; and to-morrow tell me +if you had need to spend more than I gave you." + +Raising his voice, the Bishop called his Chaplain; whereupon that +sinister figure at once appeared in the doorway. + +The Bishop gave orders concerning the entertaining of the young Esquire +of Berchelai; then added; "And let the chapel be lighted, Father +Benedict. So soon as the aurora appears in the east, I shall celebrate +mass, in thanksgiving for the blessing of a letter from the Holy +Father, and for the safe return of my messenger. I shall not need your +presence nor that of any of the brethren, save those whose watch it +chances to be. . . . _Benedicite_." + +"_Deus_," responded Father Benedict, bowing low. + +Young Roger, gay and glad, knelt and kissed the Bishop's ring; then, +rising, flung back a strand of fair hair which fell over his forehead, +and said: "A bath, my lord, would be even more welcome than supper and +bed. It shames me to have come in such travel-stained plight into your +presence, and that of this noble knight," with a bow to Hugh d'Argent. + +"Nay," said Hugh, smiling in friendly response. "Travel-stains gained +in such fashion, are more to be desired than silks and fine linen. I +would I could go to rest this night knowing I had accomplished as much." + +"Go and have thy bath, boy," said the Bishop. "This will give my monks +time to tickle, catch, and cook, trout for thy supper! Ah, thou young +rascal! But that field is _Corban_, remember. Sup well, rest well, +and the blessing of the Lord be with thee." + +The brown riding-suit vanished through the archway. + +Father Benedict's lean hand pulled the door to. + +The Bishop and the Knight were once more alone. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +THE POPE'S MANDATE + +The Bishop and Hugh d'Argent were once more alone. It was +characteristic of both that they sat for some minutes in unbroken +silence. + +Then the Bishop put out his hand, took up the packet from Rome, and +looked at the Knight. + +Hugh d'Argent rose, walked over to the casement, and leaned out into +the still, summer night. + +He could hear the Bishop breaking the seals of the Pope's letter. + +Below in the courtyard, all was quiet. The great gates were barred. +He wondered whether the steaming horse had been well rubbed down, +clothed, and given a warm mash mixed with ale. + +He could hear the Bishop unfolding the parchment, which crackled. + +The moon, in her first quarter, rode high in the heavens. The towers +of St. Mary's church looked black against the sky. + +The Palace stood on the same side of the Cathedral as the main street +of the city, in the direct route to the Foregate, the Tithing, and the +White Ladies' Nunnery at Whytstone. How strange to remember, that +beneath him lay that mile-long walk in darkness; that just under the +Palace, so near the Cathedral, she and he, pacing together, had known +the end of their strange pilgrimage to be at hand. Yet then---- + +He could hear the Bishop turning the parchment. + +How freely the silvery moon sailed in this stormy sky, like a noble +face looking calmly out, and ever out again, from amid perplexities and +doubts. + +In two nights' time, the moon would be well-nigh full. Would he be +riding to Warwick alone, or would she be beside him? + +As the Bishop had said, he had described her as riding all day, like a +bird, on the moors. Yet now he loved best to picture her riding forth +upon Icon into the river meadow, her veil streaming behind her; "on her +face the light of a purposeful radiance." + +Ah, would she come? Would she come, or would she stay? Would she +stay, or would she come? + +The moon was now hidden by a cloud; but he could see the edge of the +cloud silvering. + +If the moon sailed forth free, before he had counted to twelve, she +would come. + +He began to count, slowly. + +At nine, the moon was still hidden; and the Knight's heart failed him. + +But at ten, the Bishop called: "Hugh!" and turning from the casement +the Knight answered to the call. + +The Bishop held in his hands the Pope's letter, and also a +legal-looking document, from which seals depended. + +"This doth closely concern you, my son," said the Bishop, with some +emotion, and placed the parchment in the Knight's hands. + +Hugh d'Argent could have mastered its contents by the light of the wax +taper burning beside the Bishop's chair. But some instinct he could +not have explained, caused him to carry it over to the table in the +centre of the hall, whereon four wax candles still burned. He stood to +read the document, with his back to the Bishop, his head bent close to +the flame of the candles. + +Once, twice, thrice, the Knight read it, before his bewildered brain +took in its full import. Yet it was clear and unmistakable--a +dispensation, signed and sealed by the Pope, releasing Mora, Countess +of Norelle, from all vows and promises taken and made when she entered +the Nunnery of the White Ladies of Worcester, at Whytstone, in the +parish of dairies, and later on when she became Prioress of that same +Nunnery; and furthermore stating that this full absolution was granted +because it had been brought to the knowledge of His Holiness that this +noble lady had entered the cloistered life owing to a wicked and +malicious plot designed to wrest her castle and estates from her, and +also to part her from a valiant Knight, at that time fighting in the +Holy Wars, to whom she was betrothed. + +Furthermore the deed empowered Symon, Bishop of Worcester or any priest +he might appoint, to unite in marriage the Knight Crusader, Hugh +d'Argent, and Mora de Norelle, sometime Prioress of the White Ladies of +Worcester. + + +The Knight walked back to the hearth and stood before the Bishop, the +parchment in his hand. + +"My Lord Bishop," he said, "do I dream?" + +Symon of Worcester smiled. "Nay, my son. Surely no dream of thine was +ever signed by His Holiness, nor bore suspended from it the great seal +of the Vatican! The document you hold will be sufficient answer to all +questions, and will ensure your wife's position at Court and her +standing in the outer world--should she elect to re-enter it. + +"But whether she shall do this, or no, is not a matter upon which the +Church would give a decisive or even an authoritative pronouncement; +and the Holy Father adds, in, his letter to me, further important +instructions. + +"Firstly: that it must be the Prioress's own wish and decision, apart +from any undue pressure from without, to resign her office and to +accept this dispensation, freeing her from her vows. + +"Secondly; that she must leave the Nunnery and the neighbourhood, +secretly; if it be possible, appearing in her new position, as your +wife, without much question being raised as to whence she came. + +"Thirdly: that when her absence becomes known in the Nunnery, I am +authorized solemnly to announce that she has been moved on by me, +secretly, with the knowledge and approval of the Holy Father, to a +place where she was required for higher service." + +The Bishop smiled as he pronounced the final words. There was triumph +in his eye. + +The Knight still looked as if he felt himself to be dreaming; yet on +his face was a great gladness of expectation. + +"And, my lord," he exclaimed joyously, "what news for her! Shall you +send it, in the morn, or yourself take it to her?" + +The Bishop's lips were pressed against his finger-tips. + +"I know not," he answered, slowly; "I know not that I shall either take +or send it." + +"But, my lord, surely! It will settle all doubts, solve all questions, +remove all difficulties----" + +"Tut! Tut! Tut!" exclaimed the Bishop. "Good heavens, man! Dare I +wed you to a woman you know so little? Not for one instant, into her +consideration of the matter, will have entered any question as to what +Church or State might say or do. For her the question stands upon +simpler, truer, lines, not involved by rule or dogma: 'Is it right for +me, or wrong for me? Is it the will of God that I should do this +thing?'" + +"But if you tell her, my lord, of the Holy Father's dispensation and +permission; what will she then say?" + +"What will she then say?" Symon of Worcester softly laughed, as at +something which stirred an exceeding tender memory. "She will probably +say: 'You amaze me, my lord! Indeed, my lord, you amaze me! His +Holiness the Pope may rule at Rome; _you_, my Lord Bishop, rule in the +cities of this diocese; but _I_ rule in this Nunnery, and while I rule +here, such a thing as this shall never be!'" + +The Bishop gently passed his hands the one over the other, as was his +habit when a recollection gave him keen mental pleasure. + +"That is what the Prioress would probably say, my dear Knight, were I +so foolish as to flaunt before her this most priceless parchment. And +yet--I know not. It may be wise to send it, or to show it without much +comment, simply in order that she may see the effect upon the mind of +the Holy Father himself, of a full knowledge of the complete facts of +the case." + +"My lord," said the Knight, with much earnestness, "how came that full +knowledge to His Holiness in Rome?" + +"When first you came to me," replied the Bishop, "with this grievous +tale of wrong and treachery, I knew that if you won your way with Mora, +we must be armed with highest authority for the marriage and for her +return to the world, or sorrow and much trial for her might follow, +with, perhaps, danger for you. Therefore I resolved forthwith to lay +the whole matter, without loss of time, before the Pope himself. I +know the Holy Father well; his openness of mind, his charity and +kindliness; his firm desire to do justly, and to love mercy. Moreover, +his friendship for me is such, that he would not lightly refuse me a +request. Also he would, of his kindness, incline to be guided by my +judgment. + +"Wherefore, no sooner were all the facts in my possession, those you +told me, those I already knew, and those I did for myself deduce from +both, than I sent for young Roger de Berchelai, whose wits and devotion +I could safely trust, gave him all he would need for board and lodging, +boats and steeds, that he might accomplish the journey in the shortest +possible time, and despatched him to Rome with a written account of the +whole matter, under my private seal, to His Holiness the Pope." + +The Knight stood during this recital, his eyes fixed in searching +question upon the Bishop's face. + +Then: "My lord," he said, "such kindness on your part, passes all +understanding. That you should have borne with me while I told my +tale, was much. That you should tacitly have allowed me the chance to +have speech with my betrothed, was more. But that, all this time, +while I was giving you half-confidence, and she no confidence at all, +you should have been working, spending, planning for us, risking much +if the Holy Father had taken your largeness of heart and breadth of +mind amiss! All this, you did, for Mora and for me! That you were, as +you tell me, a frequent guest in my childhood's home, holding my +parents in warm esteem, might account for the exceeding kindness of the +welcome you did give me. But this generosity--this wondrous +goodness--I stand amazed, confounded! That you should do so great a +thing to make it possible that I should wed the Prioress-- It passes +understanding!" + +When Hugh d'Argent ceased speaking, Symon of Worcester did not +immediately make reply. He sat looking into the fire, fingering, with +his left hand, the gold cross at his breast, and drumming, with the +fingers of his right, upon the carved lion's head which formed the arm +of his chair. + +It seemed as if the Bishop had, of a sudden, grown restive under the +Knight's gratitude; or as if some train of thought had awakened within +him, to which he did not choose to give expression, and which must be +beaten back before he allowed himself to speak. + +At length, folding his hands, he made answer to the Knight, still +looking into the fire, a certain air of detachment wrapping him round, +as with an invisible yet impenetrable shield. + +"You overwhelm me, my dear Hugh, with your gratitude. It had not +seemed to me that my action in this matter would demand either thanks +or explanation. There are occasions when to do less than our best, +would be to sin against all that which we hold most sacred. To my +mind, the most useful definition of sin, in the sacred writings, is +that of the apostle Saint James, most practical of all the inspired +writers, when he said: 'To him that knoweth to do good, and doeth it +not, to him it is sin.' I knew quite clearly the 'good' to be done in +this case. Therefore no gratitude is due to me for failing to fall +into the sin of omission. + +"Also, my son, many who seem to deserve the gratitude of others, would +be found not to deserve it, if the entire inward truth of motive could +be fully revealed. + +"With me it is well-nigh a passion that all good things should attain +unto full completeness. + +"It may be I was better able to give full understanding to your tale +because, for love of a woman, I dwelt seven years in exile from this +land, fearing lest my great love for her, which came to me all +unsought, should--by becoming known to her--lead her young heart, as +yet fresh and unawakened, to respond. There was never any question of +breaking my vows; and I hold not with love-friendships between man and +woman, there where marriage is not possible. They are, at best, +selfish on the part of the man. They keep the woman from entering into +her kingdom. The crown of womanhood is to bear children to the man she +loves--to take her place in his home, as wife and mother. The man who +cannot offer this, yet stands in the way of the man who can, is a poor +and an unworthy lover." + +The Bishop paused, unclasped his hands, withdrew his steadfast regard +from the fire, and sat back in his chair. The stone in his ring +gleamed blue, the colour of forget-me-nots beside a meadow brook. + +Presently he looked at the silent Knight. There was a kindly smile, in +his eyes, rather than upon his lips. + +"It may be, my dear Hugh, that this heart discipline of mine--of which, +by the way, I have never before spoken--has made me quick to understand +the sufferings of other men. Also it may explain the great desire I +always experience to see a truly noble woman come to the full +completion of her womanhood. + +"I returned to England not long after your betrothed had entered the +cloistered life in the Whytstone Nunnery. I was appointed to this See +of Worcester, which appointment gave me the spiritual control of the +White Ladies. My friendship with the Prioress has been a source of +interest, pleasure, and true helpfulness to myself and I trust to her +also. I think I told you while we supped that, many years ago, I had +known her at the Court when I was confessor to the Queen, and preceptor +to her ladies. But no mention has ever been made between the Prioress +and myself of any previous acquaintance. I doubt whether she +recognised, in the frail, white-haired, old prelate who arrived from +Italy, the vigorous, bearded priest known to her, in her girlhood's +days, as"--the Bishop paused and looked steadily at the Knight--"as +Father Gervaise." + +"Father Gervaise!" exclaimed Hugh d'Argent, lifting his hand to cross +himself as he named the Dead, yet arrested in this instinctive movement +by something in those keen blue eyes. "Father Gervaise, my lord, +perished in a stormy sea. The ship foundered, and none who sailed in +her were seen again." + +The Knight spoke with conviction; yet, even as he spoke, the amazing +truth rushed in upon him, and struck him dumb. Of a sudden he knew why +the Bishop's eyes had instantly won his fearless confidence. A trusted +friend of his childhood had looked out at him from their dear depths. +Often he had searched his memory, since the Bishop had claimed +knowledge of him in his boyhood, and had marvelled that no recollection +of Symon as a guest in his parents' home came back to him. + +Now--in this moment of revelation--how clearly he could see the figure +of the famous priest, in brown habit, cloak, and hood, a cord at his +waist, with tonsured head, full brown beard, and sandalled feet, pacing +the great hall, standing in the armoury, or climbing the Cumberland +hills to visit the chapel of the Holy Mount and the hermit who dwelt +beside it. + +As is the way with childhood's memories, the smallest, most trivial +details leapt up vivid, crystal clear. The present was forgotten, the +future disregarded, in the sudden intimate dearness of that long-ago +past. + +The Bishop allowed time for this realisation. Then he spoke. + +"True, the ship foundered, Hugh; true, none who sailed in her were seen +again. And, if I tell you that one swimmer, after long buffeting, was +flung up on a rocky coast, lay for many weeks sick unto death in a +fisherman's humble cot, rose at last the frail shadow of his former +self, to find that his hair had turned white in that desperate night, +to find that none knew his name nor his estate, that--leaving Father +Gervaise and his failures at the bottom of the ocean--he could shave +his beard, and make his way to Rome under any name he pleased; if I +tell you all this, I trust you with a secret, Hugh, known to one other +only, during all these years--His Holiness, the Pope." + +"Father!" exclaimed the Knight, with deep emotion; "Father"-- Then, +his voice broke. He dropped on one knee in front of the Bishop, and +clasped the bands stretched out to him. + +What strange thing had happened? One, greatly loved and long mourned, +had risen from the dead; yet she who had best loved and most mourned +him, had herself passed to the Realm of Shadows, and was not here to +wonder and to rejoice. + +"Father," said Hugh, when he could trust his voice, "in her last words +to me, my mother spoke of you. I went to her chamber to bid her sleep +well, and together we knelt before the crucifix. 'Let us repeat,' +whispered my mother, 'those holy words of comfort which Father Gervaise +ever bid his penitents to say, as they kneeled before the dying +Redeemer.' 'Mother,' said I, 'I know them not.' 'Thou wert so young, +my son,' she said, 'when Father Gervaise last was with us.' 'Tell me +the words,' I said; 'I should like well to have them from thy lips.' +So, lifting her eyes to the dead Christ, my mother said, with awe and +reverence in her voice and a deep gladness on her face: +'He--ever--liveth--to make intercession for us.' And, in the dawn of +the new day, her spirit passed." + +The Bishop laid his hand upon the Knight's bowed head. "My son," he +said, "of all the women I have known, thy gentle mother bore the most +beautiful and saintly character. I would there were more such as she, +in our British homes." + +"Father," said Hugh, brokenly, "knew you how much she had to bear? My +father's fierce feuds with all, shut her up at last to utter +loneliness. His anger against Holy Church and his contempt of Her +priests, cost my mother the comfort of your visits. His life-long +quarrel with Earl Eustace de Norelle caused that our families, though +dwelling within a three hours' ride, were allowed no intercourse. +Never did I enter Castle Norelle until I rode up from the South, with a +message for Mora from the King. And, to this day, Mora has never been +within the courtyard of my home! When we were betrothed, I dared not +tell my parents--though Earl Eustace and his Countess both were +dead--lest my father's wrath might reach Mora, when I had gone. News +of his death, chancing to me in a far-off land, brought me home. And +truly, it was home indeed, at last! Peace and content, where always +there had been turbulence and strain. Father, I tell you this because +I know my gentle mother feared you did not understand, and that you may +have thought her love for you had failed." + +Symon of Worcester smiled. + +"Dear lad," he said, "I understood." + +"Ah why," cried Hugh, with sudden passion, "why should a woman's whole +life be spoiled, and other lives be darkened and made sad, just by the +angry, churlish, sullen whims of----" + +"Hush, boy!" said the Bishop, quickly. "You speak of your father, and +you name the Dead. Something dies in the Living, each time they speak +evil of the Dead. I knew your father; and, though he loved me not, +yet, to be honest, I must say this of him: Sir Hugo was a good man and +true; upright, and a man of honour. He carried his shield untarnished. +If he was feared by his friends, he was also feared by his foes. Brave +he was and fearless. One thing he lacked; and often, alas, they who +lack just one thing, lack all. + +"Hugo d'Argent knew not love for his fellow-men. To be a man, was to +earn his frown; all things human called forth his disdain. To view the +same landscape, breathe the same air, in fact walk the same earth as +he, was to stand in his way, and raise his ire. Yet in his harsh, +vexed manner he loved his wife, and loved his little son. Nor had he +any self-conceit. He realised in himself his own worst foe. Lest we +fall into this snare, it is well daily to pray: 'O Lover of Mankind, +grant unto me truly to love my fellow-men; to honour them, until they +prove worthless; to trust them, until they prove faithless; and ever to +expect better of them, than I expect of myself; to think better of +them, than I think of myself.' Let us go through life, my son, +searching for good in others, not for evil; we may miss the good, if we +search not for it; the evil, alas, will find us, quite soon enough, +unsought." + +Suddenly Hugh lifted his head. + +"Father," he said, "the starling! Mind you the starling with the +broken wing, which you and I found in the woods and carried home; and +you did set his wing, and tamed him, and taught him to say 'Hugh'? +Each time I brought him food, you said: 'Hugh! Hugh!' And soon the +starling, seeing me coming, also said: 'Hugh! Hugh!' Do you remember, +Father?" + +"I do remember," said the Bishop. "I see thee now, coming across the +courtyard, bread and meat in thy hands--a little lad, bareheaded in the +sunshine, glowing with pleasure because the starling ran to meet thee, +shouting 'Hugh!'" + +"Then listen, dear Father. (Ah, how often have I wished to tell you +this!) Soon after you were gone, that starling rudely taught me a hard +lesson. Gaining strength, one day he left the courtyard, ran through +the buttery, and wandered in the garden. I followed, whistling and +watching. It greatly delighted the bird to find himself on turf. +There had been rain. The grass was wet. Presently a rash worm, +gliding from its hole, adventured forth. The starling ran to the worm, +calling it 'Hugh.' 'Hugh! Hugh!' he cried, and tugged it from the +earth. 'Hugh! Hugh!' and pecked it, where helpless it lay squirming. +Then, shouting 'Hugh!' once more, gobbled it down. I stood with heavy +heart, for I had thought that starling loved me with a true, personal +love, when he ran at my approach shouting my name. Yet now I knew it +was the food I carried, he called 'Hugh'; it was the food, not me, he +loved. Glad was I when, his wing grown strong, he flew away. It cut +me to the heart to hear the worms, the grubs, the snails, the +caterpillars, all called 'Hugh'!" + +The Bishop smiled, then sighed. "Poor little eager heart," he said, +"learning so hard a lesson, all alone! Yet is it a lesson, lad, sooner +or later learned in sadness by all generous hearts. . . . And now, +leaving the past, with all its memories, let us return to the present, +and face the uncertain future. Also, dear Knight, I must ask you to +remember, even when we are alone, that your old friend, Father +Gervaise, in his brown habit, lies at the bottom of the ocean; yet that +your new friend, Symon of Worcester, holds you and your interests very +near his heart." + +The Bishop put out his hand. + +Hugh seized and kissed it, knowing this was his farewell to Father +Gervaise. + +Then he rose to his feet. + +The Bishop said nothing; but an indefinable change came over him. +Again he extended his hand. + +The Knight kneeled, and kissed the Bishop's ring. + +"I thank you, my lord," he said, "for your great trust in me. I will +not prove unworthy." With this he went back to his seat. + +The Bishop, lifting the faggot-fork, carefully stirred and built up the +logs. + +"What were we saying, my dear Knight, when we strayed into a side +issue? Ah, I remember! I was telling you of my appointment to the See +of Worcester, and my belief that the Prioress failed to recognise in +me, one she had known long years before." + +The Bishop put by the faggot-fork and turned from the fire. + +"I found the promise of that radiant girlhood more than fulfilled. She +was changed; she shewed obvious signs of having passed through the +furnace; but pure gold can stand the fire. The strength of purpose, +the noble outlook upon life, the gracious tenderness for others, had +matured and developed. Even the necessary restrictions of monastic +life could not modify the grand lines--both mental, and physical--on +which Nature had moulded her. + +"I endeavoured to think no thoughts concerning her, other than should +be thought of a holy lady who has taken vows of celibacy. Yet, seeing +her so fitted to have made house home for a man, helping him upward, +and to have been the mother of a fine race of sons and daughters, I +felt it grievous that in leaving the world for a reason which in no +sense could be considered a true vocation, she should have cut herself +off from such powers and possibilities. + +"So passed the years in the calm service of God and of the Church; yet +always I seemed aware that a crisis would come, and that, when that +crisis came, she would need me." + +The Bishop paused and looked at the Knight. + +Hugh's face was in shadow; but, as the Bishop looked at him, the rubies +on his breast glittered in the firelight, as if some sudden thought had +set him strongly quivering. + +At sight of which, a flash of firm resolve, like the swift drawing of a +sword, broke o'er the Bishop's calmness. It was quick and powerful; it +seemed to divide asunder soul and spirit, joints and marrow, and to +discern the thoughts and intents of the heart. And before that +two-edged blade could sheathe itself again, swiftly the Bishop spoke. + +"Therefore, my dear Hugh, when you arrived with your tale of wrong and +treachery, all unconsciously to yourself, every word you spoke of your +betrothed revealed her to the man who had loved her while you were yet +a youth, with your spurs to win, and all life before you. + +"I saw in your arrival, and in the strange tale you told, a wondrous +chance for her of that fuller development of life for which I knew her +to be so perfectly fitted. + +"It had seemed indeed the irony of fate that, while I had fled and +dwelt in exile lest my presence should hold her back from marriage, the +treachery of others should have driven her into a life of celibacy. + +"Therefore while, with my tacit consent, you went to work in your own +way, I sent my messenger to Rome bearing to the Holy Father a full +account of all, petitioning a dispensation from vows taken owing to +deception, and asking leave to unite in the holy sacrament of marriage +these long-sundered lovers, undertaking that no scandal should arise +therefrom, either in the Nunnery or in the City of Worcester. + +"As you have seen, my messenger this night returned; and we now find +ourselves armed with the full sanction of His Holiness, providing the +Prioress, of her own free will, desires to renounce the high position +she has won in her holy calling, and to come to you." + +The quiet voice ceased speaking. + +The Knight rose slowly to his feet. At first he stood silent. Then he +spoke with a calm dignity which proved him worthy of the Bishop's trust. + +"I greatly honour you, my lord," he said; "and were our ages and +conditions other than they are, so that we might fight for the woman we +love, I should be proud to cross swords with you." + +The Bishop sat looking into the fire. A faint smile flickered at the +corners of the sensitive mouth. The fights he had fought for the woman +he loved had been of sterner quality than the mere crossing of knightly +swords. + +Hugh d'Argent spoke again. + +"Profoundly do I thank you, Reverend Father, for all that you have +done; and even more, for that which you did not do. It was six years +after her first sojourn at the Court that I met Mora, loved her, and +won her; and well I know that the sweet love she gave to me was a love +from which no man had brushed the bloom." + +Hugh paused. + +Those kindly and very luminous eyes were still bent upon the fire. Was +the Bishop finding it hard to face the fact that his life's secret had +now, by his own act, passed into the keeping of another? + +Hugh moved a pace nearer. + +"And deeply do I love you, Reverend Father, for your wondrous goodness +to her, and--for her sake--to me. And I pray heaven," added Hugh +d'Argent simply, "that if she come to me, she may never know that she +once won the love of so greatly better a man than he who won hers." + +With which the Knight dropped upon one knee, and humbly kissed the hem +of the Bishop's robe. + +Symon of Worcester was greatly moved. + +"My son," he said, "we are at one in desiring her happiness and highest +good. For the rest, God, and her own pure heart, must guide her feet +into the way of peace." + +The Bishop rose, and went to the casement. + +"The aurora breaks in the east. The dawn is near. Come with me, Hugh, +to the chapel. We pray for His Holiness, giving thanks for his +gracious letter and mandate; we praise for the safe return of my +messenger. But we will also offer up devout petition that the Prioress +may have clear light at this parting of the ways, and that our +enterprise may be brought to a happy conclusion." + +So, presently, in the dimly-lighted chapel, the Knight knelt alone; +while, away at the high altar, remote, wrapt, absorbed in the supreme +act of his priestly office, stood the Bishop, celebrating mass. + +Yet one anxious prayer ascended from the hearts of both. + + +And, in the pale dawn of that new day, the woman for whom both the +Knight and the Bishop prayed, kept vigil in her cell, before the shrine +of the Madonna. + +"Blessèd Virgin," she said; "thou who lovedst Saint Joseph, being +betrothed to him, yet didst keep thyself an holy shrine consecrate to +the Lord and His need of thee--oh, grant unto me strength to put from +me this constant torment at the thought of his sufferings to whom once +I gave my troth, and to reconsecrate myself wholly to the service of my +Lord." + + +Thus these three knelt, as a new day dawned. + + +And the Knight prayed: "Give her to me!" + + +And the Bishop prayed: "Guide her feet into the way of peace." + + +And the Prioress, with hands crossed upon her breast and eyes uplifted, +said: "Cause me to know the way wherein I should walk; for I lift up my +soul unto Thee." + + +The silver streaks of the aurora paled before soaring shafts of gold, +bright heralds of the rising sun. + +Then from the Convent garden trilled softly the first notes, poignant +but passing sweet, of the robin's song. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +MARY ANTONY RECEIVES THE BISHOP + +The morning after the return from Rome of the Bishop's messenger, the +old lay-sister, Mary Antony, chanced to be crossing the Convent +courtyard, when there came a loud knocking on the outer gates. + +Mary Antony, hastening, thrust aside the buxom porteress, and herself +opened the _guichet_, and looked out. + +The Lord Bishop, mounted upon his white palfrey, waited without; +Brother Philip in attendance. + +What a bewildering surprise! What a fortunate thing, thought old +Antony, that she should chance to be there to deal with such an +emergency. + +Never did the Bishop visit the Nunnery, without sending a messenger +beforehand to know whether the Prioress could see him, stating the +exact hour of his proposed arrival; so that, when the great doors were +flung wide and the Bishop rode into the courtyard, the Prioress would +be standing at the top of the steps to receive him; Mother Sub-Prioress +in attendance in the background; the other holy ladies upon their knees +within the entrance; Mary Antony, well out of sight, yet where peeping +was possible, because she loved to see the Reverend Mother kneel and +kiss the Bishop's ring, rising to her feet again without pause, making +of the whole movement one graceful, deep obeisance. After which, Mary +Antony, still peeping, greatly loved to see the Prioress mount the +wide, stone staircase with the Bishop; each shewing a courtly deference +to the other. + +(One of Mary Antony's most exalted dreams of heaven, was of a place +where she should sit upon a jasper seat and see the Reverend Mother and +the great Lord Bishop mounting together interminable flights of golden +stairs; while Mother Sub-Prioress and Sister Mary Rebecca looked +through black bars, somewhere down below, whence they would have a good +view of Mary Antony on her jasper seat, but no glimpse of the golden +stairs or of the radiant figures which she watched ascending.) + +So much for the usual visits of the Bishop, when everything was in +readiness for his reception. + +But now, all unexpected, the Bishop waited without the gate, and Mary +Antony had to deal with this emergency. + +Crying to the porteress to open wide, she hastened to the steps. . . . +It was impossible to summon the Reverend Mother in time. . . . The +Lord Bishop must not be kept waiting! . . . Even now the great doors +were rolling back. + +Mary Antony mounted the six steps; then turned in the doorway. + +The Lord Bishop must be received. There was nobody else to do it. She +would receive the Lord Bishop! + +As she saw him riding in upon Icon, blessing the porteress as he +passed, she remembered how she had ridden round the river meadow as the +Bishop. Now she must play her part as the Prioress. + +So it came to pass that, as he rode up to the door and dismounted, +flinging his rein to Brother Philip, the Bishop found himself +confronted by the queer little figure of the aged lay-sister, drawn up +to its full height and obviously upheld by a sense of importance and +dignity. + +As the Bishop reached the entrance, she knelt and kissed his ring; then +tried to rise quickly, failed, and clutching at his hand, exclaimed: +"Devil take my old knee-joints!" + +Never before had the Bishop been received with such a formula! Never +had his ring been kissed by a lay-sister! But remembering the scene +when old Antony rode round the field upon Icon, he understood that she +now was playing the part of Prioress. + +"Good-day, worthy Mother," he said, as he raised her. "The spirit is +willing I know, but, in your case, the knee-joints are weak. But no +wonder, for they have done you long service. Why, I get up slowly from +kneeling, yet my knees are thirty years younger than yours. . . . Nay +I will not mount to the Reverend Mother's chamber until you acquaint +her of my arrival. Take me round to the garden, and there let me wait +in the shade, while you seek her." + +Greatly elated at the success of her effort, and emboldened by his +charming condescension, Mary Antony led the Bishop through the +rose-arch; and, casting a furtive glance at his face from behind the +curtain of her veil, ventured to hope there was naught afoot which +could bring trouble or care to the Reverend Mother. + +Mary Antony was trotting beside the Bishop, down the long walk between +the yew hedges, when she gave vent to this anxious question. + +At once the Bishop slackened speed. + +"Not so fast, Sister Antony," he said. "I pray you to remember mine +age, and to moderate your pace. Why should you expect trouble or +anxiety for the Reverend Mother?" + +"Nay," said Mary Antony, "I expect naught; I saw naught; I heard +naught! 'Twas all mine own mistake, counting with my peas. I told the +Reverend Mother so, and set her mind at rest by carrying up _six_ peas, +saying that I had found _six_ and not _five_ in my wallet." + +"Let us pause," said the Bishop, "and look at this lily. How lovely +are its petals. How tall and white it shews against the hedge. Why +did you need to set the Reverend Mother's mind at rest, Sister Antony, +by carrying up six peas?" + +"Because," said the old lay-sister, "when I had counted as they +returned, the twenty holy ladies who had gone to Vespers, yet another +passed making twenty-one. Upon which I ran and reported to the +Reverend Mother, saying in my folly, that I feared the twenty-first was +Sister Agatha, returned to walk amongst the Living, she being over +fifty years numbered with the Dead. Yet many a time, just before dawn, +have I heard her rapping on the cloister door; aye, many a time--tap! +tap! tap! But what good would there be in opening to a poor lady you +helped thrust into her shroud, nigh upon sixty years before? So 'Tap +away!' says I; 'tap away, Sister Agatha! Try Saint Peter at the gates +of Paradise. Old Antony knows better than to let you in.'" + +"What said the Reverend Mother when you reported on a twenty-first +White Lady?" asked the Bishop. + +"Reverend Mother bid me begone, while she herself dealt with the wraith +of Sister Agatha." + +"And why did you _not_ go?" asked the Bishop, quietly. + +Completely taken aback, Mary Antony's ready tongue failed her. She +stood stock still and stared at the Bishop. Her gums began to rattle +and she clapped her knuckles against them, horror and dismay in her +eyes. + +The Bishop looked searchingly into the frightened old face, and there +read all he wanted to know. Then he smiled; and, taking her gently by +the arm, paced on between the yew hedges. + +"Sister Antony," he said, and the low tones of his voice fell like +quiet music upon old Antony's perturbed spirit; "you and I, dear Sister +Antony, love the Reverend Mother so truly and so faithfully, that there +is nothing we would not do, to save her a moment's pain. _We_ know how +noble and how good she is; and that she will always decide aright, and +follow in the footsteps of our blessèd Lady and all the holy saints. +But others there are, who do not love her as we love her, or know her +as we know her; and they might judge her wrongly. Therefore we must +tell to none, that which we know--how the Reverend Mother, alone, dealt +with that visitor, who was not the wraith of Sister Agatha." + +Mary Antony peeped up at the Bishop. A light of great joy was on her +face. Her eyes had lost their look of terror, and began to twinkle +cunningly. + +"I know naught," she said. "I saw naught; I heard naught." + +The Bishop smiled. + +"How many peas were left in your wallet, Sister Antony ?" + +"Five," chuckled Mary Antony. + +"Why did you shew six to the Reverend Mother?" + +"To set her mind at rest," whispered the old lay-sister. + +"To cause her to think that you had heard naught, seen naught, and knew +naught?" + +Mary Antony nodded, chuckling again. + +"Faithful old heart!" said the Bishop. "What gave thee this thought?" + +"Our blessèd Lady, in answer to her petition, sharpened the wits of old +Antony." + +The Bishop sighed. "May our blessèd Lady keep them sharp," he +murmured, half aloud. + +"Amen," said Mary Antony with fervour. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +LOVE NEVER FAILETH + +The Bishop awaited the Prioress on that stone seat under the beech, +from which the robin had carried off the pea. + +He saw her coming through the sunlit cloisters. + +As she moved down the steps, and came swiftly toward him, he was +conscious at once of an indefinable change in her. + +Had that ride upon Icon set her free from trammels in which she had +been hitherto immeshed? + +As she reached him, he took both her hands, so that she should not +kneel. + +"Already I have been received with obeisance, my daughter," he said; +and told her of old Mary Antony's quaint little figure, standing to do +the honours in the doorway. + +The Prioress, at this, laughed gaily, and in her turn told the Bishop +of the scene, on this very spot, when old Antony displayed her peas to +the robin. + +"What peas?" asked the Bishop; and so heard the whole story of the +twenty-five peas and the daily counting, and of the identifying of +certain of the peas with various members of the Community. "And a +large, white pea, chosen for its fine aspect, was myself," said the +Prioress; "and, leaving the Sub-Prioress and Sister Mary Rebecca, +Master Robin swooped down and flew off with me! Hearing cries of +distress, I hastened hither, to find Mary Antony denouncing the robin +as 'Knight of the Bloody Vest,' and making loud lamentations over my +abduction. Her imaginings become more real to her than realities." + +"She hath a faithful heart," said the Bishop, "and a shrewd wit." + +"Faithful? Aye," said the Prioress, "faithful and loving. Yet it is +but lately I have realised, the love, beneath her carefulness and +devotion." The Prioress bent her level brows, looking away to the +overhanging branches of the Pieman's tree. "How quickly, in these +places, we lose the very remembrance of the meaning of personal, human +love. We grow so soon accustomed to allowing ourselves to dwell only +upon the abstract or the divine." + +"That is a loss," said the Bishop. He turned and began to pace slowly +toward the cloister; "a grievous loss, my daughter. Sooner than that +you should suffer that loss, beyond repair, I would let the daring +Knight of the Bloody Vest carry you off on swift wing. Better a +robin's nest, if, love be there, than a nunnery full of dead hearts." + +He heard the quick catch of her breath, but gave her no chance to speak. + +"'And now abideth faith, hope, love, these three,'" quoted the Bishop; +"'but the greatest of these is love.'" + +They were moving through the cloisters. The Prioress turned in the +doorway, pausing that the Bishop might pass in before her. + +"This, my lord," she said, with a fine sweep of her arm, "is the abode +of Faith and Hope, and also of that divine Love, which excelleth both +Hope and Faith." + +"Nay," said the Bishop, "I pray you, listen. 'Love suffereth long, and +is kind; love envieth not; love vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up; +doth not behave itself unseemly; seeketh not her own; is not easily +provoked, thinking no evil; rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in +the truth; beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, +endureth all things. Love never faileth.' Methinks," said the Bishop, +in a tone of gentle meditation, as he entered the Prioress's cell, "the +apostle was speaking of a most human love; yet he rated it higher than +faith and hope." + +"Are you still dwelling upon Sister Mary Seraphine, my lord?" inquired +the Prioress, and in her voice he heard the sound of a gathering storm. + +"Nay, my dear Prioress," said the Bishop, seating himself in the +Spanish chair, and laying his biretta upon the table near by; "I speak +not of self-love, nor does the apostle whose words I quote. I take it, +he writes of human love, sanctified; upborne by faith and hope, yet +greater than either; just as a bird is greater than its wings, yet +cannot mount without them. We must have faith, we must have hope; then +our poor earthly loves can rise from the lower level of self-seeking +and self-pleasing and take their place among those things that are +eternal." + +The Prioress had placed her chair opposite the Bishop. She was very +pale, and her lips trembled. She made so great an effort to speak with +calmness, that her voice sounded stern and hard. + +"Why this talk of earthly loves, my Lord Bishop, in a place where all +earthly love has been renounced and forgotten?" + +The Bishop, seeing those trembling lips, ignored the hard tones, and +answered, very tenderly, with a simple directness which scorned all +evasion: + +"Because, my daughter, I am here to plead for Hugh." + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +THE WOMAN AND HER CONSCIENCE + +"For Hugh?" said the Prioress. And then again, in low tones of +incredulous amazement, "For Hugh! What know you of Hugh, my lord?" + +The Bishop looked steadfastly at the Prioress, and replied with +exceeding gravity and earnestness: + +"I know that in breaking your solemn troth to him, you are breaking a +very noble heart; and that in leaving his home desolate, you are +robbing him not only of his happiness but also of his faith. Men are +apt to rate our holy religion, not by its theories, but by the way in +which it causeth us to act in our dealings with them. If you condemn +Hugh to sit beside his hearth, through the long years, a lonely, +childless man, you take the Madonna from his home; if you take your +love from him, I greatly fear lest you should also rob him of his +belief in the love of God. I do not say that these things should be +so; I say that we must face the fact that thus they are. And +remember--between a man and woman of noble birth, each with a stainless +escutcheon, each believing the other to be the soul of honour, a broken +troth is no light matter." + +"I did not break my troth," said the Prioress, "until I believed that +Hugh had broken his. I had suffered sore anguish of heart and +humiliation of spirit, over the news of his marriage with his cousin +Alfrida, ere I resolved to renounce the world and enter the cloister." + +"But Hugh did not wed his cousin, nor any other woman," said the +Bishop. "He was true to you in every thought and act, even after he +also had passed through sore anguish of heart by reason of your +supposed marriage with another suitor." + +"I learned the truth but a few days since," said the Prioress. "For +seven long years I thought Hugh false to me. For seven long years I +believed him the husband of another woman, and schooled myself to +forget every memory of past tenderness." + +"You were both deceived," said the Bishop. "You have both passed +through deep waters. You each owe it to the other to make all possible +reparation." + +"For seven holy years," said the Prioress, firmly, "I have been the +bride of Christ." + +"Do you love Hugh?" asked the Bishop. + +There was silence in the chamber. + +The Prioress desired, most fervently, to take her stand as one dead to +all earthly loves and desires. Yet each time she opened her lips to +reply, a fresh picture appeared in the mirror of her mental vision, and +closed them. + +She saw herself, with hand outstretched, clasping Hugh's as they +kneeled together before the shrine of the Madonna. She could feel the +rush of pulsing life flow from his hand to the palm of hers, and so +upward to her poor numbed heart, making it beat its wings like a caged +bird. + +She felt again the strength and comfort of the strong arm on which she +leaned, as slowly through the darkness she and Hugh paced in silence, +side by side. + +She remembered each time when obedience had seemed strangely sweet, and +she had loved the manly abruptness of his commands. + +She saw Hugh, in the ring of yellow light cast by the lantern, kneeling +at her feet. She felt his hair, thick and soft, between her fingers. + +And then--she remembered that shuddering sob, and the instant breaking +down of every barrier. He was hers, to comfort; she was his, to soothe +his pain. Then--the exquisite moment of yielding; the relief of the +clasp of his strong arms; the passing away of the suffering of long +years, as she felt his lips on hers, and surrendered to the hunger of +his kiss. + +Then--one last picture--when loyal to her wish, felt rather than +expressed, he had freed her, and passed, without further word or touch, +up into that dim grey light like a pearly dawn at sea--passed, and been +lost to view; she saw herself left in utter loneliness, the heavy door +locked by her own turning of the key, he on one side, she on the other, +for ever; she saw herself lying beneath the ground, in darkness and +desolation, her face in the damp dust where his feet had stood. + +"Do you love Hugh?" again demanded the Bishop. + +And the Prioress lifted eyes full of suffering, reproach, and pain, but +also full of courage and truth, to his face, and answered simply: +"Alas, my lord, I do." + +The silence thereafter following was tense with conflict. The Bishop +turned his eyes to the figure of the Redeemer upon the cross, +self-sacrifice personified, while the Prioress mastered her emotion. + +Then: "'Love never faileth,'" said the Bishop gently. + +But the Prioress had regained command over herself, and the gentle +words were to her a challenge. She donned, forthwith, the breastplate +of holy resolve, and drew her sword. + +"My Lord Bishop, you have wrung from me a confession of my love; but in +so doing, you have wrung from me a confession of sin. A nun may not +yield to such love as Hugh d'Argent still desires to win from me. With +long hours of prayer and vigil, have I sought to purge my soul from the +stain of a weak yielding--even for 'a moment'--to the masterful +insistence of this man, who forced himself, by the subterfuge of a +sacrilegious masquerade, into the sacred precincts of our Nunnery. I +know not whom he bribed"--continued the Prioress, flashing an indignant +glance of suspicion at the Bishop. + +"'Love thinking no evil,'" murmured Symon of Worcester. + +"But I do know, that somebody in high authority must have connived at +his plotting, or he could not have found himself alone in the crypt at +the hour of Vespers, in such wise as to assume our dress and, mingling +with the returning procession, gain entrance to the cloisters. And +somebody must still be aiding and abetting his plans, or he could not +be, as he himself told me he would be, daily in the crypt alone, during +the hour when we pass to and from the clerestory. It angers me, my +lord, to think that one who should, in this, be on my side, taketh part +against me." + +"'Is not easily provoked,'" quoted the Bishop. + +"In fact I am tempted, my lord," said the Prioress, rising to her feet, +tall and indignant, "I am almost tempted, my Lord Bishop, to forget the +reverence which I owe to your high office----" + +"'Doth not behave itself unseemly,'" murmured Symon of Worcester, +putting on his biretta. + +The Prioress turned her back upon the Bishop, and walked over to the +window. She was so angry that she felt the tears stinging beneath her +eyelids; yet at the same time she experienced a most incongruous desire +to kneel down beside that beautiful and dignified figure, rest her head +against the Bishop's knees, and pour out the cruel tale of conflicts, +uncertainties and strivings, temptations and hard-won victories, which, +had lately made up the sum of her nights and days. He had been her +trusted friend and counsellor during all these years. Yet now she knew +him arrayed against her, and she feared him more than she feared Hugh. +Hugh wrestled with her feelings; and, on the plane of the senses, she +knew her will would triumph. But the Bishop wrestled with her +mentality; and behind his calm gentleness was a strength of intellect +which, if she yielded at all, would seize and hold her, as steel +fingers in a velvet glove. + +She returned to her seat, composed but determined. + +"Reverend Father," she said, "I pray you to pardon my too swift +indignation. To you I look to aid me in this time of difficulty. I +grieve for the sorrow and disappointment to a brave and noble knight, a +loyal lover, and a most faithful heart. But I cannot reward faith with +un-faith. If I broke my sacred vows in order to give myself to him, I +should not bring a blessing to his home. Better an empty hearth than a +hearth where broods a curse. Besides, we never could live down the +scandal caused. I should be anathema to all. The Pope himself would +doubtless excommunicate us. It would mean endless sorrow for me, and +danger for Hugh. On these grounds, alone, it cannot be." + +Then the Bishop drew from his sash a folded sheet of vellum. + +"My daughter," he said, "when Hugh came to me with his grievous tale of +treachery and loss, he refused to give me the name of the woman he +sought, saying only that he believed she was to be found among the +White Ladies of Worcester. When I asked her name he answered: 'Nay, I +guard her name, as I would guard mine honour. If I fail to win her +back; if she withhold herself from me, so that I ride away alone; then +must I ride away leaving no shadow of reproach on her fair fame. Her +name will be for ever in my heart,' said Hugh, 'but no word of mine +shall have left it, in the mind of any man, linked with a broken troth +or a forsaken lover.' I tell you this, my daughter, lest you should +misjudge a very loyal knight. + +"But no true lover was ever a diplomat. Hugh had not talked long with +me, before you stood clearly revealed. A few careful questions settled +the matter, beyond a doubt. Whereupon, my dear Prioress----" + +The Bishop paused. It became suddenly difficult to proceed. The clear +eyes of the Prioress were upon him. + +"Whereupon, my lord?" + +"Whereupon I realised--an early dream of mine seemed promised a +possible fulfilment. I knew Hugh as a lad-- It is a veritable passion +with me that all things should attain unto their full perfection-- In +short, I sent a messenger to Rome, bearing a careful account of the +whole matter, in a private letter from myself to His Holiness the Pope. +Last evening, my messenger returned, bringing a letter from the Holy +Father, with this enclosed." + +The Bishop held out the folded document. + +The Prioress rose, took it from him, and unfolded it. + +As she read the opening lines, the amazement on her face quickly +gathered into a frown. + +"What!" she said. "The name and rank I resigned on entering this +Order! Who dares to write or speak of me as 'Mora, Countess of +Norelle'?" + +"Merely His Holiness the Pope, and the Bishop of Worcester," said the +Bishop meekly, in an undertone, not meaning the Prioress to hear; and, +indeed, she ignored this answer, her words having been an angry +ejaculation, rather than a question. + +But there was worse to come. + +"Dispensation!" exclaimed the Prioress. + +"Absolution!" she cried, a little further on. + +And at last, reading rapidly, in tones of uncontrollable anger and +indignation: "'Empowers Symon, Lord Bishop of Worcester, or any priest +he may appoint, to unite in the holy sacrament of marriage the +Knight-Crusader, Hugh d'Argent, and Mora de Norelle, sometime Prioress +of the White Ladies of Worcester.' _Sometime_ Prioress? In very +truth, they have dared so to write it! SOMETIME Prioress! It will be +well they should understand she is Prioress NOW--not some time or any +time, but NOW and HERE!" + +She turned upon the Bishop. + +"My lord, the Church seems to be bringing its powers to bear on the +side of the World, the Flesh, and the Devil, leaving a woman and her +conscience to stand alone and battle unaided with the grim forces +arrayed against her. But you shall see that she knows how to deal with +any weapon of the adversary which happens to fall into her hands." + +Upon which the Prioress rent the mandate from top to bottom, then +across and again across; flung the pieces upon the floor, and set her +foot upon them. + +"Thus I answer," she cried, "your attempt, my lord, to induce the Pope +to release me from vows which I hold to be eternally sacred and +binding. And if you are bent upon divorcing a nun from her Heavenly +Union, and making her to become the chattel of a man, you must seek her +elsewhere than in the Convent of the White Ladies of Worcester, my Lord +Bishop!" + +So spoke the angry Prioress, making the quiet chamber to ring with her +scorn and indignation. + +The Bishop had made no attempt to prevent the tearing of the document. +When she flung it upon the floor, placing her foot upon the fragments, +he merely looked at them regretfully, and then back upon her face, back +into those eyes which flamed on him in furious indignation. And in his +own there was a look so sorrowful, so deeply wounded, and yet withal so +tenderly understanding, that it quelled and calmed the anger of the +Prioress. + +Her eyes fell slowly, from the serene sadness of that quiet face, to +the silver cross, studded with oriental amethysts, at his breast; to +the sash girdling his purple cassock; to the hand resting on his knees; +to the stone in his ring, from which the rich colour had faded, leaving +it pale and clear, like a large teardrop on the Bishop's finger; to his +shoes, with their strange Italian buckles; then along the floor to her +own angry foot, treading upon the torn fragments of that precious +document, procured, at such pains and cost, from His Holiness at Rome. + +Then, suddenly, the Prioress faltered, weakened, fell upon her knees, +with a despairing cry, clasped her hands upon the Bishop's knees, and +laid her forehead upon them. + +"Alas," she sobbed, "what have I done! In my pride and arrogance, I +have spoken ill to you, my lord, who have ever shewn me most +considerate kindness; and in a moment of ill-judged resentment, I have +committed sacrilege against the Holy Father, rending the deed which +bears his signature. Alas, woe is me! In striving to do right, I have +done most grievous wrong; in seeking not to sin, lo, I have sinned +beyond belief!" + +The Prioress wept, her head upon her hands, clasped and resting upon +the Bishop's knees. + +Symon of Worcester laid his hand very gently upon that bowed head, and +as he did so his eyes sought again the figure of the Christ upon the +cross. The Prioress would have been startled indeed, had she lifted +her head and seen those eyes--heretofore shrewd, searching, kindly, or +twinkling and gay,--now full of an unfathomable pain. But, sobbing +with her face hidden, the Prioress was conscious only of her own +sufferings. + +Presently the Bishop began to speak. + +"We did not mean to overrule your judgment, or to force your +inclination, my daughter. If we appear to have done so, the blame is +mine alone. This mandate is drawn up entirely along the lines of my +suggestion, owing to my influence with His Holiness, and based upon +particulars furnished by me. Now let me read to you the private letter +from the Holy Father to myself, giving further important conditions." + +The Bishop drew forth and unfolded the letter from Rome, and very +slowly, that each syllable might carry weight, he read it aloud. + +As the gracious and kindly words fell upon the Prioress's ear, +commanding that no undue pressure should be brought to bear upon her, +and insisting that it must be entirely by her own wish, if she resigned +her office and availed herself of this dispensation from her vows, she +felt humbled to the dust at thought of her own violence, and of the +injustice of her angry words. + +Her weeping became so heartbroken, that the Bishop again laid his left +hand, with kindly comforting touch, upon her bowed head. + +As he read the Pope's most particular injunctions as to the manner in +which she must leave the Nunnery and take her place in the world once +more, so as to prevent any public scandal, she fell silent from sheer +astonishment, holding her breath to listen to the final clause +empowering the Bishop to announce within the Convent, when her absence +became known, that she had been moved on by him, secretly, with the +knowledge and approval of the Pope, to a place where she was required +for higher service. + +"Higher service," said the Prioress, her face still hidden. "_Higher_ +service? Can it be that the Holy Father really speaks of the return to +earthly love and marriage, the pleasures of the world, and the joys of +home life, as 'higher service'?" + +The grief, the utter disillusion, the dismayed question in her tone, +moved the Bishop to compunction. + +"Mine was the phrase, to begin with, my daughter," he admitted. "I +used it to the Holy Father, and I confess that, in using it, I did mean +to convey that which, as you well know. I have long believed, that +wifehood and motherhood, if worthily performed, may rank higher in the +Divine regard than vows of celibacy. But, in adopting the expression, +the Holy Father, we may rest assured, had no thought of undervaluing +the monastic life, or the high position within it to which you have +attained. I should rather take it that he was merely accepting my +assurance that the new vocation to which you were called would, in your +particular case, be higher service." + +The Prioress, lifting her head, looked long into the Bishop's face, +without making reply. + +Her eyes were drowned in tears; dark shadows lay beneath them. Yet the +light of a high resolve, unconquerable within her, shone through this +veil of sorrow, as when the sun, behind it, breaks through the mist, +victorious, chasing by its clear beams the baffling fog. + +Seeing that look, the Bishop knew, of a sudden, that he had failed; +that the Knight had failed; that the all-powerful pronouncement from +the Vatican had failed. + +The woman and her conscience held the field. + +Having conquered her own love, having mastered her own natural yearning +for her lover, she would overcome with ease all other assailants. + +In two days' time Hugh would ride away alone. Unless a miracle +happened, Mora would not be with him. + +The Bishop faced defeat as he looked into those clear eyes, fearless +even in their sorrowful humility. + +"Oh, child," he said, "you love Hugh! Can you let him ride forth +alone, accompanied only by the grim spectres of unfaith and of despair? +His hope, his faith, his love, all centre in you. Another Prioress can +be found for this Nunnery. No other bride can be found for Hugh +d'Argent. He will have his own betrothed, or none." + +Still kneeling, the Prioress threw back her head, looking upward, with +clasped hands. + +"Reverend Father," she said, "I will not go to the man I love, trailing +broken vows, like chains, behind me. There could be no harmony in +life's music. Whene'er I moved, where'er I trod, I should hear the +constant clanking of those chains. No man can set me free from vows +made to God. But----" + +The Prioress paused, looking past the Bishop at the gracious figure of +the Madonna. She had remembered, of a sudden, how Hugh had knelt +there, saying: "Blessèd Virgin . . . help this woman of mine to +understand that if she break her troth to me, holding herself from me, +now, when I am come to claim her, she sends me out to an empty life, to +a hearth beside which no woman will sit, to a home forever desolate." + +"But?" said the Bishop, leaning forward. "Yes, my daughter? But?" + +"But if our blessèd Lady herself vouchsafed me a clear sign that my +first duty is to Hugh, if she absolved me from my vows, making it +evident that God's will for me is that, leaving the Cloister, I should +wed Hugh and dwell with him in his home; then I would strive to bring +myself to do this thing. But I can take release from none save from +our Lord, to Whom those vows were made, or from our Lady, who knoweth +the heart of a woman, and whose grace hath been with me all through the +strivings and conflicts of the years that are past." + +The Bishop sighed. "Alas," he said; "alas, poor Hugh!" + +For that our Lady should vouchsafe a clear sign, would have to be a +miracle; and, though he would not have admitted it to the Prioress, the +Bishop believed, in his secret heart, that the age of miracles was past. + +One so fixed in her determination, so persistent in her assertion, so +loud in her asseveration, would scarce be likely to hear the inward +whisperings of Divine suggestion. + +Therefore, should our Lady intervene with clear guidance, that +intervention must be miraculous. And the Bishop sighing, said: "Alas, +poor Hugh!" + +His eye fell upon the fragments of rent vellum on the floor. He held +out his hand. + +The Prioress gathered up the fragments, and placed them in the Bishop's +outstretched hand. + +"Alas, my lord," she said, "you were witness of my grievous sin in thus +rending the gracious message of His Holiness. Will it please you to +appoint me a penance, if such an act can indeed be expiated?" + +"The sin, my daughter, as I will presently explain, is scarcely so +great as you think it. But, such as it is, it arose from a lack of +calmness and of that mental equipoise which sails unruffled through a +sea of contradiction. The irritability which results in displays of +sudden temper is so foreign to your nature that it points to your +having passed through a time of very special strain, both mental and +physical; probably overlong vigils and fastings, while you wrestled +with this anxious problem upon which so much, in the future, depends. + +"As you ask me for penance, I will give you two: one which will set +right your ill-considered action; the other which will help to remedy +the cause of that action. + +"The first is, that you place these fragments together and, taking a +fresh piece of vellum, make a careful copy of this writing which you +destroyed. + +"The second is that, in order to regain the usual equipoise of your +mental attitude, you ride to-day, for an hour, in the river meadow. My +white palfrey, Iconoklastes, shall be in the courtyard at noon. +Yesterday, my daughter, you rode for pleasure. To-day you will ride +for penance; and incidentally"--an irrepressible little smile crept +round the corners of the Bishop's mouth, and twinkled in his +eyes--"incidentally, my daughter, you will work off a certain stiffness +from which you must be suffering, after the unwonted exercise. Ah me!" +said the Bishop, "that is ever the Divine method. Punishments should +be remedial, as well as deterrent. There is much stiffness of mind of +which we must be rid before we can stoop to the portal of God's +'whosoever' and, passing through the narrow gate, enter the Kingdom of +Heaven as little children." + +The Bishop rose, and giving his hand to the Prioress raised her to her +feet. + +"My lord," she said, "as ever you are most kind to me. Yet I fear you +have been too lenient for my own peace of mind. To have destroyed in +anger the mandate of His Holiness----" + +"Nay, my daughter," said the Bishop. "The mandate of His Holiness, +inscribed upon parchment, from which hangs the great seal of the +Vatican, is safely placed among my most precious documents. You have +but destroyed the result of an hour's careful work. I rose betimes +this morning to make this copy. I should not have allowed you to tear +it, had not the writing been my own. But I took pains to reproduce +exactly the peculiar style of lettering they use in Rome, and you will +do the same in your copy." + +Turning, the Bishop knelt for a few moments in prayer before the +Madonna. He could not have explained why, but somehow the only hope +for Hugh seemed to be connected with this spot. + +Yet it was hardly reassuring that, when he lifted grave and anxious +eyes, our Lady gently smiled, and the sweet Babe looked merry. + +Rising, the Bishop turned, with unwonted sternness, to the Prioress. + +"Remember," he said, "Hugh rides away to-morrow night; rides away, +never to return." + +Her steadfast eyes did not falter. + +"He had better have ridden away five days ago, my lord. He had my +answer, and I bade him go. By staying he has but prolonged his +suspense and my pain." + +"Yes," said the Bishop slowly, "he had better have ridden away; or, +better still, have never come upon this fruitless quest." + +He moved toward the door. + +The Prioress reached it before him. + +With her hand upon the latch: "Your blessing, Reverend Father," +entreated the Prioress, rather breathlessly. + +"_Benedicite_," said the Bishop, with uplifted fingers, but with eyes +averted; and passed out. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + +THE WHITE STONE + +Old Mary Antony was at the gate, when the Bishop rode out from the +courtyard. + +Thrusting the porteress aside, she pressed forward, standing with +anxious face uplifted, as the Bishop approached. + +He reined in Icon, and, bending from the saddle, murmured: "Take care +of her, Sister Antony. I have left her in some distress." + +"Hath she decided aright?" whispered the old lay-sister. + +"She always decides aright," said the Bishop. "But she is so made that +she will thrust happiness from her with both hands unless our Lady +should herself offer it, by vision or revelation. I could wish thy gay +little Knight of the Bloody Vest might indeed fly with her to his nest +and teach her a few sweet lessons, in the green privacy of some leafy +paradise. But I tell thee too much, worthy Mother. Keep a silent +tongue in that shrewd old head of thine. Minister to her; and send +word to me if I am needed. _Benedicite_." + +An hour later, mounted upon his black mare, Shulamite, the Bishop rode +to the high ground, on the north-east, above the city, from whence he +could look down upon the river meadow. + +As he had done on the previous day, he watched the Prioress riding upon +Icon. + +Once she put the horse to so sudden and swift a gallop that the Bishop, +watching from afar, reined back Shulamite almost on to her haunches, in +a sudden fear that Icon was about to leap into the stream. + +For an hour the Prioress rode, with flying veil, white on the white +steed; a fair marble group, quickened into motion. + +Then, that penance being duly performed, she vanished through the +archway. + +Turning Shulamite, Symon of Worcester rode slowly down the hill, passed +southward, and entered the city by Friar's Gate; and so to the Palace, +where Hugh d'Argent waited. + +The Bishop led him, through a postern, into the garden; and there on a +wide lawn, out of earshot of any possible listeners, the Bishop and the +Knight walked up and down in earnest conversation. + + +At length: "To-morrow, in the early morn," said the Knight, "I send her +tire-woman on to Warwick, with all her effects, keeping back only the +riding suit. Should she elect to come, we must be free to ride without +drawing rein. Even so we shall reach Warwick only something before +midnight." + +"She tore it up and planted her foot upon it," remarked the Bishop. + +"I will not give up hope," said the Knight. + +"Nothing short of a miracle, my son, will change her mind, or move her +from her fixed resolve." + +"Then our Lady will work a miracle," declared the Knight bravely. "I +prayed 'Send her to me!' and our blessèd Lady smiled." + +"A sculptured smile, dear lad, is ever there. Had you prayed 'Hold her +from me!' our Lady would equally have smiled." + +"Nay," said the Knight; "I keep my trust in prayer." + +They paused at the parapet overhanging the river. + +"I was successful," said the Knight, "in dealing with Eustace, her +nephew. There will be no need to apply to the King. The ambition was +his mother's. Now Eleanor is dead, he cares not for the Castle. Next +month he weds an heiress, with large estates, and has no wish to lay +claim to Mora's home. All is now once more as it was when she left it. +Her own people are in charge. I plan to take her there when we leave +Warwick, riding northward by easy stages." + +The Bishop, stooping, picked up a smooth, white stone, and flung it +into the river. It fell with a splash, and sank. The water closed +upon it. It had vanished instantly from view. + +Then the Bishop spoke. "Hugh, my dear lad, she thought it was the +Pope's own deed and signature, yet she tore it across, and then again +across; flung it upon the ground, and set her foot upon it. I deem it +now as impossible that the Prioress should change her mind upon this +matter, as that we should ever see again that stone which now lies deep +on the river-bed." + +It was a high dive from the parapet; and, to the Bishop, watching the +spot where the Knight cleft the water, the moments seemed hours. + +But when the Knight reappeared, the white stone was in his hand. + +The Bishop went down to the water-gate. + +"Bravely done, my son!" he called, as the Knight swam to the steps. +"You deserve to win." + +But to himself he said: "Fighting men and quick-witted women will be +ever with us, gaining their ends by strenuous endeavour. But the age +of miracles is past." + +Hugh d'Argent mounted the steps. + +"I _shall_ win," he said, and shook himself like a great shaggy dog. + +The Bishop, over whom fell a shower, carefully wiped the glistening +drops from his garments with a fine Italian handkerchief. + +"Go in, boy," he said, "and get dry. Send thy man for another suit, +unless it would please thee better that Father Benedict should lend +thee a cassock! Give me the stone. It may well serve as a reminder of +that famous sacred stone from which the Convent takes its name. +Methinks we have, between us, contrived something of an omen, +concluding in thy favour." + +Presently the Bishop, alone in his library, stood the white stone upon +the iron-bound chest within which he had placed the Pope's mandate. + +"The age of miracles is past," he said again. "Iron no longer swims, +neither do stones rise from the depths of a river, unless the Divine +command be supplemented by the grip of strong human fingers. + +"Stand there, thou little tombstone of our hopes. Mark the place where +lies the Holy Father's mandate, ecclesiastically all-powerful, yet +rendered null and void by the faithful conscience and the firm will of +a woman. God send us more such women!" + +The Bishop sounded a silver gong, and when his body-servant appeared, +pointed to the handkerchief, damp and crumpled, upon the table. + +"Dry this, Jasper," he said, "and bring me another somewhat larger. +These dainty trifles cannot serve, when 'tears run down like a river.' +Nay, look not distressed, my good fellow. I do but jest. Yonder wet +Knight hath given me a shower-bath." + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX + +THE VISION OF MARY ANTONY + +On the afternoon following the Bishop's unexpected visit to the Nunnery, +the Prioress elected to walk last in the procession to and from the +Cathedral, placing Mother Sub-Prioress first. It was her custom +occasionally to vary the order of procession. Sometimes she walked +thirteenth, with twelve before, and twelve behind her. + +She had at first inclined on this day, after her strenuous time with the +Bishop, followed by the hour's ride upon Icon, not to go to Vespers. + +Then her heart failed her, and she went. On these two afternoons--this +and the morrow--Hugh would still be in the crypt. She should not so much +as glance toward the pillar at the foot of the winding stairway leading +to the clerestory; yet it would be sweet to feel him to be standing there +as she passed; sweet to know that he heard the same sounds as fell upon +her ear. + +To-day, and again on the morrow, she might yield to this yearning for the +comfort of his nearness; but never again, for Hugh would not return. + +She had wondered whether she dared ask him, by the Bishop, on a given +date once a year to attend High Mass in the Cathedral, so that she might +know him to be under the same roof, worshipping, at the same moment, the +same blessèd manifestation of the Divine Presence. + +But almost at once she had dismissed the desire, realising that comfort +such as this, could be comfort but to the heart of a woman, more likely +torment to a man. Also that should his fancy incline him to seek +companionship and consolation in the love of another, a yearly pilgrimage +to Worcester for her sake, would stand in the way of his future happiness. + +Walking last in that silent procession back to the Nunnery, the Prioress +walked alone with her sadness. Her heart was heavy indeed. + +She had angered her old friend, Symon of Worcester. After being +infinitely patient, when he might well have had cause for wrath, he had +suddenly taken a sterner tone, and departed in a certain aloofness, +leaving her with the fear that she had lost him, also, beyond recall. + +Thus she walked in loneliness and sorrow. + + +As she passed up the steps into the cloisters, she noted that Mary Antony +was not in her accustomed place. + +Slightly wondering, and half unconsciously explaining to herself that the +old lay-sister had probably for some reason gone forward with the +Sub-Prioress, the Prioress moved down the now empty passage and entered +her own cell. + +On the threshold she paused, astonished. + +In front of the shrine of the Madonna, knelt Mary Antony in a kind of +trance, hands clasped, eyes fixed, lips parted, the colour gone from her +cheeks, yet a radiance upon her face, like the after-glow of a vision of +exceeding glory. + +She appeared to be wholly unconscious of the presence of the Prioress, +who recovering from her first astonishment, closed the door, and coming +forward laid her hand gently upon the old woman's shoulder. + +Mary Antony's eyes remained fixed, but her lips moved incessantly. +Bending over her, the Prioress could make out disjointed sentences. + +"Gone! . . . But it was at our Lady's bidding. . . . Flown? Ah, gay +little Knight of the Bloody Vest! Nay, it must have been the archangel +Gabriel, or maybe Saint George, in shining armour. . . . How shall we +live without the Reverend Mother? But the will of our blessèd Lady must +be done." + +"Antony!" said the Prioress. "Wake up, dear Antony! You are dreaming +again. You are thinking of the robin and the pea. I have not gone from +you; nor am I going. See! I am here." + +She turned the old face about, and brought herself into Mary Antony's +field of vision. + +Slowly a light of recognition dawned in those fixed eyes; then came a +cry, as of fear and of a great dismay; then a gasping sound, a clutching +of the air. Mary Antony had fallen prone, before the shrine of the +Madonna. + + +An hour later she lay upon her bed, whither they had carried her. She +had recovered consciousness, and partaken of wine and bread. + +The colour had returned to her cheeks, when the Prioress came in, +dismissed the lay-sister in attendance, closed the door, and sat down +beside the couch. + +"Thou art better, dear Antony," said the Prioress. "They tell me thy +strength has returned, and this strange fainting is over. Thou must lie +still yet awhile; but will it weary thee to speak?" + +"Nay, Reverend Mother, I should dearly love to speak. My soul is full of +wonder; yet to none saving to you, Reverend Mother, can I tell of that +which I have seen." + +"Tell me all, dear Antony," said the Prioress. "Sister Mary Rebecca says +thy symptoms point to a Divine Vision." + +Mary Antony chuckled. "For once Sister Mary Rebecca speaks the truth," +she said. "Have patience with me, Reverend Mother, and I will tell you +all." + +The Prioress gently stroked the worn hands lying outside the coverlet. + +Mary Antony looked very old in bed. Were it not for the bright twinkling +eyes, she looked too old ever again to stand upon her feet. Yet how she +still bustled upon those same old feet! How diligently she performed her +own duties, and shewed to the other lay-sisters how they should have +performed theirs! + +Forty years ago, she had chosen her nook in the Convent burying-ground. +She was even then, among the older members of the Community; yet most of +those who saw her choose it, now lay in their own. + +"She will outlive us all," said Mother Sub-Prioress one day, sourly; +angered by some trick of Mary Antony's. + +"She is like an ancient parrot," cried Sister Mary Rebecca, anxious to +agree with Mother Sub-Prioress. + +Which when Mary Antony heard, she chuckled, and snapped her fingers. + +"Please God, I shall live long enough," she said, "to thrust Mother +Sub-Prioress into a sackcloth shroud; also, to crack nuts upon the +sepulchre of Sister Mary Rebecca." + +But none of these remarks reached the Prioress. She loved the old +lay-sister, knowing the aged body held a faithful and zealous heart, and +a mind which, in its quaint simplicity, oft seemed to the Prioress like +the mind of a little child--and of such is the Kingdom of Heaven. + +"There is no need for patience, dear Antony," said the Prioress. "I can +sit in stillness beside thee, until thy tale be fully told. Begin at the +beginning." + +The slanting rays of the late afternoon sun, piercing through the narrow +window, fell in a golden band of light upon the folded hands, lighting up +the aged face with an almost unearthly radiance. + +"I was in the cloisters," began Mary Antony, "awaiting the return from +Vespers of the holy Ladies. + +"I go there betimes, because at that hour I am accustomed to hold +converse with a little vain man in a red jerkin, who comes to see me, +when he knows me to be alone. I tell him tales such as he never hears +elsewhere. To-day I planned to tell him how the great Lord Bishop, +arriving unannounced, rode into the courtyard; and, seeing old Antony +standing in the doorway, mistook her for the Reverend Mother. That was a +great moment in the life of Mary Antony, and confers upon her added +dignity. + +"'So turn out thy toes, and make thy best bow, and behave thee as a +little layman should behave in the presence of one who hath been mistaken +for one holding so high an office in Holy Church.' + +"Thus," explained Mary Antony, "had I planned to strike awe into the +little red breast of that over-bold robin." + +"And came the robin to the cloisters?" inquired the Prioress, presently, +for Mary Antony lay upon her pillow laughing to herself, nodding and +bowing, and making her fingers hop to and fro on the coverlet, as a bird +might hop with toes out turned. Nor would she be recalled at once to the +happenings of the afternoon. + +"The great Lord Bishop did address me as 'worthy Mother,'" she remarked; +"not 'Reverend Mother,' as we address our noble Prioress. And this has +given me much food for thought. Is it better to be worthy and not +reverend, or reverend and not worthy? Our large white sow, when she did +contrive to have more little pigs in her litters, than ever our sows had +before; and, after a long and fruitful life, furnished us with two +excellent hams, a boar's head, and much bacon, was a worthy sow; but +never was she reverend, not even when Mother Sub-Prioress pronounced the +blessing over her face, much beautified by decoration--grand ivory tusks, +and a lemon in her mouth! Never, in life, had she looked so fair; which +is indeed, I believe, the case with many. Yet, for all her worthiness, +she was not reverend. Also I have heard tell of a certain Prior, not +many miles from here, who, borrowing money, never repays it; who +oppresses the poor, driving them from the Priory gate; who maltreats the +monks, and is kind unto none, saving unto himself. He--it seems--is +reverend but not worthy. While thou, Master Redbreast, art certainly not +reverend; the saints, and thine own conscience, alone know whether thou +art worthy. + +"This," explained Mary Antony, "was how I had planned to point a moral to +that jaunty little worldling." + +"They who are reverend must strive to be also worthy," said the Prioress; +"while they who count themselves to be worthy, must think charitably of +those to whom they owe reverence. Came the robin to thee in the +cloisters, Antony?" + +The old woman's manner changed. She fixed her eyes upon the Prioress, +and spoke with an air of detachment and of mystery. The very simplicity +of her language seemed at once to lift the strange tale she told, into +sublimity. + +"Aye, he came. But not for crumbs; not for cheese; not to gossip with +old Antony. + +"He stood upon the coping, looking at me with his bright eye. + +"'Well, little vain man!' said I. But he moved not. + +"'Well, Master Pieman,' I said, 'art come to spy on holy ladies?' But +never a flutter, never a chirp, gave he. + +"So grave and yet war-like was his aspect, that at length I said: 'Well, +Knight of the Bloody Vest! Hast thou come to carry off again our noble +Prioress?' Upon which, instantly, he lifted up his voice, and burst into +song; then flew to the doorway, turning and chirping, as if asking me to +follow. + +"Greatly marvelling at this behaviour on the part of the little bird I +love, I forthwith set out to follow him. + +"Along the passage, on swift wing, he flew; in and out of the empty +cells, as if in search of something.' Then, while I was yet some little +way behind, he vanished into the Reverend Mother's cell, and came not +forth again. + +"Laughing to myself at such presumption, I followed, saying: 'Ha, thou +Knight of the Bloody Vest! What doest thou there? The Reverend Mother +is away. What seekest thou in her chamber, Knight of the Bloody Vest?' + +"But, reaching the doorway, at that moment, I found myself struck dumb by +what I saw. + +"No robin was there, but a most splendid Knight, in shining armour, +kneeled upon his knees before the shrine of our Lady. A blood-red cross +was on his breast. His dark head was uplifted. On his noble face was a +look of pleading and of prayer. + +"Marvelling, but unafraid, I crept in, and kneeled behind that splendid +Knight. The look of pleading upon his face, inclined me also to prayer. +His lips moved, as I had seen at the first; but while I stood upon my +feet, I could hear no words. As soon as I too kneeled, I heard the +Knight saying: 'Give her to me! Give her to me!' And at last: 'Mother +of God, send her to me! Take pity on a hungry heart, a lonely home, a +desolate hearth, and send her to me!'" + +Mary Antony paused, fixing her eyes upon the rosy strip of sky, seen +through her narrow window. Absorbed in the recital of her vision, she +appeared to have forgotten the presence of the Prioress. She paused; and +there was silence in the cell, for the Prioress made no sound. + + +Presently the old voice went on, once more. + +"When the splendid Knight said: 'Send her to me,' a most wondrous thing +did happen. + +"Our blessèd Lady, lifting her head, looked toward the door. Then +raising her hand, she beckoned. + +"No sooner did our Lady beckon, than I heard steps coming along the +passage--that passage which I knew to be empty. The Knight heard them, +also; for his heart began to beat so loudly that--kneeling behind--I +could hear it. + +"Our blessèd Lady smiled. + +"Then--in through the doorway came the Reverend Mother, walking with her +head held high, and sunlight in her eyes, as I have ofttimes seen her +walk in the garden in Springtime, when the birds are singing, and a scent +of lilac is all around. + +"She did not see old Mary Antony; but moving straight to where the Knight +was kneeling, kneeled down beside him. + +"Then the splendid Knight did hold out his hand. But the Reverend +Mother's hands were clasped upon the cross at her breast, and she would +not put her hand into the Knight's; but lifting her eyes to our Lady she +said: 'Holy Mother of God, except thou thyself send me to him, I cannot +go." + +"And again the Knight said: 'Give her to me! Give her to me! Blessèd +Virgin, give her to me!' + +"And the tears ran down the face of old Antony, because both those noble +hearts were wrung with anguish. Yet only the merry Babe, peeping over +the two bowed heads, saw that old Antony was there. + +"Then a wondrous thing did happen. + +"Stooping from her marble throne our Lady leaned, and taking the Reverend +Mother's hand in hers, placed it herself in the outstretched hand of the +Knight. + +"At once a sound like many chimes of silver bells filled the air, and a +voice, so wonderful that I did fall upon my face to the floor, said: + +"'TAKE HER; SHE HATH BEEN EVER THINE. I HAVE BUT KEPT HER FOR THEE.'" + + +"When I lifted my head once more, the Reverend Mother and the splendid +Knight had risen. Heaven was in their eyes. Her hand was in his. His +arm was around her. + +"As I looked, they turned together, passed out through the doorway, and +paced slowly down the passage. + +"I heard their steps growing fainter and yet more faint, until they +reached the cloisters. Then all was still." + + +"Then I heard other steps arriving. I still kneeled on, fearful to move; +because those earthly steps were drowning the sound of the silver chimes +which filled the air. + +"Then--why, then I saw the Reverend Mother, returned--and returned alone. + +"So I cried out, because she had left that splendid Knight. And, as I +cried, the silver bells fell silent, all grew | dark around me, and I +knew no more, until I woke up in mine own bed, tended by Sister Mary +Rebecca, and Sister Teresa; with Abigail--noisy hussy!--helping to fetch +and carry. + +"But--when I close mine eyes--Ah, then! Yes, I hear again the sound of +silver chimes. And some day I shall hear--shall hear again--that +wondrous voice of--voice of tenderness, which said: 'Take her, she hath +been ever--ever'----" + +The old voice which had talked for so long a time, wavered, weakened, +then of a sudden fell silent. + +Mary Antony had dropped off to sleep. + + +Slowly the Prioress rose, feeling her way, as one blinded by too great a +light. + +She stood for some moments leaning against the doorpost, her hand upon +the latch, watching the furrowed face upon the pillow, gently slumbering; +still illumined by a halo of sunset light. + +Then she opened the door, and passed out; closing it behind her. + +As the Prioress closed the door, Mary Antony opened one eye. + +Yea, verily! She was alone! + +She raised herself upon the couch, listening intently. + +Far away in the distance, she fancied she could hear the door of the +Reverend Mother's chamber shut--yes!--and the turning of the key within +the lock. + +Then Mary Antony arose, tottered over to the crucifix, and, falling on +her knees, lifted clasped hands to the dying Redeemer. + +"O God," she said, "full well I know that to lie concerning holy things +doth damn the soul forever. But the great Lord Bishop said she would +thrust happiness from her with both hands, unless our Lady vouchsafed a +vision. Gladly will I bear the endless torments of hell fires, that she +may know fulness of joy and pleasures for evermore. But, oh, Son of +Mary, by the sorrows of our Lady's heart, by the yearnings of her love, I +ask that--once a year--I may come out--to sit just for one hour on my +jasper seat, and see the Reverend Mother walk, between the great Lord +Bishop and the splendid Knight, up the wide golden stair. And some day +at last, O Saviour Christ, I ask it of Thy wounds, 'Thy dying love, Thy +broken heart, may the sin of Mary Antony--her great sin, her sin of thus +lying about holy things--be forgiven her, because--because--she loved"---- + +Old Mary Antony fell forward on the stones. This time, she had really +swooned. + +It took the combined efforts of Sister Teresa, Sister Mary Rebecca, and +Mother Sub-Prioress, to bring her back once more to consciousness. + +It added to their anxiety that they could not call the Reverend Mother, +she having already sent word that she would not come to the evening meal, +and must not be disturbed, as she purposed passing the night in prayer +and vigil. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX + +THE HARDER PART + +Dawn broke--a silver rift in the purple sky--and presently stole, in +pearly light, through the oriel window. Upon the Prioress's table, lay +a beautifully executed copy of the Pope's mandate. Beside it, +carefully pieced together, the torn fragments of the Bishop's copy. + +Also, open upon the table, lay the Gregorian Sacramentary, and near to +it strips of parchment upon which the Prioress had copied two of those +ancient prayers, appending to each a careful translation. + +These are the sixth century prayers which the Prioress had found +comfort in copying and translating, during the long hours of her vigil. + + +_O God, the Protector of all that trust in Thee, without Whom nothing +is strong, nothing is holy; Increase and multiply upon us Thy mercy, +that Thou being our ruler and guide, we may so pass through things +temporal, that we finally lose not the things eternal; Grant this, O +heavenly Father, for Jesus Christ's sake our Lord. Amen._ + + +And on another strip of parchment: + + +_O Lord, we beseech Thee mercifully to receive the prayers of Thy +people who call upon Thee; and grant that they may both perceive and +know what things they ought to do, and also may have grace and power +faithfully to fulfil the same: through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen._ + + +Then, in that darkest hour before the dawn, she had opened the heavy +clasps of an even older volume, and copied a short prayer from the +Gelasian Sacramentary, under date A.D. 492. + + +_Lighten our darkness, we beseech Thee O Lord, and my Thy great mercy +defend us from all perils and dangers of this night; for the love of +Thy only Son, our Saviour, Jesus Christ. Amen._ + + +This appeared to have been copied last of all. The ink was still wet +upon the parchment. + +The candles had burned down to the sockets, and gone out. The +Prioress's chair, pushed back from the table, was empty. + +As the dawn crept in, it discovered her kneeling before the shrine of +the Madonna, absorbed in prayer and meditation. + +She had not yet taken her final decision as to the future; but her +hesitation was now rather the slow, wondering, opening of the mind to +accept an astounding fact, than any attempt to fight against it. + +Not for one moment could she doubt that our Lady, in answer to Hugh's +impassioned prayers, had chosen to make plain the Divine will, by means +of this wonderful and most explicit vision to the aged lay-sister, Mary +Antony. + +When, having left Mary Antony, as she supposed, asleep, the Prioress +had reached her own cell, her first adoring cry, as she prostrated +herself before the shrine, had taken the form of the thanksgiving once +offered by the Saviour: "I thank Thee, O Father, Lord of Heaven and +earth, that Thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and +hast revealed them unto babes." + +She and the Bishop had indeed been wise and prudent in their own +estimation, as they discussed this difficult problem. Yet to them no +clear light, no Divine vision, had been vouchsafed. + +It was to this aged nun, the most simple--so thought the Prioress--the +most humble, the most childlike in the community, that the revelation +had been given. + +The Prioress remembered the nosegay of weeds offered to our Lady; the +games with peas; the childish pleasure in the society of the robin; all +the many indications that second-childhood had gently come at the close +of the long life of Mary Antony; just as the moon begins as a sickle +turned one way and, after coming to the full, wanes at length to a +sickle turned the other way; so, after ninety years of life's +pilgrimage, Mary Antony was a little child again--and of such is the +Kingdom of Heaven; and to such the Divine will is most easily revealed. + +The Prioress was conscious that she and the Bishop--the wise and +prudent--had so completely arrived at decisions, along the lines of +their own points of view, that their minds were not ready to receive a +Divine unveiling. But the simple, childlike mind of the old +lay-sister, full only of humble faith and loving devotion, was ready; +and to her the manifestation came. + +No shade of doubt as to the genuineness of the vision entered the mind +of the Prioress. She and the Bishop alone knew of the Knight's +intrusion into the Nunnery, and of her interview with him in her cell. + +Before going in search of the intruder, she had ordered Mary Antony to +the kitchens; and disobedience to a command of the Reverend Mother, was +a thing undreamed of in the Convent. + +Afterwards, her anxiety lest any question should come up concerning the +return of a twenty-first White Lady when but twenty had gone, was +completely set at rest by that which had seemed to her old Antony's +fortunate mistake in believing herself to have been mistaken. + +In recounting the fictitious vision, with an almost uncanny cleverness, +Mary Antony had described the Knight, not as he had appeared in the +Prioress's cell, in tunic and hose, a simple dress of velvet and cloth, +but in full panoply as a Knight-Crusader. The shining armour and the +blood-red cross, fully in keeping with the vision, would have precluded +the idea of an eye-witness of the actual scene, had such a thought +unconsciously suggested itself to the Prioress. + +As it was, it seemed beyond question that all the knowledge of Hugh +shewn by the old lay-sister, of his person his attitude, his very +words, could have come to her by Divine revelation alone. That being +so, how could the Prioress presume to doubt the climax of the vision, +when our blessèd Lady placed her hand in Hugh's, uttering the wondrous +words: "Take her. She hath been ever thine. I have but kept her for +thee." + +Over and over the Prioress repeated these words; over and over she +thanked our Lady for having vouchsafed so explicit a revelation. Yet +was she distressed that her inmost spirit failed to respond, acclaiming +the words as divine. She knew they must be divine, yet could not feel +that they were so. + +As dawn crept into the cell, she found herself repeating again and +again "A sign, a sign! Thy will was hid from me; yet I accept its +revelation through this babe. But I ask a sign which shall speak to +mine own heart, also! A sign, a sign!" + +She rose and opened wide the casement, not of the oriel window, but of +one to the right of the group of the Virgin and child, and near by it. + +She was worn out both in mind and body, yet could not bring herself to +leave the shrine or to seek her couch. + +She remembered the example of that reverend and holy man, Bishop +Wulstan. She had lately been reading, in the Chronicles of Florence, +the monk of Worcester, how "in his early life, when appointed to be +chanter and treasurer of the Church, Wulstan embraced the opportunity +of serving God with less restraint, giving himself up to a +contemplative life, going into the church day and night to pray and +read the Bible. So devoted was he to sacred vigils that not only would +he keep himself awake during the night, but day and night also; and +when the urgency of nature at last compelled him to sleep, he did not +pamper his limbs by resting on a bed or coverings, but would lie down +for a short time on one of the benches of the Church, resting his head +on the book which he had used for praying or reading." + +The Prioress chanced to have read this passage aloud, in the Refectory, +two days before. + +As she stood in the dawn light, overcome with sleep, yet unwilling to +leave her vigil at the shrine, she remembered the example of this +greatly revered Bishop of Worcester, "a man of great piety and dovelike +simplicity, one beloved of God, and of the people whom he ruled in all +things," dead just over a hundred years, yet ever living in the memory +of all. + +So, remembering his example, the Prioress went to her table, and +shutting the clasps of her treasured Gregorian Sacramentary, placed it +on the floor before the shrine of the Virgin. + +Then, flinging her cloak upon the ground, and a silk covering over the +book, she sank down, stretched her weary limbs upon the cloak and laid +her head on the Sacramentary, trusting that some of the many sacred +prayers therein contained would pass into her mind while she slept. + +Yet still her spirit cried: "A sign, a sign! However slight, however +small; a sign mine own heart can understand." + +Whether she slept a few moments only or an hour, she could not tell. +Yet she felt strangely rested, when she was awakened by the sound of a +most heavenly song outpoured. It flooded her cell with liquid trills, +as of little silver bells. + +The Prioress opened her eyes, without stirring. + +Sunlight streamed in through the open window; and lo, upon the marble +hand of the Madonna, that very hand which, in the vision, had taken +hers and placed it within Hugh's, stood Mary Antony's robin, that gay +little Knight of the Bloody Vest, pouring forth so wonderful a song of +praise, and love, and fulness of joy, that it seemed as if his little +ruffling throat must burst with the rush of joyous melody. + +The robin sang. Our Lady smiled. The Babe on her knees looked merry. + +The Prioress lay watching, not daring to move; her head resting on the +Sacramentary. + +Then into her mind there came the suggestion of a test--a sign. + +"If he fly around the chamber," she whispered, "my place is here. But +if he fly straight out into the open, then doth our blessèd Lady bid me +also to arise and go." + +And, scarce had she so thought, when, with a last triumphant trill of +joy, straight from our Lady's hand, like an arrow from the bow, the +robin shot through the open casement, and out into the sunny, +newly-awakened world beyond. + + +The Prioress rose, folded her cloak, placed the book back upon the +table; then kneeled before the shrine, took off her cross of office, +and laid it upon our Lady's hand, from whence the little bird had flown. + +Then with bowed head, pale face, hands meekly crossed upon her breast, +the Prioress knelt long in prayer. + +The breeze of an early summer morn, blew in at the open window, and +fanned her cheek. + +In the garden without, the robin sang to his mate. + +At length the Prioress rose, moving as one who walked in a strange +dream, passed into the inner cell, and sought her couch. + +The Bishop's prayer had been answered. + +The Prioress had been given grace and strength to choose the harder +part, believing the harder part to be, in very deed, God's will for her. + +And, as she laid her head at last upon the pillow, a prayer from the +Gregorian Sacramentary slipped into her mind, calming her to sleep, +with its message of overruling power and eternal peace. + + +_Almighty and everlasting God, Who dost govern all things in heaven and +earth; Mercifully bear the supplications of Thy people, and grant us +Thy peace, all the days of our life; through Jesus Christ our Lord. +Amen._ + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI + +THE CALL OF THE CURLEW + +For the last time, the Knight waited in the crypt. + +The men-at-arms, having deposited their burden before the altar, leaned +each against a pillar, stolid and unobservant, but ready to drop to +their knees so soon as the chanting of Vespers should reach the crypt +from the choir above. + +The man upon the stretcher lay motionless, with bandaged head; yet +there was an alert brightness in his eyes, and the turn of his head +betokened one who listened. A cloak of dark blue, bordered with +silver, covered him, as a pall. + +Hugh d'Argent stood in the shadow of a pillar facing the narrow archway +in the wall from which the winding stairs led up to the clerestory. + +From this position he could also command a view of the steps leading up +into the crypt from the underground way, and of the ground to be +traversed by the White Ladies as they passed from the steps to the +staircase in the wall. + +Here the Knight kept his final vigil. + +A strange buoyancy possessed him. He seemed to have left his +despondence, like a heavy weight, at the bottom of the river. From the +moment when, his breath almost exhausted, he had seen and grasped the +Bishop's stone, bringing it in triumph to the surface, Hugh had felt +sure he would win. Aye, even before Symon had flung the stone; when, +in reply to the doubt cast by him on our Lady's smile, the Knight had +said: "I keep my trust in prayer," a joyous confidence had then and +there awakened within him. He had stretched out the right hand of his +withered faith, and lo, it had proved strong and vital. + +Yet as, in the heavy silence of the crypt, he heard the turning of the +key in the lock, his heart stood still, and every emotion hung +suspended, as the first veiled figure--shadowy and ghostlike--moved +into view. + + +It was not she. + +The Knight's pulses throbbed again. His heart pounded violently as, +keeping their measured distances, nine, ten, eleven, white figures +passed. + +Then--twelfth: a tall nun, almost her height; yet not she. + +Then--thirteenth: Oh, blessèd Virgin! Oh, saints of God! Mora! She, +herself. Never could he fail to recognize her carriage, the regal +poise of her head. However veiled, however shrouded, he could not be +mistaken. It was Mora; and that she should be walking in this central +position meant that she might with comparative safety, step aside. +Yet, even this---- + +But, at that moment, passing him, she turned her head, and for an +instant her eyes met the eyes of the Knight looking out from the +shadows. + +Another moment and she had vanished up the winding stairway in the wall. + +But that instant was enough. As her eyes met his, Hugh d'Argent knew +that his betrothed was once more his own. + +His heart ceased pounding; his pulses beat steadily. + +The calm of a vast, glad certainty enfolded him; a joy beyond belief. +Yet he knew now that he had been sure of it, ever since he came up from +the depths of the Severn into the summer sunshine, grasping the white +stone. + +"I keep my trust in prayer. . . . Give her to me! Give her to me! +Blessèd Virgin, give her to me! 'A sculptured smile'? Nay, my lord. +I keep my trust in prayer!" + + +The solemn chanting of the monks, stole down from the distant choir. +Vespers had begun. + + +The Knight strode to the altar, and knelt for some minutes, his hands +clasped upon the crossed hilt of his sword. + +Then he rose, and spoke in low tones to his men-at-arms. + +"When a thrush calls, you will leave the crypt, and guard the entrance +from without; allowing none, on any pretext, to pass within. When a +blackbird whistles you will return, lift the stretcher, and pass with +it, as heretofore, from the Cathedral to the hostel." + +Next the Knight, returning to the altar, bent over the bandaged man +upon the stretcher. + +"Martin," he said, speaking very low, so that his trusted +foster-brother alone could hear him. "All is well. Our pilgrimage is +about to end, as we have hoped, in a great recovery and restoration. +When the call of a curlew sounds, leap from the stretcher, leave the +bandages beside it; go to the entrance, guarding it from within; but +turn not thy head this way, until a blackbird whistles; upon which lose +thyself among the pillars, letting no man see thee, until we have +passed out. After which, make thy way out, as best thou canst, and +join me at the hostel, entering by the garden and window, without +letting thyself be seen in the courtyard." + +The keen eyes below the bandage, smiled assent. + +Stooping, the Knight lifted the cloak, fastened it to his left +shoulder, and drew it around him, holding the greater part of it in +many folds in his right hand. Then he moved back into the shadow of +the pillar. + +Above, the monks sang _Nunc Dimittis_. + +By and by the voices fell silent. + +Vespers were over. + + +Careful, shuffling feet were coming down the stairs within the wall. + +One by one the white figures reappeared. + +The Knight stood back, rigid, holding his breath. + +As each nun stepped from the archway in the wall, on to the floor of +the crypt, and moved toward the steps leading down to the subterranean +way, she passed from the view of the nun following her, who was still +one turn up the staircase. It was upon this the Knight had counted, +when he laid his plains. + + Six + Seven + Eight + +Blessèd Saint Joseph! How slowly they walked! + + Nine + Ten + Eleven + +The Knight gripped the cloak and moved a step further back into the +shadow. + + Twelve + +Were all the pillars rocking? Was the great new Cathedral coming down +upon his head? + + Thirteen + +The Prioress was beside him in the shadow. + +She had stepped aside. + +The twelfth White Lady was moving on, her back toward them. + +The fourteenth was shuffling down, but had not yet appeared. + +Hugh slipped his left arm about the Prioress, holding her close to him; +then flung the folds of the cloak completely around her, and over his +left shoulder, pressing her head down upon his breast. + +Thus they stood, motionless; her face hidden, his eyes bent upon the +narrow archway in the wall. + +The fourteenth White Lady appeared; evidently noted a wider gap than +she expected between herself and the distant figure almost at the +steps, and hastened forward. + +The fifteenth also hastened. + +The sixteenth chanced to have taken the stairs more quickly and, +appearing almost immediately, noticed no gap. + + Seventeen + Eighteen + Nineteen + Twenty + +Not one had turned her head in the direction of the pillar. The +procession was moving, with stately tread, along its accustomed way. + +A delicious sense of security enveloped Hugh d'Argent. + +The woman he loved was in his arms; she was his to shield, to guard, to +hold for evermore. + + Twenty-one + Twenty-two + +She had come to him--come to him of her own free will. Holding her +thus, he remembered those wondrous moments at the entrance to the +crypt. How hard it had been to loose her and leave her. Yet how glad +he now was that he had done so. + + Twenty-three + Twenty-four + +When all these white figures are gone, safely started on their +mile-long walk, the door shut and locked behind them--then he will fold +back the cloak, turn her sweet face up to his, and lay his lips on hers. + + Twenty-five + +Praise the holy saints! The last! But what an old ferret! + +Yes; Mother Sub-Prioress gave the Knight a moment of alarm. She peered +to right and left. Almost she saw the glint of the silver on the blue. +Almost, yet not quite. + +Sniffing, she passed on, walking as if her feet were angry, each with +the other for being before it. She tweaked at her veil, as she turned +and descended the steps. + +Hugh glowed and thrilled from head to foot. + +At last! + +Almost---- + +The sound of a closing door. + +Slowly a key turned, grated in the lock, and was withdrawn. + +Then--silence. + +But at sound of the turning key, the woman in his arms shivered, the +slow, cold shudder of a soul in pain; and suddenly he knew that in +coming to him she had chosen that which now seemed to her the harder +part. + +With the first revulsion of feeling occasioned by this knowledge, came +a strong impulse to put her from him, to leap down the stairway, force +open the heavy door, thrust her into the passage leading to her +Nunnery, and shut the door upon her; then go out himself into the world +to seek, in one wild search, every possible form of sin and revelry. + +But this ungoverned impulse lasted but for the moment in which his +passionate joy, recoiling upon himself, struck him a blinding, a +bewildering blow. + +In ten seconds he had recovered. His arms tightened more securely +around her. + +She had come to him. Whatever complex emotions might now be stirring +within her, this fact was beyond question. Also, she had come of her +own free will. The foot which had dared to stamp upon the torn +fragments of the Pope's mandate, had, with an equal courage, stepped +aside from the way of convention and had brought her within the compass +of his arms. + +He could not put her from him. She was his to hold and keep. But she +was his also to shield and guard; aye, to shield not from outward +dangers only, but from anything in himself which might cause her pain +or perplexity, thus making more difficult her noble act of +self-surrender. + +Words spoken by the Bishop, in the banqueting hall, came back to him +with fuller significance. + +A joy arose within him, deeper far than the rapture of passion; the joy +of a faithful patience, of a strong man's mastery over the strongest +thing in himself, of a lover's comprehension, by sure instinct, of that +which no words, however clear and forcible, could have succeeded in +making plain. + +His love arose, a kingly thing, crowned by her trust in him. + +As he folded back the cloak, he stood with eyes uplifted to the arched +roof above his head. And the vision he saw, in the dim pearly light, +was a vision of the Madonna in his home. + +The shelter of the cloak removed, the Prioress looked around with +startled eyes, full of an unspeakable shrinking; then upward to the +face of her lover, and saw it transfigured by the light of holy purpose +and of a great resolve. + +But, even as she looked, he took his arm from about her, stepped a pace +forward, leaving her in the shadow, and whistled thrice the _Do-it-now_ +call of the thrush. + +Instantly the men-at-arms leapt to their feet, and making quickly for +the entrance to the Cathedral from the crypt, stood to hold it from +without, against all comers. + +As their running feet rang on the steps, softly there sounded through +the crypt the plaintive call of the curlew. + +The man lying upon the stretcher rose, leaving his bandages behind; +and, without glancing to right or left, passed quickly in and out +amongst the forest of columns, and was lost to view. The entrance he +had to guard from within, was out of sight of the altar. To all +intents and purposes, the two who still stood motionless in the shadow, +were now alone. + +Then the Knight turned to the Prioress, took her right hand with his +left, and led her forward to the altar. + +There he loosed her hand as they knelt side by side; he clasping his +upon the crossed hilt of his sword; she crossing hers upon her breast. + +Presently the Prioress drew the marriage ring from the third finger of +her left hand, and gave it to the Knight. + +Divining her desire, he rose, laid the ring upon the altar, then knelt +again. + +Then rising, he took the ring, kissed it reverently, and slipped it +upon the little finger of his own left hand. + +The sad eyes of the Prioress, watching him, said to this neither "yea" +nor "nay." + +Rising she waited meekly to know his will for her. The Knight, the +blue cloak over his arm, turned to the stretcher, picked up the +bandages, then, spoke, very low, without looking at the Prioress. + +"Lay thyself down thereon," he said. "I grieve to ask it of thee, +Mora; but there is no other way of taking thee hence, unobserved." + +The Prioress took two steps forward, and stood beside the stretcher. + +It was many years since she had lain in any human presence. Standing, +walking, sitting, kneeling, she had been seen by the nuns; but +lying--never. + +Though her cross of office and sacred ring were gone, her dignity and +authority seemed still to belong to her while she stood, stately and +tall, upon her feet. + +She hesitated. The apologetic tone the Knight had used, seemed warrant +for her hesitancy, and rendered compliance more difficult. + +Each moment it became more impossible to place herself upon the +stretcher. + +"Lie down," said the Knight, sternly. + +At the curt word of command, the Prioress shuddered again; but, without +a word, she laid herself down upon the stretcher, closing her eyes, and +crossing her hands upon her breast. So white she was, so still, so +rigid; as Hugh d'Argent, the bandages in his hand, stood looking down +upon her, she seemed the marble effigy of a recumbent Prioress, graven +upon a tomb; save that, as the Knight looked upon that beautiful, proud +face, two burning tears forced their way from beneath the closed lids +and rolled helplessly down the pale cheeks. + +She did not see the look of tender compunction, of adoring love, in +Hugh's eyes. + +Her shame, her utter humiliation, seemed complete. + +Not when she took off her jewelled cross, and placed it upon our Lady's +hand; not when she stepped aside and allowed herself to be hidden by +the cloak; not even when she removed her ring and handed it to Hugh, +did she cease to be Prioress of the White Ladies of Worcester; but when +she laid herself down before the shrine of Saint Oswald, full length +upon the stretcher, at her lover's feet. + +Hugh stooped, and hid the bandages beside her. He could not bring +himself to touch or to disguise that lovely head. Instead, he covered +her completely with the cloak; saying, in deep tones of infinite +tenderness: + +"Our Lady be with thee. It will not be for long." + + +Then, shrill through the silent crypt, rang the dear call of the +blackbird. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII + +A GREAT RECOVERY AND RESTORATION + +Symon, Bishop of Worcester, attended by his Chaplain, chanced to be +walking through the Precincts on his way from the Priory to the Palace, +just as the men-at-arms bearing the stretcher came through the great +door of the Cathedral. + +Father Benedict, cowled, and robed completely in black, a head and +shoulders taller than the Bishop, walked behind him, a somewhat +sinister figure. + +The Bishop stopped. "Precede me to the Palace, Father Benedict," he +said. "I wish to have speech with yonder Knight who, I think, comes +this way." + +The Chaplain stood still, made deep obeisance, jerked his cowl more +closely over his face, and strode away. + +The Bishop waited, a radiant figure, in the afternoon sunshine. His +silken cassock, his silvery hair, his blue eyes, so vivid and +searching, not only made a spot on which light concentrated, but almost +seemed themselves to give forth light. + +The steady tramp of the men-at-arms drew nearer. + +Hugh d'Argent walked beside the stretcher, head erect, eyes shining, +his hand upon the hilt of his sword. + +When the Bishop saw the face of the Knight, he moved to meet the little +procession as it approached. + +He held up his hand, and the men-at-arms halted. + +"Good-day to you, Sir Hugh," said the Bishop. "Hath your pilgrimage to +the shrine of the blessèd Saint Oswald worked the recovery you hoped?" + +"Aye, my lord," replied the Knight, "a great recovery and restoration. +We start for Warwick in an hour's time." + +"Wonderful!" said the Bishop. "Our Lady and the holy Saint be praised! +But you are wise to keep the patient well covered. However complete +the restoration, great care is required at first, and over-exertion +must be avoided." + +"Your blessing for the patient, Reverend Father," said the Knight, +uncovering. + +The Bishop moved nearer. He laid his hand upon the form beneath the +blue and silver cloak. + +"_Benedictio Domini sit vobiscum_," he said. Then added, in a lower +tone: "Be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed. . . . Go in peace." + +The two men who loved the Prioress, looked steadily at one another. + +The men-at-arms moved forward with their burden. + +The Knight smiled as he walked on beside the stretcher. + +The Bishop hastened to the Palace. + +It was the Knight who had smiled, and there was glory in his eyes, and +triumph in the squaring of his broad shoulders, the swing of his +stride, and the proud poise of his head. + +The Bishop was white to the lips. His hands trembled as he walked. + +He feared--he feared sorely--this that they had accomplished. + +It was one thing to theorize, to speculate, to advise, when the +Prioress was safe in her Nunnery. It was quite another, to know that +she was being carried through the streets of Worcester, helpless, upon +a stretcher; that when that blue pall was lifted, she would find +herself in a hostel, alone with her lover, surrounded by men, not a +woman within call. + +The heart of a nun was a thing well known to the Bishop, and he +trembled at thought of this, which he had helped to bring about. + +Also he marvelled greatly that the Prioress should have changed her +mind; and he sought in vain to conjecture the cause of that change. + +Arrived in the courtyard of the Palace, he called for Brother Philip. + +"Saddle me Shulamite," he said. "Also mount Jasper on our fastest nag, +with saddle-bags. We ride to Warwick; and must start within a quarter +of an hour." + +A portion of that time the Bishop spent writing in the library. + +When he was mounted, he stooped from the saddle and spoke to Brother +Philip. + +"Philip," he said, "a very noble lady, betrothed to Sir Hugh d'Argent, +has just arrived at the Star hostel, where for some days he has awaited +her. She rides with the Knight forthwith to Warwick, where they will +join me at the Castle. It is my wish to lend Iconoklastes to the lady. +Therefore I desire thee to saddle the palfrey precisely as he was +saddled when he went to the Convent of the White Ladies for their +pleasuring and play. Lead him, without delay, to the hostel; deliver +him over to the men-at-arms of Sir Hugh d'Argent, and see that they +hand this letter at once to the Knight, that he may give it to his +lady. Lose not a moment, my good Philip. Look to see me return +to-morrow." + +The Bishop gathered up the reins, and started out, at a brisk pace, for +the Warwick road. + +The letter he had intrusted to Brother Philip, sealed with his own +signet, was addressed to Sir Hugh d'Argent. But within was written: + + +_Will the Countess of Norelle be pleased to accept of the palfrey +Iconoklastes as a marriage gift from her old friend Symon Wygorn._ + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII + +MARY ANTONY HOLDS THE FORT + +Mary Antony awaited in the cloisters the return of the White Ladies +from Vespers. + +The old lay-sister was not in the mood for gay chatter to the robin, +nor even for quaint converse with herself. + +She sat upon the stone seat, looking very frail, and wearing a wistful +expression, quite unlike her usual alert demeanour. + +As she sat, she slowly dropped the twenty-five peas from her right +hand, to her left, and back again. + +A wonderful thing had happened on that afternoon, just before the White +Ladies set forth to the Cathedral. + +All were assembling in the cloisters, when word arrived that the +Reverend Mother wished to speak, in her cell, with Sister Mary Antony. + +Hastening thither she found the Reverend Mother standing, very white +and silent, very calm and steadfast, looking out from the oriel window. + +At first she did not turn; and Mary Antony stood waiting, just within +the doorway. + +Then she turned, and said: "Ah, dear Antony!" in tones which thrilled +the heart of the old lay-sister. + +"Come hither, Antony," she said; and even as she said it, moved to meet +her. + +A few simple instructions she gave, concerning matters in the Refectory +and kitchen. Then said: "Now I must go. The nuns wait." + +Then of a sudden she put her arms about the old lay-sister. + +"Good-bye, my Antony," she said. "Thy love and devotion have been very +precious to me. The Presence of the Lord abide with thee in blessing, +while we are gone." + +And, stooping, she kissed her gently on the brow; then passed from the +cell. + +Mary Antony stood as one that dreamed. + +It was so many years since any touch of tenderness had reached her. + +And now--those gracious arms around her; those serene eyes looking upon +her with love in their regard, and a something more, which her old +heart failed to fathom; those lips, whose every word of command she and +the whole Community hastened to obey, leaving a kiss upon her brow! + +Long after the White Ladies had formed into procession and left the +cloisters, Mary Antony stood as one that dreamed. Then, remembering +her duties, she hurried to the cloisters, but found them empty; down +the steps to the crypt passage; the door was locked on the inside; the +key gone. + +The procession had started, and Mary Antony had failed to be at her +post. The White Ladies had departed uncounted. Mary Antony had not +been there to count them. + +Never before had the Reverend Mother sent for her when she should have +been on duty elsewhere. + +Hastening to remedy her failure, Mary Antony drew the bag of peas from +her wallet, opened it, and hurrying from cell to cell, took out a pea +at each, as she verified its emptiness; until five-and-twenty peas lay +in her hand. + +So now she waited, her error repaired; yet ever with her--then, as she +ran, and now, as she waited--she felt the benediction of the Reverend +Mother's kiss, the sense of her encircling arms, the wonder of her +gracious words. + +"The Presence of the Lord abide with thee in blessing." + +Yes, a heavenly calm was in the cloisters. The Devil had stayed away. +Heaven seemed very near. Even that little vain man, the robin, +appeared to be busy elsewhere. Mary Antony was quite alone. + +"While we are gone." But they would not now be long. Mary Antony +could tell by the shadows on the grass, and the slant of the sunshine +through a certain arch, that the hour of return drew near. + +She would kneel beside the topmost step, and see the Reverend Mother +pass; she would look up at that serene face which had melted into +tenderness; would see the firm line of those beautiful lips---- + +Suddenly Mary Antony knew that she would not be able to look. Not just +yet could she bear to see the Reverend Mother's countenance, without +that expression of wonderful tenderness. And even as she realised +this, the key grated in the lock below. + +Taking up her position at the top of the steps, the five-and-twenty +peas in her right hand, Mary Antony quickly made up her mind. She +could not lift her eyes to the Reverend Mother's face. She would count +the passing feet. + +The young lay-sister who carried the light, stumped up the steps, and +set down the lantern with a clatter. She plumped on to her knees +opposite to Mary Antony. + +"Sister Mary Rebecca leads to-day," she chanted in a low voice, "and +all the way hath stepped upon my heels." + +But Mary Antony took no notice of this information, which, at any other +time, would have delighted her. + +Head bowed, eyes on the ground, she awaited the passing feet. + +They came, moving slow and sedate. + +They passed--stepping two by two, out of her range of vision; moving +along the cloister, dying away in the distance. + +All had passed. + +Nay! Not all? Another comes! Surely, another comes? + +Sister Abigail, lifting the lantern, rose up noisily. + +"What wait you for, Sister Antony? The holy Ladies have by now entered +their cells." + +Mary Antony lifted startled eyes. + +The golden bars of sunlight fell across an empty cloister. + +A few white figures in the passage, seen in the distance through the +open door, were vanishing, one by one, into their cells. + +Mary Antony covered her dismay with indignation. + +"Be off, thou impudent hussy! Hold thy noisy tongue and hang thy +rattling lantern on a nail; or, better still, hold thy lantern, and +hang thyself, holding it, upon the nail. If I am piously minded to +pray here until sunset, that is no concern of thine. Be off, I say!" + +Left alone, Mary Antony slowly opened her right hand, and peered into +the palm. + +One pea lay within it. + +She went over to the seat and counted, with trembling fingers, the peas +from her left hand. + +Twenty-four! One holy Lady had therefore not returned. This must be +reported at once to the Reverend Mother. In her excitement, Mary +Antony forgot the emotion which had so recently possessed her. + +Bustling down the steps, she drew the key from the door, paused one +moment to peep into the dank darkness, listening for running footsteps +or a voice that called; then closed the door, locked it, drew forth the +key, and hurried to the Reverend Mother's cell. + +The door stood ajar, just as she had left it. + +She knocked, but entered without waiting to be bidden, crying: "Oh, +Reverend Mother! Twenty-five holy Ladies went to Vespers, and but +twenty-four have"---- + +Then her voice died away into silence. + +The Reverend Mother's cell was empty. + +Stock-still stood Mary Antony, while her world crumbled from beneath +her old feet and her heaven rolled itself up like a scroll, from over +her head, and departed. + +The Reverend Mother's cell was empty. + +It was the Reverend Mother who had not returned. + +"Good-bye, my Antony. The Presence of the Lord abide with thee in +blessing, while we are gone." Ah, gone! Never to return! + +Once again the old lay-sister stood as one that dreamed; but this time +instead of beatific joy, there was a forlorn pathos in the dreaming. + +Presently a door opened, and a step sounded, far away in the passage +beyond the Refectory stairs. + +Instantly a look of cunning and determination replaced the helpless +dismay on the old face. She quickly closed the cell door, hung up the +crypt key in its accustomed place; then kneeling before the shrine of +the Madonna: "Blessèd Virgin," she prayed, with clasped hands uplifted; +"be pleased to sharpen once again the wits of old Mary Antony." + +Rising, she found the key of the Reverend Mother's cell, passed out, +closing the door behind her; locked it, and slipped the key into her +wallet. + +The passage was empty. All the nuns were spending in prayer and +meditation the time until the Refectory bell should ring. + +Mary Antony appeared in the kitchen, only a few minutes later than +usual. + +"Prepare _you_ the evening meal," she said to her subordinates. "_I_ +care not what the holy Ladies feed upon this even, nor how badly it be +served. Reverend Mother again elects to spend the night in prayer and +fasting. So Mother Sub-Prioress will spit out a curse upon the viands; +or Sister Mary Rebecca will miaul over them like an old cat that sees a +tom in every shadow, though all toms have long since fled at her +approach. Serve at the usual hour; and let Abigail ring the Refectory +bell. I am otherwise employed. And remember. Reverend Mother is on +no account to be disturbed." + + +The porteress, at the gate, jumped well-nigh out of her skin when, +turning, she found Mary Antony at her elbow. + +"Beshrew me, Sister Antony!" she exclaimed. "Wherefore"---- + +"Whist!" said Mary Antony. "Speak not so loud. Now listen, Mary Mark. +Saw you the great Lord Bishop yesterday, a-walking with Mary Antony? +Ha, ha! Yea, verily! 'Worthy Mother,' his lordship called me. +'Worthy Mother,' with his hand upon his heart. And into the gardens he +walked with Mary Antony. Wherefore, you ask? Wherefore should the +great Lord Bishop walk in the Convent garden with an old lay-sister, +who ceased to be a comely wench more than half a century ago? Because, +Sister Mark, if you needs must know, the Lord Bishop is full of anxious +fears for the Reverend Mother, and knoweth that Mary Antony, old though +she be, is able to tend and watch over her. The Lord Bishop and the +Worthy Mother both fear that the Reverend Mother fasts too often, and +spends too many hours in vigil. The Reverend Father has therefore +deputed the Worthy Mother to watch in this matter, and to let him know +at once if the Reverend Mother imperils her health again, by too +lengthy a fast or vigil. And, lo! this very day, the Reverend Mother +purposes not coming to the evening meal, and intends spending the whole +night in prayer and vigil, before our Lady's shrine. Therefore the +Worthy Mother--I, myself--must start at once to fetch the great Lord +Bishop; and you, Sister Mary Mark, must open the gate and let me be +gone." + +The porteress gazed, round-eyed and amazed. + +"Nay, Sister Mary Antony, that can I not, without an order from the +Reverend Mother herself. And even then, you could not walk so far as +to the Lord Bishop's Palace. I doubt if you would even reach the +Fore-gate." + +"That I should, and shall!" cried Mary Antony. "And, if my old legs +fail me, many a gallant will dismount and offer me his horse. Thus in +fine style shall I ride into Worcester city. Didst thou not see me +bestride the Lord Bishop's white palfrey on Play Day?" + +Sister Mary Mark broke into laughter. + +"Aye," she said, "my sides have but lately ceased aching. I pray you, +Sister Antony, call not that sight again into my mind." + +"Then open the door, Mary Mark, and let me go." + +"Nay, that I dare not do." + +"Then, if I fail to do as bidden by the great Lord Bishop, I shall tell +his lordship that thou, and thine obstinacy, stood in the way of the +fulfilment of my purpose." + +The porteress wavered. + +"Bring me leave from the Reverend Mother, Sister Antony." + +"Nay, that can I not," said Mary Antony, "as any fool might see, when I +go without the Reverend Mother's knowledge to report to the Lord Bishop +by his private command. Even the Reverend Mother herself obeys the +commands of the Lord Bishop." + +Sister Mary Mark hesitated. She certainly had seen the Lord Bishop +pass under the rose-arch, and enter the garden, in close converse with +Sister Mary Antony. Yet her trust at the gate was given to her by the +Reverend Mother. + +"See here, Mary Mark," said Sister Antony. "I must send a message +forthwith to Mother Sub-Prioress. You shall take it, leaving me in +charge of the gate, as often I am left, by order of the Reverend +Mother, when you are bidden elsewhere. If, on your return--and you +need not to hurry--you find me gone, none can blame you. Yet when the +Lord Bishop rides in at sunset, he will give you his blessing and, like +enough, something besides." + +Mary Mark's hesitation vanished. + + +"I will take your message, Sister Antony," she said meekly. + +"Go, by way of the kitchens and the Refectory stairs, to the cell of +Mother Sub-Prioress. Say that the Reverend Mother purposes passing the +night in prayer and vigil, will not come to the evening meal, and +desires Mother Sub-Prioress to take her place. Also that for no cause +whatever is the Reverend Mother to be disturbed." + +Sister Mary Mark, being thus given a legitimate reason for leaving her +post and gaining the Bishop's favour without giving cause for +displeasure to the Prioress, departed, by way of the kitchens, to carry +Mary Antony's message. + +No sooner was she out of sight, than Mary Antony seized the key, +unlocked the great doors, pulled them apart, and left them standing +ajar, the key in the lock; then hastened back across the courtyard, +passed under the rose-arch, and creeping beneath the shelter of the yew +hedge, reached the steps up to the cloisters; slipped unobserved +through the cloister door, and up the empty passage; unlocked the +Reverend Mother's cell, entered it, and softly closed and locked the +door behind her. + +Then--in order to make it impossible to yield to any temptation to open +the door--she withdrew the key, and flung it through the open window, +far out into the shrubbery. + + +Thus did Mary Antony prepare to hold the fort, until the coming of the +Bishop. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV + +MORA DE NORELLE + +Symon, Bishop of Worcester, chid himself for restlessness. Surely for +once his mind had lost control of his limbs. + +No sooner did he decide to walk the smooth lawns around the Castle, +than he found himself mounting to the battlements; and now, though he +had installed himself for greatly needed repose in a deep seat in the +hall chamber, yet here he was, pacing the floor, or moving from one +window to another. + + +By dint of hard riding he had reached Warwick while the sun, though +already dipped beneath the horizon, still flecked the sky with rosy +clouds, and spread a golden mantle over the west. + +The lord of the Castle was away, in attendance on the King; but all was +in readiness for the arrival of the Bishop, and great preparations had +been made for the reception of Sir Hugh d'Argent. His people, having +left Worcester early that morning, were about in the courtyard, as the +Bishop rode in. + +As he passed through the doorway, an elderly woman, buxom, comely, and +of motherly aspect, whom he easily divined to be the tire-woman of whom +the Knight had spoken, came forward to meet him. + +"Good my lord," she said, her eagerness allowing of scant ceremony, +"comes Sir Hugh d'Argent hither this night?" + +"Aye," replied the Bishop, looking with kindly eyes upon Mora's old +nurse. "Within two hours, he should be here." + +"Comes he alone, my lord?" asked Mistress Deborah. + +"Nay," replied the Bishop, "the Countess of Norelle, a very noble lady +to whom the Knight is betrothed, rides hither with him." + +"The saints be praised!" exclaimed the old woman, and turned away to +hide her tears. + +Whilst his body-servant prepared a bath and laid out his robes, the +Bishop mounted to the ramparts and watched the gold fade in the west. +He glanced at the river below, threading its way through the pasture +land; at the billowy masses of trees; at the gay parterre, bright with +summer flowers. Then he looked long in the direction of the city from +which he had come. + +During his strenuous ride, the slow tramp of the men-at-arms, had +sounded continually in his ears; the outline of that helpless figure, +lying at full length upon the stretcher, had been ever before his eyes. + +He could not picture the arrival at the hostel, the removal of the +covering, the uprising of the Prioress to face life anew, enfolded in +the arms of her lover. + +As in a weary dream, in which the mind can make no headway, but returns +again and yet again to the point of distress, so, during the entire +ride, the Bishop had followed that stretcher through the streets of +Worcester city, until it seemed to him as if, before the pall was +lifted, the long-limbed, graceful form beneath it would have stiffened +in death. + +"A corpse for a bride! A corpse for a bride!" the hoofs of the black +mare Shulamite had seemed to beat out upon the road. "Alas, poor +Knight! A corpse for a bride!" + +The Bishop came down from the battlements. + +When he left his chamber an hour later, he had donned those crimson +robes which he wore on the evening when the Knight supped with him at +the Palace. + +As he paced up and down the lawns, the gold cross at his breast gleamed +in the evening light. + +A night-hawk, flying high overhead and looking downward as it flew, +might have supposed that a great scarlet poppy had left its clump in +the flower-beds, and was promenading on the turf. + +A steward came out to ask when it would please the Lord Bishop to sup. + +To the hovering hawk, a blackbird seemed to have hopped out, +confronting and arresting the promenading poppy. + +The Bishop said he would await the arrival of Sir Hugh; but he turned +and followed the man into the Castle. + +And now he sat in the great hall chamber. + +Two hours had passed since his arrival. + +Unless something unforeseen had occurred the Knight's cavalcade must be +here before long. He had planned to start within the hour; and, though +the Bishop had ridden fast, they could scarcely have taken more than an +hour longer to do the distance. + +But supposing the Prioress had faltered at the last, and had besought +to be returned to the Nunnery? Would the chivalry of the Knight have +stood such a test? And, having left in secret, how could she return +openly? Would the way through the crypt be possible? + +The Bishop began to wish that he had ridden to the Star hostel and +awaited developments there, instead of hastening on before. + +The hall chamber was in the centre of the Castle. Its casements looked +out upon the gardens. Thus it came about that he did not hear a +cavalcade ride into the courtyard. He did not hear the shouting of the +men, the ring of hoofs on the paving stones, the champing of horses. + +He sat in a great carved chair beside the fireplace in the hall +chamber, forcing himself to stillness, yet tormented by anxiety; half +minded to order a fresh horse and to ride back to Worcester. + +Suddenly, without any warning, the door, leading from the ante-chamber +at the further end of the hall, opened. + +Framed in the doorway appeared a vision, which for a moment led Symon +of Worcester to question whether he dreamed, so beautiful beyond belief +was the woman in a green riding-dress, looking at him with starry eyes, +her cheeks aglow, a veil of golden hair falling about her shoulders. + + +_Oh, Mora, child of delight! Has the exquisite promise of thy girlhood +indeed fulfilled itself thus? Have the years changed thee so +little---and yet so greatly?_ + +_"The captive exile hasteneth"; exile, long ago, for thy sake; seeking +to be free, yet captive still, caught once and forever in the meshes of +that golden hair._ + +_Oh, Mora, child of delight! Must all this planning for thy full +development and perfecting of joy, involve the poignant anguish of thus +seeing thee again?_ + + +Symon of Worcester rose and stood, a noble figure in crimson and gold, +at the top of the hall. But for the silver moonlight of his hair, he +might have been a man in his prime--so erect was his carriage, so keen +and bright were his eyes. + +The tall woman in the doorway gave a little cry; then moved quickly +forward. + +"You?" she said. "You! The priest who is to wed us? You!" + +He stood his ground, awaiting her approach. + +"Yes, I," he said; "I." + +Half-way across the hall, she paused. + +"No," she said, as if to herself. "I dream. It is not Father +Gervaise. It is the Bishop." + +She drew nearer. + +Earnestly he looked upon her, striving to see in her the Prioress of +Whytstone--the friend of all these happy, peaceful, blessèd years. + +But the Prioress had vanished. + +Mora de Norelle stood before him, taller by half a head than he, +flushed by long galloping in the night breeze; nerves strung to +breaking point; eyes bright with the great unrest of a headlong leap +into a new world. Yet the firm sweet lips were there, unchanged; and, +even as he marked them, they quivered and parted. + +"Reverend Father," she said, "I have chosen, even as you prayed I might +do, the harder part." She flung aside the riding-whip she carried; and +folding her hands, held them up before him. "For Christ's sake, my +Lord Bishop, pray for me!" + +He took those folded hands in his, gently parted them, and held them +against the cross upon his heart. + +"You have chosen rightly, my child," he said; "we will pray that grace +and strength may be vouchsafed you, so that you may continue, without +faltering, along the pathway of this fresh vocation." + +She looked at him with searching gaze. The kind and gentle eyes of the +Bishop met hers without wavering; also without any trace of the +fire--the keen brightness--which had startled her as she stood in the +doorway. + +"Reverend Father," she said, and there was a strange note of bewildered +question in her voice: "I pray you, tell me what you bid penitents to +remember as they kneel in prayer before the crucifix?" + +The Bishop looked full into those starry grey eyes bent upon him, and +his own did not falter. His mild voice took on a shade of sternness as +befitted the solemn subject of her question. + +"I tell them, my daughter, to remember, the sacred Wounds that bled and +the Heart that broke for them." + +She drew her hands from beneath his, and stepped back a pace. + +"The Heart that broke?" she said. "That _broke_? Do hearts break?" +she cried. "Nay, rather, they turn to stone." She laughed wildly, +then caught her breath. The Knight had entered the hall. + +With free, glad step, and head uplifted, Hugh d'Argent came to them, +where they stood. + +"My Lord Bishop," he said, "you have been too good to us. I sent Mora +on alone that she might find you here, not telling her who was the +prelate who had so graciously offered to wed us, knowing how much it +would mean to her that it should be you, Reverend Father." + +"Gladly am I here for that purpose, my son," replied the Bishop, +"having as you know, the leave and sanction of His Holiness for so +doing. Shall we proceed at once to the chapel, or do you plan first to +sup?" + +"Nay, Father," said the Knight. "My betrothed has ridden far and needs +food first, and then a good night's rest. If it will not too much +delay your return to Worcester, I would pray you to wed us in the +morning." + +Knowing how determined Hugh had been, in laying his plans, to be wed at +once on reaching Warwick, the Bishop looked up quickly, wishing to +understand what had wrought this change. + +He saw on the Knight's face that look of radiant peace which the +Prioress had seen, when first the cloak was turned back in the crypt; +and the Bishop, having passed that way himself, knew that to Hugh had +come the revelation which comes but to the true, lover--the deepest of +all joys, that of putting himself on one side, and of thinking, first +and only, of the welfare of the belovèd. + +And seeing this, the Bishop let go his fears, and in his heart thanked +God. + +"It is well planned, Hugh," he said. "I am here until the morning." + +At which the Knight turning, strode quickly to the door, and beckoned. + +Then back he came, leading by the hand the buxom, motherly old dame, +seen on arrival by the Bishop. Who, when the Lady Mora saw, she gave a +cry, and ran to meet her. + +"Debbie!" she cried, "Oh, Debbie! Let us go home!" + +And with that the tension broke all on a sudden, and with her old +nurse's arms around her, she sobbed on the faithful bosom which had +been the refuge of her childhood's woes. + +"There, my pretty!" said Deborah, as best she could for her own sobs. +"There, there! We are at home, now we are together. Come and see the +chamber in which we shall sleep, just as we slept long years ago, when +you were a babe, my dear." + +So, with her old nurse's arms about her, she, who had come in so +proudly, went gently out in a soft mist of tears. + +The Bishop turned away. + +"Love never faileth," he murmured, half aloud. + +Hugh turned with him, and laughed; but in his laughter there was no +vexation, no bitterness, no unrest. It was the happy laugh of a heart +aglow with a hope amounting to certainty. + +"There were two of us the other night, my dear lord," he said; "but now +old Debbie has appeared, methinks there are three!" + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV + +IN THE ARBOUR OF GOLDEN ROSES + +The next day dawned, clear and radiant; a perfect summer morning. + +Mora awoke soon after five o'clock. + +Notwithstanding the fatigue of the previous day, the strain and stress +of heart, and the late hour at which she had at length fallen asleep, +the mental habit of years overcame the physical need of further slumber. + +Her first conscious thought was for the rope which worked over a pulley +through a hole in the wall of her cell, enabling her from, within to +ring the great bell in the passage, thus rousing the entire community. +It had been her invariable habit to do this herself. She liked the +nuns to feel that the call to begin a new day came to them from the +hand of their Prioress. Realising the difficulty of early rising, +especially after night vigils, it pleased her that her nuns should know +that the fact of the bell resounding through the Convent proved that +the Reverend Mother was already on her feet. + +Yet now, looking toward the door, she could see no rope. And what +meant those sumptuous tapestry hangings? + +She leapt from her couch, and gazed around her. + +Why fell her hair about her, as a golden cloud?--that beautiful hair, +which in some Orders would have been shorn from her head; and, in this, +must ever be closely braided, covered, and never seen. Still +half-bewildered, she flung it back; gazing at the unfamiliar, yet +well-remembered, garments laid ready for her use. + +Sometimes she had had such dreams as this--dreams in which she was back +in the world, wearing its garments, tasting its pleasures, looking +again upon forbidden things. + +Why should she not now be dreaming? + +Then a sound fell upon her ear; a sound, long forgotten, yet so +familiar that as she heard it, she felt herself a child at home +again--the soft, contented snoring of old Debbie, fast asleep. + +Sound is ever more convincing than sight. The blind live in a world of +certainties. Not so, the deaf. + +Mora needed not to turn and view the comely countenance of her old +nurse sleeping upon a couch in a corner. At sound of that soft purring +snore, she knew all she needed to know--knew she was no longer +Prioress, knew she had renounced her vows; knew that even now the +Convent was waking and wondering, as last night it must have marvelled +and surmised, and to-morrow would question and condemn; knew that this +was her wedding morn; that this robe of softest white, with jewelled +girdle, and jewelled circlet to crown her hair, were old Debbie's +choice for her of suitable attire in which to stand beside her +bridegroom at the altar. + +Passing into an alcove, she bathed and clothed herself, even putting on +the jewelled band to clasp the shining softness of her hair. Debbie's +will on these points had never been disputed, and truly it mattered +little to Mora what she wore, since wimple and holy veil were forever +laid aside. + +She passed softly from the chamber, without awakening the old nurse, +made her way down a winding stair, out through a postern door, and so +into the gardens bathed in early morning sunshine. + +Seeking to escape observation from the Castle walls or windows, she +made her way through a rose-garden to where a high yew hedge surrounded +a bowling-green. At the further end of this secluded place stood a +rustic summer-house, now a veritable bower of yellow roses. + +Bending her head, Mora passed through an archway of yew, down three +stone steps, and so on to the lawn. + +Then, out from the arbour stepped the Bishop, in his violet cassock and +biretta, his breviary in his hand. + +If this first sight of Hugh's bride, in bridal array, on her wedding +morning, surprised or stirred him, he gave no sign of unusual emotion. + +As he came to meet her, his lips smiled kindly, and in his eyes was +that half whimsical, half tender look, she knew so well. He might have +been riding into the courtyard of the Nunnery, and she standing on the +steps to receive him, so natural was his greeting, so wholly as usual +did he appear. + +"You are up betimes, my daughter, as I guessed you would be; also you +have come hither, as I hoped you might do. Am I the first to wish you +joy, on this glad day?" + +"The first," she said. "Even my good Deborah slept through my rising. +I woke at the accustomed hour, to ring the Convent bell, and found +myself Prioress no longer, but bride--an earthly bride--expected to +deck herself with jewels for an earthly bridal." + +"'Even the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is in the sight +of God of great price,'" quoted, the Bishop, a retrospective twinkle in +his eye. + +"Alas, my lord, I fear that ornament was never mine." + +"Yet you must wear it now, my daughter. I have heard it is an ornament +greatly admired by husbands." + +Standing in the sunlight, all unconscious of her wondrous beauty, she +opened startled eyes on him; then dropped to her knees upon the turf. +"Your blessing, Reverend Father," she said, and there was a wild sob in +her voice. "Oh, I entreat your blessing, on this my bridal day!" + +The Bishop laid his hands upon the bright coronet of her hair, and +blessed her with the threefold Aaronic blessing; then raised her, and +bade her walk with him across the turf. + +Into the arbour he led her, beneath a cascade of fragrant yellow roses. +There, upon a rustic table was spread a dainty repast--new milk, fruit +freshly gathered, white rolls, and most golden pats of butter, the dew +of the dairy yet upon them. + +"Come, my daughter," said Symon of Worcester, gaily. "We of the +Church, who know the value of these early hours, let us break our fast +together." + +"Is it magic, my lord?" she asked, suddenly conscious of unmistakable +hunger. + +"Nay," said the Bishop, "but I was out a full hour ago. And the dairy +wench was up before me. So between us we contrived this simple repast." + +So, while the bridegroom and old Deborah still slumbered and slept, the +bride and the Bishop broke their fast together in a bower of roses; and +his eyes were the eyes of a merry schoolboy out on a holiday; and the +colour came back to her cheeks and she smiled and grew light-hearted, +as always in their long friendship, when he came to her in this gay +mood. + +Yet, presently, when she had eaten well, and seemed strengthened and +refreshed, the Bishop leaned back in his seat, saying with sudden +gravity: + +"And now, my daughter, will you tell me how it has come to pass that +you have been led to feel it right to take this irrevocable step, +renouncing your vows, and keeping your troth to Hugh? When last we +spoke together you declared that naught would suffice but a clear sign, +vouchsafed you from our Lady herself, making it plain that your highest +duty was to Hugh, and that Heaven absolved you from your vows. Was +such a sign vouchsafed?" + +"Indeed it was, my lord, in wondrous fashion, our Lady choosing as the +mouthpiece of her will, by means of a most explicit and unmistakable +revelation, one so humble and so simple, that I could but exclaim: +'Thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hast +revealed them unto babes.'" + +"And who," asked the Bishop, his eyes upon a peach which he was peeling +with extreme care; "who, my daughter, was the babe?" + +"The old lay-sister, Mary Antony." + +"Ah," murmured the Bishop, "an ancient babe. Yet truly, a most worthy +babe. Almost, I should be inclined to say, a wise and prudent babe." + +"Nay, my Lord Bishop," cried Mora, with a sharp decision of tone which +made it please him to imagine that, should he look up from the peach, +he would see the severe lines of the wimple and scapulary: "you and I +were the wise and prudent, arguing for and against, according to our +own theories and reason. But to this babe, our Lady vouchsafed a clear +vision." + +"Tell me of it," said the Bishop, splitting his peach and removing the +stone which he carefully washed, and slipped into his sash. The Bishop +always kept peach stones, and planted them. + +She told him. She began at the beginning, and told him all, to the +minutest detail; the full description of Hugh--the amazingly correct +repetition, in the vision, of the way in which she and Hugh had +actually kneeled together before the shrine of the blessèd Virgin, of +their very words and actions; and, finally, the sublime and gracious +tenderness of our Lady's pronouncement, clearly heard at the close of +the vision, by the old lay-sister: "Take her; she hath been ever thine. +I have but kept her for thee." + +"What say you to that, Reverend Father?" exclaimed Mora, concluding. + +"I scarce know what to say," replied the Bishop. "For lack of anything +better, I fall back upon my favourite motto, and I say: 'Love never +faileth.'" + +Now, generally, she delighted in the exceeding aptness of the Bishop's +quotations; but this time it seemed to Mora that his favourite motto +bore no sort of relevance. + +She felt, with a chill of disappointment and a sense of vexation, that +the Bishop's mind had been so intent upon the fruit, that he had not +fully taken in the wonder of the vision. + +"It has naught to do with love, my lord," she said, rather coldly; +"unless you mean the divine lovingkindness of our blessèd Lady." + +"Precisely," replied the Bishop, leaning back in his seat, and at +length looking straight into Mora's earnest eyes. "The divine +lovingkindness of our blessèd Lady never faileth." + +"You agree, my lord, that the vision shed a clear light upon all my +perplexities?" + +"Absolutely clear," replied the Bishop. "The love which arranged the +vision saw to that. Revelations, my daughter, are useless unless they +are explicit. Had our Lady merely waved her marble hand, instead of +stooping to take yours and place it in that of the Knight, you might +have thought she was waving him away, and bidding you to remain. If +her marble hand moved at all, it is well that it moved in so definite +and practical a manner." + +"It seems to me, Reverend Father," said Mora, leaning upon the table, +her face framed in her hands, and looking with knitted brows at the +Bishop; "it almost seems to me that you regard the entire vision with a +measure of secret incredulity." + +"Nay, my daughter, there you mistake. On the contrary I am fully +convinced, by that which you tell me, that the ancient babe, Mary +Antony, was undoubtedly permitted to see you and your knightly lover +kneeling hand in hand before our Lady's shrine; also I praise our +blessèd Lady that by vouchsafing this sight to Mary Antony, and by +allowing her to hear words which you yourself know to have been in very +deed actually spoken, your mind has been led to accept as the divine +will for you, this return to the world and union with your lover, which +will, I feel sure, be not only for your happiness and his, but also a +fruitful source of good to many. Yet, I admit----" + +The Bishop paused, and considered; as if anxious to say just so much, +and neither more nor less. Continuing, he spoke slowly, weighing each +word. "Yet, I frankly admit, I would sooner for mine own guidance +listen for the Voice of God within, or learn His will from the written +Word, than ask for miraculous signs, or act upon the visions of others. + +"No doubt you read, in the Chronicle I lately lent you, how 'in the +year of our Lord eleven hundred and thirty-seven--that time of many +sorrows, of burning, pillaging, rapine and torture, when the city of +York was burned together with the principal monastery; the city of +Rochester was consumed; also the Church of Bath, and the city of +Leicester; when owing to the absence of King Stephen abroad and the +mildness of his rule when at home, the barons greatly oppressed and +ill-used the Church and the people--while many were standing at the +Celebration of Mass at Windsor, they beheld the Crucifix, which was +over the altar, moving and wringing its hands, now the right hand with +the left, now the left with the right, after the manner of those who +are in distress.' + +"This wondrous sight convinced those who saw it that the crucified +Redeemer sympathised with the grievous sorrows of the land. + +"But no carven crucifix, wringing its hands before a gazing crowd, +could so deeply convince me of the sympathy of the Redeemer as to sit +alone in mine own chamber and read from the book of Isaiah the Prophet: +'Surely He hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows.'" + +Mora's brow cleared. + +"I think I understand, my lord; and that you should so feel, helps me +to confess to you a thing which I have scarce dared admit to myself. I +found it difficult in mine own soul to attach due weight to our blessèd +Lady's words as heard by Mary Antony. Mine own test--the robin's +flight, straight from the hand of the Madonna to the world +without--spoke with more sense of truth to my heart. I blame myself +for this; but so it is. Yet it was the vision which decided me as to +my clear path of duty." + +"Doubtless," remarked the Bishop, "the medium of Mary Antony took from +the solemnity of the pronouncement. There would be a twist of +quaintness in even the holiest vision, as described by the old +lay-sister." + +"Nay, my lord," said Mora. "Truth to tell, it was not so. Once fairly +started on the telling, she seemed lifted into a strange sublimity of +utterance. I marvelled at it, and at the unearthly radiance of her +face. At the end, I thought she slept; but later I heard from the +Sub-Prioress that she was found swooning before the crucifix and they +had much ado to bring her round. + +"My lord, my heart fails me when I think to-day of my empty cell, and +of the sore perplexity of my nuns. How soon will it be possible that +you see them and put the matter right, by giving the Holy Father's +message?" + +"So soon as you are wed, my daughter, I ride back to Worcester. I +shall endeavour to reach the Convent before the hour when they leave +for Vespers." + +"May I beg, my lord, that you speak a word of especial kindness to old +Antony, whose heart will be sore at my departure? I had thought to bid +her be silent concerning the vision; but as she declares the shining +Knight was Saint George or Saint Michael, the nuns, in their devout +simplicity, will doubtless hold the vision to have been merely symbolic +of my removal to 'higher service.'" + +"I will seek old Antony," said the Bishop, "and speak with her alone." + +"Father," said Mora, with deep emotion, "during all these years, you +have been most good to me; kind beyond words; patient always. I fear I +ofttimes tried you by being too firmly set on my own will and way. +But, I pray you to believe, I ever valued your counsel and could scarce +have lived without your friendship. Last night, on first entering the +Castle, I fear I spoke wildly and acted strangely. I was sore +overwrought. I came in, out of the night, not knowing whom I should +find in the hall chamber; and--for a moment, my lord, for one wild, +foolish moment--I took you not for yourself but for another." + +"For whom did you take me, my daughter?" asked the Bishop. + +"For one of whom you have oft reminded me, my lord, if I may say so +without offence, seeing I speak of a priest who was the ideal of my +girlhood's dreams. Knew you, many years ago, one Father Gervaise, held +in high regard at the Court, confessor to the Queen and her ladies?" + +The Bishop smiled, and his blue eyes looked into Mora's with an +expression of quiet interest. + +"Father Gervaise?" he said. "Preacher at the Court? Indeed, I knew +him, my daughter; and more than knew him. Father Gervaise and I had +the same grandparents." + +"Ah," cried Mora, eagerly, "then that accounts for a resemblance which +from the first has haunted me, making of our friendship, at once, so +sweetly intimate a thing. The voice and the eyes alone were like--but, +ah, so like! Father Gervaise wore a beard, which hid his mouth and +chin; but his blue eyes had in them that kindly yet searching look, +though not merry as yours oft are, my lord; and your voice has ever +made me think of his. + +"And once--just once--his eyes looked at me, across the Castle hall at +Windsor, with a deep glow of fire in them; a look which made me feel +called to an altar whereon, if I could but stand the test of fire, I +should be forever purified, uplifted, blest as was never earthly maid +before, save only our blessèd Lady. All that night I dreamed of it, +and my whole soul was filled with it, yet never again did I see Father +Gervaise. The next morning he left the Court, and soon after sailed +for Spain; and on the passage thither the ship foundered in a great +storm, and he, with all on board, perished. Heard you of that, my +lord?" + +"I heard it," said the Bishop. + +"All believed it, and mourned him; for by all he was belovèd. But +never could I feel that he was dead. Always for me it seemed that he +still lived. And last night--when I entered--across the great hall +chamber, it seemed as if, once more, the eyes of Father Gervaise looked +upon me, with that glowing fire in them, which called me to an altar." + +The Bishop smiled again, and there was in his look a gentle merriment. + +"You were over-strained, my daughter. When you drew near, you +found--instead of a ghostly priest with eyes of fire, drowned many +years ago, off the coast of Spain--your old friend, Symon of Worcester, +who had stolen a march on you, by reason of the swift paces of his good +mare, Shulamite." + +Mora leaned forward, and laid her hand on his. + +"Mock not, my friend," she said. "There was a time when Father +Gervaise stood to me for all my heart held dearest. Yet I loved him, +not as a girl loves a man, but rather as a nun loves her Lord. He +stood to me for all that was noblest and best; and, above all, for all +that was vital and alive in life and in religion; strong to act; able +to endure. He confessed me once, and told me, when I kneeled before +the crucifix, to say of Him Who hangs thereon: 'He ever liveth to make +intercession for us.' Never have I forgotten it. And--sometimes--when +I say the sacred words, and, saying them, my mind turns to Father +Gervaise, an echo seems to whisper to my spirit: '_He, also, liveth_.'" + +Symon of Worcester rose. + +"My daughter," he said, "the sun is high in the heavens. We must not +linger here. Hugh will be seeking his bride, and Mistress Deborah be +waxing anxious over the escape of her charge. The morning meal will be +ready in the banqueting hall; after which we must to the chapel, for +the marriage. Then, without delay, I ride to Worcester to make all +right at the Nunnery. Let us go." + +As Mora walked beside him across the sunny lawn, "Father," she said, +"think you the heart of a nun can ever become again as the heart of +other women?" + +CHAPTER XXXVI + +STRONG TO ACT; ABLE TO ENDURE + +Back to Worcester rode the Bishop. + +Gallop! Gallop! along the grassy rides, beside the hard highway. + +Hasten good Shulamite, black and comely still, though flecked with foam. + +Important work lies ahead. Every moment is precious. + +If Mother Sub-Prioress should send to the Palace, mischief will be +done, which it will not be easy to repair. + +If news of the flight of the Prioress reaches the city of Worcester, a +hundred tongues, spiteful, ignorant, curious, or merely idle, will at +once start wagging. + +Gallop, gallop, Shulamite! + +How impossible to overtake a rumour, if it have an hour's start of you. +As well attempt to catch up the water which first rushed through the +sluice-gates, opened an hour before you reached the dam. + +How impossible to remake a reputation once broken. Before the +priceless Venetian goblet fell from the table on to the flagged floor, +one hand put forth in time might have hindered its fall. But--failing +that timely hand--when, a second later, it lies in a hundred pieces, +the hands of the whole world are powerless to make it again as it was +before it fell. + +Faster, faster, Shulamite! + +When the messenger of Mother Sub-Prioress reports the absence of the +Bishop, he will most certainly be sent in haste to Father Benedict, who +will experience a sinister joy at the prospect of following his long +nose into the Prioress's empty cell, who will scent out scandal where +there is but a fragrance of lilies, and tear to pieces Mora's +reputation, with as little compunction as a wolf tears a lamb. + +Gallop, gallop, Shulamite! If no hand be put forth to save it, between +Mother Sub-Prioress and Father Benedict, this crystal bowl will be +broken into a hundred pieces. + + +At length the Bishop drew rein, and walked his mare a mile. He had +left Warwick ten miles behind him. He would soon be half-way to +Worcester. + +He had left Warwick behind him! + +It seemed to the Bishop that, ever since he had first known Mora de +Norelle, he had always been riding away and leaving behind. + +For her sake he rode away, leaving behind the Court, his various +offices, his growing influence and popularity. + +For her sake he left his identity as Father Gervaise at the bottom of +the ocean, taking up his life again, in Italy, under his other name. + +For her sake, when he heard that she had entered the Convent of the +White Ladies, he obtained the appointment to the see of Worcester, +leaving the sunny land he loved, and the prospect of far higher +preferment there. + +And now for her sake he rode away from Warwick as fast as steed could +carry him, leaving her the bride of another, in whose hand he had +himself placed hers, pronouncing the Church's blessing upon their union. + +Riding away--leaving behind; leaving behind--riding away. This was +what his love had ever brought him. + +Yet he felt rich to-day, finding himself in possession of the certain +knowledge that he had been right in judging necessary, that first +departure into exile long years ago. + +For had not Mora told him--little dreaming to whom she spoke--that +there was a time when he had stood to her for all her heart held +dearest; yet that she had loved him, not as a girl loves a man, but +rather as a nun loves her Lord. + +But surely a man would need to be divine to be so loved, and to hold +such love aright. And, even then, when that other man arrived who +would fain woo her to love him as a girl loves a man, would her heart +be free to respond to the call of nature? Nay. To all intents and +purposes, her heart would be a cloistered thing; yet would she be +neither bride of Christ nor bride of man. The fire in his eyes would +indeed have called her to an altar, and the sacrifice laid thereon +would be the full completion of her womanhood. + +"I did well to pass into exile," said the Bishop, reviewing the past, +as he rode. Yet deep in his heart was the comfort of those words she +had said: that once he had stood to her for all her heart held dearest. +Mora, the girl, had felt thus; Mora, the woman, remembered it; and the +Bishop, as he thought of both, offered up a thanksgiving that neither +he nor Father Gervaise had done aught which was unworthy of the ideal +of her girlhood's dream. + +Gathering up the reins, he urged Shulamite to a rapid trot. There must +be no lingering by the way. + + +Hasten, Shulamite! Even now the sluice-gates may be opening. Even now +the crystal bowl may be slipping from its pedestal, presently to lie in +a hundred fragments on the ground. + +Nay, trotting will scarce do. Gallop, gallop, brave black mare! + +The city walls are just in sight. + +Well done! + + * * * * * * + +Not far from the Convent gate, the Bishop chanced, by great good +fortune, upon Brother Philip, trying in the meadows the paces of a +young horse, but lately purchased. + +The Bishop bade the lay-brother ride with him to the Nunnery and, so +soon as he should have dismounted, lead Shulamite to the Palace +stables, carefully feed and tend her; then bring him out a fresh mount. + +As they rode forward: "Hath any message arrived at the Palace from the +Convent, Philip?" inquired the Bishop. + +"None, my lord." + +"Or at the Priory?" + +"Nay, my lord. But I did hear, at the Priory, a strange rumour"---- + +"Rumours are rarely worth regarding or repeating, Brother Philip." + +"True, my lord. Yet having so lately aided her to ride upon Icon"---- + +"'Her'? With whom then is rumour making free? And what saith this +Priory rumour concerning 'her'?" + +"They say the old lay-sister, Mary Antony, hath fled the Convent." + +"Mary Antony!" exclaimed the Bishop, and his voice held the most +extraordinary combination of amazement, relief, and incredulity. "But, +in heaven's name, good brother, wherefore should the old lay-sister +leave the Convent?" + +"They say she was making her way into the city in search of you, my +lord; but she hath not reached the Palace." + +"Any other rumour, Philip?" + +"Nay, my lord, none; save that the Prioress is distraught with anxiety +concerning the aged nun, and has commanded that the underground way to +the Cathedral crypt be searched; though, indeed, the porteress +confesses to having let Sister Mary Antony out at the gate." + +"Rumour again," said the Bishop, "and not a word of truth in it, I +warrant. Deny it, right and left, my good Philip; and say, on my +authority, that the Reverend Mother hath most certainly not caused the +crypt way to be searched. I would I could lay hands on the originator +of these foolish tales." + +The Bishop spoke with apparent vexation, but his heart had bounded in +the upspring of a great relief. Was he after all in time to save with +outstretched hand that most priceless crystal bowl? + +The Bishop dismounted outside the Convent gate. He took Shulamite's +nose into his hand, and spoke gently in her ear. + +Then: "Lead her home, Philip," he said, "and surround her with +tenderest care. Her brave heart hath done wonders this day. It is for +us to see that her body doth not pay the penalty. Here! Take her +rein, and go." + + +Mary Mark looked out through the wicket, in response to a knocking on +the door. She gasped when she saw the Lord Bishop, on foot, without +the gate. + +Quickly she opened, wide, and wider; hiding her buxom form behind the +door. + +But the Bishop had no thought for Mary Mark, nor inclination to play +hide-and-seek with a conscience-stricken porteress. + +Avoiding the front entrance, he crossed the courtyard to the right, +passed beneath the rose-arch, along the yew walk, and over the lawn, to +the seat under the beech, where two days before he had awaited the +coming of the Prioress. + +Here he paused for a moment, looking toward the silent cloisters, and +picturing her tall figure, her flowing veil and stately tread, +advancing toward him over the sunny lawn. + +Yet no. Even in these surroundings he could not see her now as +Prioress. Even across the Convent lawn there moved to meet him the +lovely woman with jewelled girdle, white robe, and coronet of golden +hair--the bride of Hugh. + +Perhaps this was the hardest moment to Symon of Worcester, in the whole +of that hard day. + +It was the one time when he thought of himself. + +"I have lost her!" he said. "Holy Jesu--Thou Whose heart did break +after three hours of darkness and of God-forsaken loneliness--have +pity! The light of my life is gone from me, yet must I live." + +Overwhelmed by this sudden realisation of loss, worn out in mind and +exhausted in body, the Bishop sank upon the seat. + +Mora was safe with Hugh. That much had been accomplished. + +For the rest, things must take their own course. He could do no +more--go no further. + +Then he heard again her voice in the arbour of golden roses, saying, in +those low sweet tones which thrilled his very soul: "He stood to me for +all that was vital and alive, in life and in religion; strong to act; +able to endure." + +During five minutes the Bishop sat, eyes closed, hands firmly clasped. + +So still he sat, that the little Knight of the Bloody Vest, watching, +with bright eyes, from the tree overhead, almost made up his mind to +drop to the other end of the seat. He was missing Sister Mary Antony, +who had not appeared at all that morning. This meant neither crumbs +nor cheese, and the "little vain man" was hungry. + +But at the end of five minutes the Bishop rose, calm and purposeful; +moved firmly up the lawn, mounted the steps, and passed into the +cloisters. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII + +WHAT MOTHER SUB-PRIORESS KNEW + +Mother Sub-Prioress had applied her eye, for the fiftieth time, to the +keyhole; but naught could she see in the Prioress's cell, save a +portion of the great wooden cross against the opposite wall. + +Sister Mary Rebecca, mounted upon a stool, attempted to spy through the +hole over the rope and pulley by means of which the Reverend Mother +rang the Convent bell. But all Sister Mary Rebecca saw, after bumping +her head upon a beam, and her nose on the wall, owing to the +impossibility of getting it out of the way of her eye, was a portion of +the top of the Reverend Mother's window. + +She cried out, as a great discovery, that the curtains were drawn back; +upon which, Mother Sub-Prioress, exclaiming, tartly, that that had been +long ago observed from the garden below, pushed the stool in her anger, +and sent Sister Mary Rebecca flying. + +Jumping to save herself, she alighted heavily on the feet of Sister +Teresa, striking Mary Seraphine full in the face with her elbow, and +scattering, to right and left, the crowd around the door. + +This cleared a view for Mother Sub-Prioress straight down the passage +and through the big open door, to the cloisters; when, looking up--to +scold Mary Rebecca for taking such a leap, to bid Sister Teresa cease +writhing, and Mary Seraphine to shriek in her cell with the door shut, +if shriek she must--Mother Sub-Prioress saw the Bishop, alone and +unattended, walking toward them from the cloisters. + +"_Benedicite_," said the Bishop, as he approached. "I am fortunate in +chancing to find the whole community assembled." + +The Bishop's uplifted fingers brought the nuns to their knees; but they +rose at once to their feet again and crowded behind Mother Sub-Prioress +as, taking a step forward, she hastened to explain the situation. + +"My Lord Bishop, you find us in much distress. The Reverend Mother is +locked into her cell, and we fear that, after a long night of vigil and +fasting, she hath swooned. We cannot get an answer by much knocking, +and we have no means of forcing the door, which is of most massive +strength and thickness." + +The Bishop looked searchingly into the ferrety face of Mother +Sub-Prioress, but he saw naught there save genuine distress and +perplexity. + +He looked at the massive door, and at the excited crowd of nuns. He +even gave himself time to note that the nose and lip of Seraphine were +beginning to swell, and to experience a whimsical wish that the Knight +could see her. + +Then his calm, observant eye turned again to Mother Sub-Prioress. + +"And why do you make so sure, Mother Sub-Prioress, that the Reverend +Mother is indeed within her cell?" + +"Because we _know_ her to be," replied Mother Sub-Prioress, as tartly +as she dared, when addressing the Lord Bishop. "Permit me, Reverend +Father, to recount to you the happenings of the last twenty hours. + +"Soon after her return from Vespers, yestereven, the Reverend Mother +sent word by Mary Antony that she purposed again spending the night in +prayer and vigil, and would not be present at the evening meal; also +that she must not, on any account whatever, be disturbed. Mary Antony +took this message to the kitchens, bidding the younger lay-sisters to +prepare the meal without her, saying she cared not how badly it was +served, seeing the Reverend Mother would not be there to partake of it." + +Mother Sub-Prioress paused to sniff, and to give the other nuns an +opportunity for ejaculations concerning Sister Antony. But their awe +of the Lord Bishop, and their genuine anxiety for the old lay-sister, +kept them silent. + +The Bishop stroked his chin, keeping the corners of his mouth firmly in +place by means of his thumb and finger. Old Antony was delectably +funny when she said these things herself; but she was delectably +funnier, when her remarks were repeated by Mother Sub-Prioress. + +"The old _creature_," continued Mother Sub-Prioress, eyeing the +Bishop's meditative hand suspiciously, "then betook herself to the +outer gates, told the porteress that she had your orders, Reverend +Father, to report to you if the Reverend Mother again elected to pass a +night in vigil and in fasting, because you and she--you and _she_ +forsooth!--were made anxious by the too constant fasting and the too +prolonged vigils of the Reverend Mother. Mary Mark very properly +refused to allow the old"---- + +"Lay-sister," interposed the Bishop, sternly. + +Mother Sub-Prioress gasped; then made obeisance:--"the old lay-sister +to leave the Convent. Whereupon Sister Antony sent Mary Mark to +deliver the Reverend Mother's message to me, bribing her, with the +promise of a gift from you, my lord, to leave her the key. When the +porteress returned, Mary Antony was gone, having left the great doors +ajar, and the key within the lock. She has not been seen since. Did +she reach the Palace, and speak with you, my lord? Is she now in +safety at the Palace?" + +"Nay," said the Bishop gravely. "Sister Mary Antony hath not been seen +at the Palace." + +"Alack-a-day!" exclaimed Sister Abigail; "she will have fallen by the +way, and perished! She was too old to face the world or attempt to +reach the city." + +"Peace, girl!" commanded the Sub-Prioress. "Thy comments and thy +wailings mend not the matter, and do but incense the Lord Bishop." + +Nothing could have appeared less incensed than the Bishop's benign +countenance. But he had spoken sternly to Mother Sub-Prioress, +therefore she endeavoured to put herself in the right by charging him, +at the first opportunity, with unreasonable irritation. + +The Bishop reassured Sister Abigail, with a smile; then, pointing +toward the closed door: "Proceed with your recital, Mother +Sub-Prioress," he said. "You have as yet given me no proof confirming +your belief that the Prioress is within the cell." + +"When the absence of Mary Antony became known, my lord," continued +Mother Sub-Prioress, "we felt it right to acquaint the Reverend Mother +with the old lay-sister's flight. I, myself, knocked upon this door; +but the only reply I received was the continuous low chanting of +prayers, from within; not so much a clear chanting, as a murmur; and +whenever, during the night, nuns listened at the door, or ventured +again to tap, the sound of the Reverend Mother's voice, reciting psalms +or prayers, reached them. As you may remember, my lord, the ground +upon the other side of the building is on a lower level than the +cloister lawn. The windows of the Reverend Mother's cell are therefore +raised above the shrubbery and it is not possible to see into the +chamber. But Sister Mary Rebecca, who went round after dark, noted +that the Reverend Mother had lighted her tapers and drawn her curtains. +This morning the light is extinguished, the curtains are drawn back, +and the casement flung open. Moreover at the usual hour for rising, +the Reverend Mother rang the bell, as is her custom, to waken the +nuns--rang it from within her cell, by means of this rope and pulley." + +"Ah," said the Bishop. + +"Sister Abigail, up already, thereupon ran to the Reverend Mother's +cell; and, the bell still swinging, tapped and asked if she might bring +in milk and bread. Once more the only answer was the low chanting of +prayers. Also, Sister Abigail declares, the voice was so weak and +faltering, she scarce knew it for the Reverend Mother's. And since +then, my lord, there has been silence within the cell, and a sore sense +of fear within our hearts; for it is unlike the Reverend Mother to keep +her door locked, when the entire community calls and knocks without." + +The Bishop lifted his hand. + +"In that speak you truly, Mother Sub-Prioress," said he. "Also I must +tell you without further delay, that the Prioress is not within her +cell." + +"_Not_ within her cell!" exclaimed Mother Sub-Prioress. + +"Not within her cell!" shrieked a score of terrified voices, like +seagulls calling to each other, before a gathering storm. + +"The Prioress left the Convent yesterday afternoon," said the Bishop, +"with my knowledge and approval; travelling at once, with a sufficient +escort, to a place some distance from Worcester, where I also spent the +night. I have come to bring you a message from His Holiness the Pope, +sent to me direct from Rome. . . . The Holy Father bids me say that +your Prioress has been moved on by me, with his full knowledge and +approval, to a place where she is required for higher service. Perhaps +I may also tell you," added the Bishop, looking with kindly sympathy +upon all the blankly disconcerted faces, "that this morning I myself +performed a solemn rite, for which I held the Pope's especial mandate, +setting apart your late Prioress for this higher service. She grieved +that it was not possible to bid you farewell. She sends you loving +greetings, her thanks for loyalty and obedience, and prays that the +blessing of the Lord may ever be with you." + +The Bishop ceased speaking. + +At first there was an amazed silence. + +Then the unexpected happened. Mother Sub-Prioress, without any +warning, broke into passionate weeping. + +Never before had Mother Sub-Prioress been known to weep. The sight +petrified the Convent. Yet somehow all knew that she wept because, in +the hard old nut which did duty for her heart, there was a kernel of +deep love for their noble Prioress. + +The other nuns wept, because Mother Sub-Prioress wept. + +The sobbing became embarrassing in its completeness. Wheresoever the +Bishop looked he was confronted by a weeping nun. + +Suddenly Mother Sub-Prioress dried her eyes, holding herself once more +in control. It had just occurred to her that the Bishop's word could +not be taken against the evidence of all their senses! On that very +morning, at five o'clock the Convent call to rise had been rung from +_within_ the Prioress's cell! + +So Mother Sub-Prioress dried her eyes, punished her nose for sharing in +the general breakdown, and looking with belligerent eye at the Bishop, +said: "_If_ the Reverend Mother _be_ not within her cell, _perhaps_ it +will please you, my lord, to _inform_ the Convent who is within it!" + +"That point," said the Bishop, "can speedily be settled." + +He took from his girdle the Prioress's master-key, handed over to him +before he left Warwick. + +Fitting it into the lock, he opened the door of the cell, and entered, +followed by the Sub-Prioress and a crowd of palpitating, eager nuns. + +A few paces from the door the Bishop paused, signing to Mother +Sub-Prioress to come forward, but restraining, with uplifted hand, +those who pressed in behind her. + +The chamber was very still. + +The chair of the Prioress was empty. + +But, before the shrine of the Madonna, there lay, stretched upon the +floor, the unconscious form of the old lay-sister, Mary Antony. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII + +THE BISHOP KEEPS VIGIL + +Old Mary Antony lay dying. + +The Bishop had not allowed her to be carried from the cell of the +Prioress, to her own. + +He had commanded that the Reverend Mother's couch be moved from the +inner room and placed before the shrine of the Virgin. On this lay +Mary Antony, while the Bishop himself kept watch beside her. + +The evening light came in through the open casement, illumining the +calm old face, from which the soothing hand of death was already +smoothing the wrinkles. + +Five hours had passed since they found her. + +It had taken long to restore her to consciousness; and so soon as she +awoke to her surroundings, and recognised Mother Sub-Prioress, and the +many faces around her, she relapsed into silence, refusing to answer +any questions, yet keeping her eyes anxiously fixed upon the door. + +Seeing which, Sister Teresa slipped from the room and ran secretly to +tell the Lord Bishop, who had paid but a brief visit to the Palace and +was now pacing the lawn below the cloisters. + +The Bishop came at once; when, seeing him enter, Mary Antony gave a +cry, striving to raise herself from the pillows. + +Moving to the bedside, the Bishop laid his hand upon the shaking hands, +which had been clasped at sight of him. + +An eager question was in the eyes lifted to his. + +The Bishop bent over the couch. + +"Yes," he said, and smiled. + +The anxious look faded. The eyes closed. A triumphant smile illumined +the dying face. + +Turning, the Bishop asked a few whispered questions of the Sub-Prioress. + +Mary Antony had taken a sip of wine, but seemed to find it impossible +to partake of food. She had been so long without, that now nature +refused it. + +"Undoubtedly she is dying," said Mother Sub-Prioress, not unkindly, but +in the matter-of-fact tone of one to whom the hard outline of a fact is +unsoftened by the atmosphere of imagination or of sympathy. + +"I know it," said the Bishop, in low tones. "Therefore am I come to +confess our sister and to administer the final rites and consolations +of the Church. I have with me all that is needed. You may now +withdraw, and leave me to watch alone beside Sister Mary Antony." + +"We sent for Father Peter," began Mother Sub-Prioress, "but she paid no +heed to any of his questions, neither would she"---- + +The Bishop took one step toward Mother Sub-Prioress, with uplifted +hand, pointing to the door. + +Mother Sub-Prioress hastened out. + +The Bishop followed her into the passage, where a waiting crowd of nuns +created that atmosphere of excited tension, which seizes certain minds +at the near approach of death. + +"I bid you all to go to your cells," said the Bishop, "there to spend +the next hour in earnest prayer for the passing soul of this aged nun +who, during so long a time, has lived and worked in this Convent. Let +every door be closed. I keep the final vigil alone. When I need help +I shall ring the Convent bell." + +Immovable in the passage stood the Bishop, until every figure had +vanished; every door had closed. + +Then he re-entered the Prioress's cell, and shut the door. + +He placed the holy oil on the step, before the shrine of the Madonna, +just where old Antony had knelt when she had prayed our blessèd Lady to +be pleased to sharpen her old wits. + +Then he drew forth a tiny flask of rare Italian workmanship, let fall a +few drops from it into a spoonful of wine, and firmly poured the liquid +between the old lay-sister's parted lips. + +One anxious moment; then he heard her swallow. + +At that, the Bishop drew the Prioress's chair to the side of the couch, +and sat down to await events. + +In a few moments the stertorous breathing ceased, the open mouth +closed. Mary Antony sighed thrice, as a little child that has wept +before sleeping sighs in its sleep. + +Then she opened her eyes, and fixed them on the Bishop. + +"Reverend Father"--she began, then chuckled, gleefully. Her voice had +come back, and with it a great activity of brain, though the hands upon +the coverlet seemed to belong to someone else, and she hoped they would +not rise up and strike her. Her feet, she could not feel at all; but, +seeing that she was most comfortably lying there where she best loved +to be, why should she require feet? Feet are such tired things. One +rests better without them. + +"Speak low," said the Bishop, bending forward. "Speak low, dear Sister +Antony; partly to spare thy strength; and partly because, though I have +sent all the White Ladies to their cells, our good Mother Sub-Prioress, +in her natural anxiety for thy welfare, may be outside the door, even +now." + +Mary Antony chuckled. + +"If we could but thrust a nail through into her ear," she whispered. +Then suddenly serious, she put the question which already her eyes had +asked: "Did I succeed in keeping from them the flight of the Reverend +Mother, until you arrived, Reverend Father?" + +"Yes, faithful heart, wise beyond all expectation, you did." + +Again Mary Antony chuckled. + +"I locked them out," she said, with a knowing wink, "but I also took +them in. Yea, verily, I took them in! Scores of times they called me +'Reverend Mother.' 'Open the door, I humbly pray you, Reverend +Mother,' pleaded Mother Sub-Prioress at the keyhole. '_Dixi: Custodiam +vias meas_,' chanted Mary Antony, in a beauteous voice! . . . 'Open, +open, Reverend Mother!' besought a multitude without. '_Quid +multiplicati sunt gui tribulant me_!' intoned Mary Antony, +within. . . . 'Most dear and Reverend Mother,' crooned Sister Mary +Rebecca, at midnight, 'I have something of deepest importance to +say'--'_Dixit insipiens_,' was Mary Antony's appropriate response. Eh, +and Sister Mary Rebecca, thinking none could observe her, had already +been round, in the moonlight, and attempted to climb a tree. All the +Reverend Mother's windows were closely curtained; but old Antony had +her eye to a crack, and the sight of Sister Mary Rebecca climbing, made +all the other trees to shake with laughter, but is not a sight to be +described to the great Lord Bishop. . . . Nay, then!"--with a startled +cry--"Why doth this knotted finger rise up and shake itself at me?" + +The Bishop took the worn old hand, now stone cold, laid it back upon +the quilt, and covered it with his own. + +The drug he had administered had indeed revived the powers, but the +over-excited brain was inclined to wander. + +He recalled it with a name which he knew would act as a potent spell. + +"Would you have news of the Prioress, Sister Antony?" + +Instantly the eyes grew eager. + +"Is she safe, Reverend Father? Is she well? Hath she taken happiness +to her with both hands, not thrusting it away?" + +"Happiness hath taken her by both hands," said the Bishop. "This +morning I blest her union with a noble knight to whom she was betrothed +before she came hither." + +"_I_ know," whispered old Antony ecstatically. "I heard it all, I and +my meat chopper, hidden in there; I and my meat chopper--not willing to +let the Reverend Mother face danger alone. And I did thrust the handle +of the chopper between my gums, that I might not cry 'Bravely done!' +when the noble Knight and his men-at-arms flung a rope over a strong +bough, and hanged that clerkly fellow--somewhat lean and out at elbows. +Oh, ah? It was bravely done! I heard it all! I saw it all!" + +Then the joy faded; a look of shame and grief came into the old face. + +"But having thus seen and heard has led me into grievous sin, Reverend +Father. Alas, I have lied about holy things, sinning, I fear me, +beyond forgiveness, though indeed I did it, meaning to do well. May I +tell you all, Reverend Father, that you may judge whether in that which +I did, I acted according to our blessèd Lady's will and intention, or +whether the deceitfulness of mine own heart has led me into mortal sin?" + +The Bishop looked anxiously at the sun dipping slowly in the west. The +effect of the drug he had given should last an hour, if care were taken +of this spurious strength. He judged a quarter of that time to have +already sped. + +"Tell me from the beginning, without reserve, dear Antony," he said. +"But speak low, for my ear only. Remember possible listeners outside +the door." + +So presently the whole tale was told, with many a quaint twist of old +Antony's. And the Bishop's heart melted to tenderness as she whispered +the story, and he realised the greatness of the devotion which had gone +forward, without a thought of self, in the bold endeavour to bring +happiness to the Prioress she loved, yet the anxious conscience, which +now trembled at the thought of that which the fearless heart had done. + +"I lied about holy things; I put words into our blessèd Lady's mouth; I +said she moved her hand. But you did tell me, Reverend Father, that +the Reverend Mother was so made that unless there was a vision or +revelation from our Lady, she would thrust away her happiness with both +hands. And there would not have been a vision if old Antony had not +contrived one. Yet I fear me, for the sin of that contriving, I shall +never find forgiveness; my soul must ever stay in torment." + +Tears coursed down the wrinkled cheeks. + +The Bishop kneeled beside the bed. + +"Dear Antony," he said. "Listen to me. 'Perfect love casteth out +fear, because fear hath torment.' You have loved with a perfect love. +You need have no fear. Trust in the love of God, in the precious blood +of the Redeemer, which cleanseth from all sin, in the understanding +tenderness of our Lady, who knoweth a woman's heart. You meant to do +right; and if, honestly intending to do well, you used the wrong means, +Divine love, judging you by your intention, will pardon the mistake. +'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our +sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.' Think no more of +yourself, in this. Dwell solely on our Lord. Silence your own fears, +by repeating: 'He is faithful and just.'" + +"Think you, Reverend Father," quavered the pathetic voice, "that They +will sometimes let old Antony out of hell for an hour, to sit on her +jasper seat and see the Reverend Mother walk up the golden stairs, with +the splendid Knight on one side and the great Lord Bishop on the other?" + +"Sister Mary Antony," said the Bishop, clearly and solemnly, "there is +no place in hell for so faithful and so loving a heart. You shall go +straight to your jasper seat; and because, with the Lord, one day is as +a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day, your eyes will +scarce have time to grow used to the great glory, before you see the +Reverend Mother coming, walking between the two who have faithfully +loved her; and you, who have also loved her faithfully, will also mount +the golden stair, and together we all shall kneel before the throne of +God, and understand at last the full meaning of those words of wonder: +GOD IS LOVE." + +A look of ineffable joy lit up the dying face. + +"Straight to my jasper seat," she said, "to watch--to wait"---- + +Then came the sudden fading of the spurious strength. The Bishop put +out his hand and reached for the holy oil. + + * * * * * * + +The golden sunset light flooded the chamber with radiance. + +The Bishop still watched beside the couch. + +Having rallied sufficiently to make her last confession, short and +simple as a child's; having received absolution and the last sacred +rites of the Church, Mary Antony had slipped into a peaceful slumber. + +The Bishop had to bend over and listen, to make sure that she still +breathed. + +Suddenly she opened her eyes and looked full into his. + +"Did you wed the Reverend Mother to the splendid Knight?" she asked, +and her voice was strong again and natural, with the little chuckle of +curiosity and humour in it, as of old. + +"This morning," answered the Bishop, "I wedded them." + +"Did he kiss her?" asked old Antony, with an indescribable twinkle of +gleeful enjoyment, though those twinkling eyes seemed the only living +thing in the old face. + +"Nay," said the Bishop. "They who truly kiss, kiss not in public." + +"Ah," whispered Mary Antony. "Yea, verily! I know that to be true." + +She lifted wandering fingers and, after much groping, touched her +forehead, with a happy smile. + +Not knowing what else the action could mean, the Bishop leaned forward +and made the sign of the cross on her brow. + +Mary Antony gave that peculiar little chuckle of enjoyment, which had +always marked her pleasure when the very learned made mistakes. It +gave her so great a sense of cleverness. + +After this the light faded from the old eyes, and the Bishop had begun +to think they would not again open upon this world, when a strange +thing happened. + +There was a flick of wings, and in, through the open window, flew the +robin. + +First he perched on the marble hand of the Madonna. Then, with a +joyful chirp, dropped straight to the couch on which lay Mary Antony. + +At sound of that chirp, Mary Antony opened her eyes, and saw her much +loved little bird hopping gaily on the coverlet. + +"Hey, thou little vain man!" she said. "Ah, naughty Master Pieman! +Art come to look upon old Antony in her bed? The great Lord Bishop +will have thee hanged." + +The robin hopped nearer, and pecked gently at the hand which so oft had +fed him, now lying helpless on the quilt. + +A look of exquisite delight came into the old woman's eyes. + +"Ah, my little Knight of the Bloody Vest," she whispered, "dost want +thy cheese? Wait a minute, while old Antony searches in her wallet." + +She sat up suddenly, as if to reach for something. + +Then a startled look came into her face. She stretched out appealing +hands to the Bishop. + +Instantly he caught them in his. + +"Fear not, dear Antony," he said. "All is well." + +The robin, spreading his wings, flew out at the window. And the loving +spirit of Mary Antony went with him. + +The Bishop laid the worn-out body gently back upon the couch, closed +the eyes, and folded the hands upon the breast. + +Then he walked over to the window, and stood looking at the golden +ramparts of that sunset city, glowing against the delicate azure of the +evening sky. + +Great loneliness of soul came to the Bishop, standing thus in the empty +cell. + +The Prioress had gone; the robin had gone; Mary Antony had gone; and +the Bishop greatly wished that he might go, also. + +Presently he turned to the Prioress's table. She had sent to the +Palace the copy she had made, and the copy she had mended, of the +Pope's mandate. But she had left upon the table the strips of +parchment upon which she had inscribed, on the night of her vigil, +copies and translations of ancient prayers from the Sacramentaries. +The Bishop gathered these up, reading them as he stood. Two he slipped +into his sash, but the third he took to the couch and placed beneath +the folded hands. + +"Take this with thee to thy jasper seat, dear faithful heart," he said; +"for truly it was given unto thee to perceive and know what things thou +oughtest to do, and also to have grace and power faithfully to fulfil +the same." + +The peaceful face, growing beautiful with that solemn look of eternal +youth which death brings, even to the aged, seemed to smile, as the +precious parchment passed into the keeping of those folded hands. + +The Bishop knelt long in prayer and thanksgiving. At length, with +uplifted face, he said: "And grant, O my God, that I too may be +faithful, unto the very end." + +Then he rose, and rang the Convent bell. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX + +THE "SPLENDID KNIGHT" + +On the steps of Warwick Castle stood the Knight and his bride. + +Their eyes still lingered on the archway through which the noble figure +of Symon, Bishop of Worcester, mounted upon his black mare, Shulamite, +had just disappeared from view. + +The marriage had taken place in the Castle chapel, half an hour before, +with an astonishing amount of pomp and ceremony. Priests and acolytes +had appeared from unexpected places. Madonna lilies, on graceful stem, +gleamed white in the shadows of the sacred place. Solemn music rose +and fell; the deep roll of the Gregorian chants, beginning with a low +hum as of giant bees in a vast field of clover; swelling, in +full-throated unison, a majestic volume of sound which rang against the +rafters, waking echoes in the clerestory; then rumbling back into +silence. + +Standing beneath the sacred canopy, the bridal pair lifted their eyes +to the high altar and saw, amid a cloud of incense, the Bishop, in +gorgeous vestments, descending the steps and coming toward them. + +To Mora, at the time, and afterwards in most thankful remembrance, the +wonder of that which followed lay in the fact that where she had +dreaded an inevitable sense of sacrilege in giving to another that +which had been already consecrated to God, the Bishop so worded the +service as to make her feel that she could still be spiritually the +bride of Christ, even while fulfilling her troth to Hugh; also that, in +accepting the call to this new Vocation, she was not falling from her +old estate, but rather rising above it. + +As the words were spoken which made her a wife, it seemed as if the +Bishop gently wrapped her about with a fresh mantle of dignity--that +dignity which had fallen from her in those moments of humiliation when, +at Hugh's bidding she laid herself down upon the stretcher. + +The Bishop voiced the Church with a pomp and power which could not be +withstood; and when, in obedience to his command Hugh grasped her right +hand with his right hand, and the Bishop laid his own on either side of +their clasped hands, and pronounced them man and wife, it seemed indeed +as if a Divine touch united them, as if a Divine voice ratified their +vows and sanctified their union. + +Mora had never before seen the _man_ so completely merged in his high +office. + +And, when all was over, even as he mounted Shulamite and rode away, he +rode out of the courtyard with the air of a Knight Templar riding +forth-to do battle in a Holy War. + +It seemed to Mora that she had bidden farewell to her old friend of the +kindly smile, the merry eye, and the ready jest, in the early hours of +that morning, as together they left the arbour of the golden roses. + +There remained therefore but one man to be considered: the "splendid +Knight" of old Antony's vision; the lover who had pursued her into her +Nunnery; wooed her in her own cell, unabashed by the dignity of her +office; mastered her will; forced her numbed heart to awaken, disturbed +by the thrill of an unwilling tenderness; moved her to passion by the +poignant anguish of a parting, which she regarded as inevitably final; +won the Bishop over, to his side, and, through him, the Pope; and +finally, by the persistence of his pleadings, moved our blessèd Lady to +vouchsafe a vision on his behalf. + +This was the "splendid Knight" against whom the stars in their courses +had most certainly not fought. Principalities and powers had all been +for him; against him, just a woman and her conscience, and--he had won. + +When, at their first interview in her cell, in reply to her demand: +"Why are you not with your wife?" he had answered: "I _am_ with my +wife; the only wife I have ever wanted, the only woman I shall ever +wed, is here"--she stood ready to strike with ivory and steel, at the +first attempt upon her inviolable chastity, and could afford to smile, +in pitying derision, at so empty a boast. + +But now? If he said: "My wife is here," and chose to seize her with +possessive grasp, she must meekly fold her hands upon her breast, and +say: "Even so, my lord. I am yours. Deal with me as you will." + +As the Bishop's purple cloak and the hind quarters of his noble black +mare, disappeared from view, the crowd which hitherto had surrounded +the bridal pair, also vanished, as if at the wave of a magic wand. +Thus for the first time, since those tense moments in the Cathedral +crypt, Mora found herself alone with Hugh. + +She was not young enough to be embarrassed; but she was old enough to +be afraid; afraid of him, and afraid of herself; afraid of his +masterful nature and imperious will, which had always inclined to break +rather than bend anything which stood in his way; and afraid of +something in herself which leapt up in response to this fierce strength +in him, yearning to be mastered, hungry to yield, wishful to obey; yet +which, if yielded to, would lay her spirit in the dust, and turn the +awakened tenderness in her heart to scorn of herself, and anger against +him. + +So she feared as she stood in the sunshine, watching the now empty +archway through which her sole remaining link with Convent life had +vanished; conscious, without looking round, that Debbie, who had been +curtseying behind her, was there no longer; that Martin Goodfellow, who +had held Shulamite's bridle while the Bishop mounted, had disappeared +in one direction, the rest of the men in another; intensely conscious +that she and Hugh were now alone; and fearing, she shivered again, as +she had shivered in the crypt; then, of a sudden, knew that she had +done so, and, with a swift impulse of shame and contrition, turned and +looked at Hugh. + +He was indeed the "splendid Knight" of Mary Antony's vision! He had +donned for his bridal the dress of white and silver, which he had last +put on when he supped at the Palace with the Bishop. This set off, +with striking effect, his dark head and the noble beauty of his +countenance; and Mora, who chiefly remembered him as a handsome youth, +graceful and gay, realised for the first time his splendour as a man, +and the change wrought in him by all he had faced, endured, and +overcome. + +In the crypt, the day before, and during the hours which followed, she +had scarce let herself look at him; and he, though always close beside +her, had kept out of her immediate range of vision. + +Since that infolding clasp in the crypt when he had flung the cloak +about her, not once had he touched her, until the Church just now bade +him, with authority, to take her right hand, with his. + +Her mind flew back to the happenings of the previous day. With the +lightning rapidity of retrospective thought, she passed again through +each experience from the moment when the call of the blackbird sounded +in the crypt. The helpless horror of being lifted by unseen hands; the +slow, swinging progress, to the accompaniment of the measured tread of +the men-at-arms; the stifling darkness, air and light shut out by the +heavy cloak, and yet the clear consciousness of the moment when the +stretcher passed from the Cathedral into the sunshine without; the +sudden pause, as the Bishop met the stretcher, and then--as she lay +helpless between them--Symon's question and Hugh's reply, with their +subtlety of hidden meaning, which filled her with impotent anger, +shewing as it did the completeness of the Bishop's connivance at Hugh's +conspiracy. Then Hugh's request, and the Bishop's hand laid upon her, +the Bishop's voice uplifted in blessing. Then once again the measured +tramp, tramp, and the steady swing of the stretcher; but now the men's +heels rang on cobbles, and voices seemed everywhere; cheery greetings, +snatches of song, chance words concerning a bargain or a meeting, a +light jest, a coarse oath; and, all the while, the steady, tramp, +tramp, and the ring of Hugh's spurs. + +She grew faint and it seemed to her she was about to die beneath the +cloak, and that when at length Hugh removed it, it would prove a pall +beneath which he would find a dead bride. + +"Dead bride! Dead bride!" sounded the tramping footsteps. And all the +way she was haunted by the belief, assailing her confused senses in the +darkness, that the spirit of Father Gervaise had met the stretcher; +that his was the voice which murmured low and tenderly; "Be not afraid, +neither be thou dismayed. Go in peace." + +With this had come a horror of the outer world, a wild desire for the +safety and shelter of the Cloister, and an absolute physical dread of +the moment when the covering cloak should be removed, and she would +find herself alone with her lover; and, on rising from the stretcher, +be seized by his arms. + +Yet when, having been tilted up steps, she was conscious of the silence +of passages and soon the even more complete quiet of a room; when the +stretcher was set down, and the bearers' feet died away, Hugh's deep +voice said gently: "Change thy garments quickly, my belovèd. There is +no time to lose." But he laid no hand upon the cloak, and his +footsteps, also, died away. + +Then pushing back the heavy folds and sitting up, she had found herself +alone in a bedchamber, everything she could need laid ready to her +hand; while, upon the bed, lay her green riding-dress, discarded +forever, eight years before! + +Her mind refused to look back upon the half-hour that followed. + +She saw herself next appearing in the doorway at the top of a flight of +eight steps, leading down into the yard of the hostelry, where a +cavalcade of men and horses waited; while Icon, the Bishop's beautiful +white palfrey, was being led to and fro, and Hugh stood with an open +letter in his hand. + +As she hesitated in the doorway, gazing down upon the waiting, restive +crowd, Hugh looked up and saw her. Into his eyes flashed a light of +triumphant joy, of adoring love and admiration. She had avoided +looking at her own reflection; but his face, as he came up the steps, +mirrored her loveliness. It had cost her such anguish of soul to +divest herself of her sacred habit and don these gay garments belonging +to a life long left behind, that his evident delight in the change, +moved her to an unreasonable resentment. Also that sudden blaze of +love in his dark eyes, dazzled her heart, even as a burst of sunshine +might dazzle one used to perpetual twilight. + +She took the Bishop's letter, with averted eyes; read it; then moved +swiftly down the steps to where Icon waited. + +"Mount me," she said to Martin Goodfellow, as she passed him; and it +was Martin who swung her into the saddle. + +Then she trembled at what she had done, in yielding to this impulse +which made her shrink from Hugh. + +As the black mane of his horse drew level with Icon's head, and side by +side they rode out from the courtyard, she feared a thunder-cloud on +the Knight's brow, and a sullen silence, as the best she could expect. +But calm and cheerful, his voice fell on her ear; and glancing at him +furtively, she still saw on his face that light which dazzled her +heart. Yet no word did he speak which all might not have heard, and +not once did he lay his hand on hers. Each time they dismounted, she +saw him sign to Martin Goodfellow, and it was Martin who helped her to +alight. + +All this, in rapid retrospect, passed through Mora's mind as she stood +alone beside her splendid Knight, miserably conscious that she had +shivered, and that he knew it; and fearful lest he divined the +shrinking of her soul away from him, away from love, away from all for +which love stood. Alas, alas! Why did this man--this most human, +ardent, loving man--hang all his hopes of happiness upon the heart of a +nun? Would it be possible that he should understand, that eight years +of cloistered life cannot be renounced in a day? + +Mora looked at him again. + +The stern profile might well be about to say: "Shudder again, and I +will do to thee that which shall give thee cause to shudder indeed!" + +Yet, at that moment he spoke, and his voice was infinitely gentle. + +"Yonder rides a true friend," he said. "One who has learned love's +deepest lesson." + +"What is love's deepest lesson?" she asked. + +He turned and looked at her, and the fire of his dark eyes was drowned +in tenderness. + +"That true love means self-sacrifice," he said. "Come, my belovèd. +Let us walk in the gardens, where we can talk at ease of our plans for +the days to come." + + + + +CHAPTER XL + +THE HEART OF A NUN + +Hugh and Mora passed together through the great hall, along the +armoury, down the winding stair and so out into the gardens. + +The Knight led the way across the lawn and through the rose garden, +toward the yew hedge and the bowling-green. + +Old Debbie, looking from her casement, thought them beautiful beyond +words as she watched them cross the lawn--she in white and gold, he in +white and silver; his dark head towering above her fair one, though she +was uncommon tall. And, falling upon her knees, old Debbie prayed to +the Angel Gabriel that she might live to hold in her arms, and rock to +sleep upon her bosom, sweet babes, both fair and dark: "Fair little +maids," she said, "and fine, dark boys," explaining to Gabriel that +which she thought would be most fit. + +Meanwhile Hugh and Mora, walking a yard apart--all unconscious of these +family plans, being so anxiously made for them at an upper +casement--bent their tall heads and passed under the arch in the yew +hedge, crossed the bowling-green, and entered the arbour of the golden +roses. + +Hugh led the way; yet Mora gladly followed. The Bishop's presence +seemed to abide here, in comfort and protection. + +All signs of the early repast were gone from the rustic table. + +Mora took her seat there where in the early morning she had sat; while +Hugh, not knowing he did so, passed into the Bishop's place. + +The sun shone through the golden roses, hanging in clusters over the +entrance. + +The sense of the Bishop's presence so strongly pervaded the place, that +almost at once Mora felt constrained to speak of him. + +"Hugh," she said, "very early this morning, long before you were awake, +the Bishop and I broke our fast, in this arbour, together." + +The Knight smiled. + +"I knew that," he said. "In his own characteristic way the Bishop told +it me. 'My son,' he said, 'you have reversed the sacred parable. In +your case it was the bride-groom who, this morning, slumbered and +slept.' 'True, my lord,' said I. 'But there were no foolish virgins +about.' 'Nay, verily!' replied the Bishop. 'The two virgins awake at +that hour were pre-eminently wise: the one, making as the sun rose most +golden pats of butter and crusty rolls; the other, rising early to +partake of them with appetite. Truly there were no foolish virgins +about. There was but one foolish prelate.'" + +She, who so lately had been Prioress of the White Ladies, flushed with +indignation at the words. + +"Wherefore said he so?" she inquired, severely. "He, who is always +wiser than the wisest." + +Hugh noted the heightened colour and the ready protest. + +"Perhaps," he suggested, speaking slowly, as if choosing his words with +care, "the Bishop's head, being so wise, revealed to him, in himself, a +certain foolishness of heart." + +Mora struck the table with her hand. + +"Nay then, verily!" she cried. "Head and heart alike are wise; +and--unlike other men--the Bishop's head rules his heart." + +"And a most noble heart,", the Knight said, with calmness; neither +wincing at the blow upon the table, nor at the "unlike other men," +flung out in challenge. + +Then, folding his arms upon the table, and looking searchingly into the +face of his bride: "Tell me," he said, "during all these years, has +this friendship with Symon of Worcester meant much to thee?" + +Something in his tone arrested Mora. She answered, with an equal +earnestness: "Yes, Hugh. It has done more for me than can well be +told. It has kept living and growing in me much that would otherwise +have been stunted or dead; an ever fresh flow of thought, where, but +for him, would have been a stagnant pool. My sad heart might have +grown bitter, my nature too austere, particularly when advancement to +high office brought with it an inevitable loneliness, had it not been +for the interest and charm of his visits and missives; his constant +gifts and kindness. There is about him a light-hearted gaiety, a +whimsical humour, a joy in life, which cannot fail to wake responsive +gladness in any heart with which he comes in contact. And mingled with +his shrewd wisdom, his wide knowledge of men and matters, there is ever +a tender charity, which thinks no evil, always believing in good and +hoping for the best; a love which never fails; a kindness which makes +one ashamed of harbouring hard or revengeful thoughts." + +Hugh made no reply. He sat with his eyes fixed upon the beautiful face +before him, now glowing with enthusiasm. He waited for something more. +And presently it came. + +"Also," said Mora, slowly: "a very precious memory of my early days at +Court, when as a young maiden I attended on the Queen, was kept alive +by a remarkable likeness in the Bishop to one who was, as I learned +this morning for the first time, actually near of kin to him. Do you +remember, Hugh, long years ago, that I spoke to you of Father Gervaise?" + +"I do remember," said the Knight. + +She leaned her elbows on the table, framed her face in her hands, and +looked straight into his eyes. + +"Father Gervaise was more to me than I then told you, Hugh." + +"What was he to thee, Mora?" + +"He was the Ideal of my girlhood. For a time, I thought of him by day, +I dreamed of him by night. No word of his have I ever forgotten. Many +of his sayings and precepts have influenced, and still deeply +influence, my whole life. In fact, Hugh, I loved Father Gervaise; not +as a woman loves a man--ah, no! But, rather, as a nun loves her Lord." + +"I see," said the Knight. "But you were not then a nun, Mora." + +"No, I was not then a nun. But I have been a nun since then; and that +is how I can best describe my love for the Queen's Confessor." + +"Long after," said the Knight, "you were betrothed to me?" + +"Yes, Hugh." + +"How did you love me, Mora?" + +Across the rustic table they looked full into each other's eyes. +Tragedy, stalking around that rose-covered arbour, drew very near, and +they knew it. Almost, his grim shadow came between them and the +sunshine. + +Then the Knight smiled; and with that smile rushed back the flood-tide +of remembrance; remembrance of all which their young love had meant, of +the sweet promise it had held. + +His eyes still holding hers, she smiled also. + +The golden roses clustering in the entrance swayed and nodded in the +sunlight, as a gently rising breeze fanned them to and fro. + +"Dear Knight," she said, softly, a wistful tenderness in her voice, "I +suppose I loved you, as a girl loves the man who has won her." + +"Mora," said Hugh, "I have something to tell thee." + +"I listen," she said. + +"My wife--so wholly, so completely, do I love thee, that I would not +consciously keep anything from thee. So deeply do I love thee, that I +would sooner any wrong or sin of mine were known to thee and by thee +forgiven, than that thou shouldest think me one whit better than I am." + +He paused. + +Her eyes were tender and compassionate. Often she had listened, with a +patient heart of charity, to the tedious, morbid, self-centred +confessions of kneeling nuns, who watched with anxious eyes for the +sign which would mean that they might clutch at the hem of her robe and +press it to their lips in token that they were forgiven. + +But she had had no experience of the sins of men. What had the +"splendid Knight" upon his conscience, which must now be told her, in +this sunny arbour, on the morning of their bridal day? + +Her heart throbbed painfully. Alas, it was still the heart of a nun. +It would not be controlled. Must she hear wild tales of wickedness and +shame, of which she would but partly understand the meaning? + +Oh, for the calm of the Cloister! Oh, for the sheltered purity of her +quiet cell! + +Yet his eyes, still meeting hers, were clear and fearless. + +"I listen," she said. + +"Mora, not long ago a wondrous tale was told me of a man's great love +for thee--a man, nobler than I, in that he mastered all selfish +desires; a love higher than mine, in that it put thy welfare, in all +things, first. Hearing this tale, I failed both myself and thee, for I +said: 'I pray heaven that, if she come to me, she may never know that +she once won the love of so greatly better a man than I.' But, since I +clasped thy hand in mine, and the Bishop, laying his on either side, +gave thee to be my wife, I have known there would be no peace for me if +I feared to trust thee with this knowledge, because that the man who +loved thee was a better man than the man who, by God's mercy and our +Lady's grace, has won thee." + +As the Knight spoke thus, the grey eyes fixed on his face grew wide +with wonder; soft, with a great compunction; yet, at the corners, +shewed a little crinkle in which the Bishop would instantly have +recognised the sign of approaching merriment. + +Was this then a sample of the unknown sins of men? Nothing here, +surely, to cause the least throb of apprehension, even to the heart of +a nun! But what strange tale had reached the ears of this most dear +and loyal Knight? She leaned a little nearer to him, speaking in a +tone which was music to his heart. + +"Dear Knight of mine," she said, "no tale of a man's love for me can +have been a true one. Yet am I glad that, deeming it true, and feeling +as it was your first impulse to feel, you now tell me quite frankly +what you felt, thus putting from yourself all sense of wrong, while +giving me the chance to say to you, that none more noble than this +faithful Knight can have loved me; for, saving a few Court pages, +mostly popinjays, and Humphry of Camforth, of whom the less said the +better, no other man hath loved me." + +More kindly she looked on him than she yet had looked. She leaned +across the table. + +By reaching out his arms he could have caught her lovely face between +his hands. + +Her eyes were merry. Her lips smiled. + +Greatly tempted was the Knight to agree that, saving himself, and +Humphry of Camforth, of whom the less said the better, none save Court +popinjays had loved her. Yet in his heart he knew that ever between +them would be this fact of his knowledge of the love of Father Gervaise +for her, and of the noble renunciation inspired by that love. He had +no intention of betraying the Bishop; but Mora's own explanation, +making it quite clear that she would not be likely to suspect the +identity of the Bishop with his supposed cousin, Father Gervaise, +seemed to the Knight to remove the one possible reason for concealment. +He was willing to risk present loss, rather than imperil future peace. + +With an effort which made his voice almost stern: "The tale was a true +one," he said. + +She drew back, regarding him with grave eyes, her hands folded before +her. + +"Tell me the tale," she said, "and I will pronounce upon its truth." + +"Years ago, Mora, when you were a young maiden at the Court, attending +on the Queen, you were most deeply loved by one who knew he could never +ask you in marriage. That being so, so noble was his nature and so +unselfish his love, that he would not give himself the delight of +seeing you, nor the enjoyment of your friendship, lest, being so strong +a thing, his love--even though unexpressed--should reach and stir your +heart to a response which, might hinder you from feeling free to give +yourself, when a man who could offer all sought to win you. Therefore, +Mora, he left the Court, he left the country. He went to foreign +lands. He thought not of himself. He desired for you the full +completion which comes by means of wedded love. He feared to hinder +this. So he went." + +Her face still expressed incredulous astonishment. + +"His name?" she demanded, awaiting the answer with parted lips, and +widely-open eyes. + +"Father Gervaise," said the Knight. + +He saw her slowly whiten, till scarce a vestige of colour remained. + +For some minutes she spoke no word; both sat silent, Hugh ruefully +facing his risks, and inclined to repent of his honesty. + +At length: "And who told you this tale," she said; "this tale of the +love of Father Gervaise for a young maid, half his age?" + +"Symon of Worcester told it me, three nights ago." + +"How came the Bishop to know so strange and so secret a thing? And +knowing it, how came he to tell it to you?" + +"He had it from Father Gervaise himself. He told it to me, because his +remembrance of the sacrifice made so long ago in order that the full +completion of wifehood and motherhood might be thine, had always +inclined him to a wistful regret over thy choice of the monastic life, +with its resultant celibacy; leading him, from the first, to espouse +and further my cause. In wedding us to-day, methinks the Bishop felt +he was at last securing the consummation of the noble renunciation made +so long ago by Father Gervaise." + +With a growing dread at his heart, Hugh watched the increasing pallor +of her face, the hard line of the lips which, but a few moments before, +had parted in such gentle sweetness. + +"Alas!" he exclaimed, "I should not have told thee! With my clumsy +desire to keep nothing from thee, I have spoilt an hour which else +might have been so perfect." + +"You did well to tell me, dear Knight of mine," she said, a ripple of +tenderness passing across her stern face, as swiftly and gently as the +breeze stirs a cornfield. "Nor is there anything in this world so +perfect as the truth. If the truth opened an abyss which plunged me +into hell, I would sooner know it, than attempt to enter Paradise +across the flimsy fabric of a lie!" + +Her voice, as she uttered these words, had in it the ring which was +wont to petrify wrong-doers of the feebler kind among her nuns. + +"Dear Knight, had the Bishop not forestalled me when he named his +palfrey, truly I might have found a fine new name for you! But now, I +pray you of your kindness, leave me alone with my fallen image for a +little space, that I may gather up the fragments and give them decent +burial." + +With which her courage broke. She stretched her clasped hands across +the table and laid her head upon her arms. + +Despair seized the Knight as he stood helpless, looking down upon that +proud head laid low. + +He longed to lay his hand upon the golden softness of her hair. + +But her shoulders shook with a hard, tearless sob, and the Knight fled +from the arbour. + + +As he paced the lawn, on which the Bishop had promenaded the evening +before, Hugh cursed his rashness in speaking; yet knew, in the heart of +his heart, that he could not have done otherwise. Mora's words +concerning truth, gave him a background of comfort. Even so had he +ever himself felt. But would it prove that his honesty had indeed +shattered his chances of happiness, and hers? + +A new name? . . . What might it be? . . . What the mischief, had the +Bishop named his palfrey? . . . Sheba? Nay, that was the ass! +Solomon? Nay, that was the mare! Yet--how came a mare to be named +Solomon? + +In his disturbed mental state it irritated him unreasonably that a mare +should be called after a king with seven hundred wives! Then he +remembered "black, but comely," and arrived at the right name, +Shulamite. Of course! Not Solomon but Shulamite. He had read that +love-poem of the unnamed Eastern shepherd, with the Rabbi in the +mountain fastness. The Rabbi had pointed out that the word used in +that description signified "sunburned." The lovely Shulamite maiden, +exposed to the Eastern sun while tending her kids and keeping the +vineyards, had tanned a ruddy brown, beside which the daughters of +Jerusalem, enclosed in King Solomon's scented harem, looked pale as +wilting lilies. Remembering the glossy coat of the black mare, Hugh +wondered, with a momentary sense of merriment, whether the Bishop +supposed the maiden of the "Song of Songs" to have been an Ethiopian. + +Then he remembered "Iconoklastes." Yes, surely! The palfrey was +Iconoklastes. Now wherefore gave the Bishop such a name to his white +palfrey? + +Striding blindly about the lawn, of a sudden the Knight stepped full on +to a flower-bed. At once he seemed to hear the Bishop's gentle voice: +"I named him Iconoklastes because he trampled to ruin some flower-beds +on which I spent much time and care, and of which I was inordinately +fond." + +Ah! . . . That was it! The destroyer of fair bloom and blossom, of +buds of promise; of the loveliness of a tended garden. . . . Was this +then what he seemed to Mora? He, who had forced her to yield to the +insistence of his love? . . . In her chaste Convent cell, she could +have remained true to this Ideal love of her girlhood: and, now that +she knew it to have been called forth by love, could have received, +mentally, its full fruition. Also, in time she might have discovered +the identity of the Bishop with Father Gervaise, and long years of +perfect friendship might have proved a solace to their sundered hearts, +had not he--the trampler upon flower-beds--rudely intervened. + +And yet--Mora had been betrothed to him, her love had been his, long +after Father Gervaise had left the land. + +How could he win her back to be once more as she was when they parted +on the castle battlements eight years before? + +How could he free himself, and her, from these intangible, +ecclesiastical entanglements? + +He was reminded of his difficulties when he tried to walk disguised in +the dress of the White Ladies, and found his stride impeded by those +trailing garments. He remembered the relief of wrenching them off, and +stepping clear. + +Why not now take the short, quick road to mastery? + +But instantly that love which seeketh not its own, the strange new +sense so recently awakened in him, laid its calm touch upon his +throbbing heart. Until that moment in the crypt the day before, he had +loved Mora for his own delight, sought her for his own joy. Now, he +knew that he could take no happiness at the cost of one pang to her. + +"She must be taught not to shudder," cried the masterfulness which was +his by nature. + +"She must be given no cause to shudder," amended this new, loyal +tenderness, which now ruled his every thought of her. + + +Presently, returning to the arbour, he found her seated, her elbows on +the table, her chin cupped in her hands. + +She had been weeping; yet her smile of welcome, as he entered, held a +quality he had scarce expected. + +He spoke straight to the point. It seemed the only way to step clear +of immeshing trammels. + +"Mora, it cuts me to the heart that, in striving to be honest with you, +I have all unwittingly trampled upon those flower-beds in which you +long had tended fair blossoms of memory. Also I fear this knowledge of +a nobler love, makes it hard for you to contemplate life linked to a +love which seems to you less able for self-sacrifice." + +She gazed at him, wide-eyed, in sheer amazement. + +"Dear Knight," she said, "true, I am disillusioned, but not in aught +that concerns you. You trampled on no flower-beds of mine. My +shattered idol is the image of one whom I, with deepest reverence, +loved, as a nun might love her Guardian Angel. To learn that he loved +me as a man loves a woman, and that he had to flee before that love, +lest it should harm me and himself, changes the hallowed memory of +years. This morning, three names stood to me for all that is highest, +noblest, best: Father Gervaise, Symon of Worcester, and Hugh d'Argent. +Now, the Bishop and yourself alone are left. Fail me not, Hugh, or I +shall be bereft indeed." + +The Knight laughed, joyously. The relief at his heart demanded that +much vent. "Then, if I failed thee, Mora, there would be but the +Bishop?" + +"There would be but the Bishop." + +"I will not fail thee, my belovèd. And I fear I must have put the +matter clumsily, concerning Father Gervaise. As the Bishop told it to +me, there was naught that was not noble. It seemed to me it should be +sweet to the heart of a woman to be so loved." + +"Hush," she said, sternly. "You know not the heart of a nun." + +He did not reason further. It was enough for him to know that the +shattered image she had buried was not the ideal of his love and hers, +or the hope of future happiness together. + +"Time flies, dear Heart," he said. "May I speak to thee of immediate +plans?" + +"I listen," she answered. + +Hugh stood in the entrance, among the yellow roses, leaning against the +doorpost, his arms folded on his breast, his feet crossed. + +At once she was reminded of the scene in her cell, when he had taken up +that attitude while still garbed as a nun, and she had said: "I know +you for a man," and, in her heart had added: "And a stronger man, +surely, than Mary Seraphine's Cousin Wilfred!" + +"We ride on to-day," said the Knight, "if you feel able for a few hours +in the saddle, to the next stage in our journey. It is a hostel in the +forest; a poor kind of place, I fear; but there is one good room where +you can be made comfortable, with Mistress Deborah. I shall sleep on +the hay, without, amongst my men. Some must keep guard all night. We +ride through wild parts to reach our destination." + +He paused. He could not hold on to the matter of fact tones in which +he had started. When he spoke again, his voice was low and very tender. + +"Mora, I am taking thee first to thine own home; to the place where, +long years ago, we loved and parted. There, all is as it was. Thy +people who loved thee and had fled, have been found and brought back. +Seven days of journeying should bring us there. I have sent men on +before, to arrange for each night's lodging, and make sure that all is +right. Arrived at thine own castle, Mora, we shall be within three +hours' ride of mine--that home to which I hope to bring thee. Until we +enter there, my wife, although this morning most truly wed, we will +count ourselves but betrothed. Once in thy home, it shall be left to +thine own choice to come to mine when and how thou wilt. The step now +taken--that of leaving the Cloister and coming to me--had perforce to +be done quickly, if done at all. But, now it is safely accomplished, +there is no further need for haste. The wings of my swift desire shall +be dipt to suit thine inclination." + +Hugh paused, looking upon her with a half-wistful smile. She made no +answer; so presently he continued. + +"I have planned that, each day, Mistress Deborah, with the baggage and +a good escort, shall go by the most direct route, and the best road. +Thus thou and I will be free to ride as we will, visiting places we +have known of old and which it may please thee to see again. To-day we +can ride out by Kenilworth, and so on our first stage northward. +Martin will take Mistress Deborah on a pillion behind him. Should she +weary of travelling so, she can have a seat in the cart with the +baggage. But they tell me she travels bravely on horseback. We will +send them on ahead of us, and on arrival all will be in readiness for +thee. If this weather holds, we shall ride each day through a world of +sunshine and beauty; and each day's close, my wife, will find us one +day nearer home. Does this please thee? Have I thought of all?" + +Rising, she came and stood beside him in the entrance to the arbour. + +A golden rose, dipping from above, rested against her hair. + +Her eyes were soft with tears. + +"So perfectly have you thought and planned, dear faithful Knight, that +I think our blessèd Lady must have guided you. As we ride out into the +sunshine, I shall grow used to the great world once more; and you will +have patience and will teach me things I have perhaps forgot." + +She hesitated; half put out her hands; but his not meeting them, folded +them on her breast. + +"Hugh, it seems hard that I should clip your splendid wings; but--oh, +Hugh! Think you the heart of a nun can ever become again as the heart +of other women?" + +"Heaven forbid!" said the Knight, fervently, thinking of Eleanor and +Alfrida. + +And, as leaving the arbour they walked together over the lawn, she +smiled, remembering, how that morning the Bishop had answered the same +question in precisely the same words. Whatever Father Gervaise might +have said, the Bishop and the Knight were agreed! + +Yet she wished, somewhat wistfully, that this most dear and loyal +Knight had taken her hands when she held them out. + +She would have liked to feel the strong clasp of his upon them. + +Possibly our Lady, who knoweth the heart of a woman, had guided the +Knight in this matter also. + + + + +CHAPTER XLI + +WHAT THE BISHOP REMEMBERED + +Symon, Bishop of Worcester, sat in his library, in the cool of the day. + +He was weary, with a weariness which surpassed all his previous +experience of weariness, all his imaginings as to how weary, in body +and spirit, a man could be, yet continue to breathe and think. + +With some, extreme fatigue leads to restlessness of body. Not so with +the Bishop. The more tired he was, the more perfectly still he sat; +his knees crossed, his elbows on the arms of his chair, the fingers of +both hands pressed lightly together, his head resting against the high +back of the chair, his gaze fixed upon the view across the river. + +As he looked with unseeing eyes upon the wide stretch of meadow, the +distant woods and the soft outline of the Malvern hills, he was +thinking how good it would be never again to leave this quiet room; +never to move from this chair; never again to see a human being; never +to have to smile when he was heart-sick, or to bow when he felt +ungracious! + +Those who knew the Bishop best, often spoke together of his wondrous +vitality and energy, their favourite remark being: that he was never +tired. They might with more truth have said that they had never known +him to appear tired. + +It had long been a rule in the Bishop's private code, that weariness, +either of body or spirit, must not be shewn to others. The more tired +he was, the more ready grew his smile, the more alert his movements, +the more gracious his response to any call upon his sympathy or +interest. + +He never sighed in company, as did Father Peter when, having supped too +well off jolly of salmon, roast venison, and raisin pie, he was fain to +let indigestion pass muster for melancholy. + +He never yawned in Council, either gracefully behind his hand, as did +the lean Spanish Cardinal; or openly and unashamed, as did the round +and rosy Abbot of Evesham, displaying to the fascinated gaze of the +brethren in stalls opposite, a cavernous throat, a red and healthy +tongue, and a particularly fine set of teeth. + +Moreover the Bishop would as soon have thought of carrying a garment +from the body of a plague-stricken patient into the midst of a family +of healthy children, as of entering an assemblage with a jaded +countenance or a languorous manner. + +Therefore: "He is never weary," said his friends. + +"He knoweth not the meaning of fatigue," agreed his acquaintances. + +"There is no merit in labour which is not in anywise a burden, but, +rather, a delight," pronounced those who envied his powers. + +"He is possessed," sneered his enemies, "by a most energetic demon! +Were that demon exorcised, the Bishop would collapse, exhausted." + +"He is filled," said his admirers, "by the Spirit of God, and is thus +so energized that he can work incessantly, without experiencing +ordinary human weakness." + +And none knew that it was a part of his religion to Symon of Worcester, +to hide his weariness from others. + +Yet once when, in her chamber, he sat talking with the Prioress, she +had risen, of a sudden, saying: "You are tired, Father. Rest there in +silence, while I work at my missal." + +She had passed to the table; and the Bishop had sat resting, just as he +was sitting now, save that his eyes could then dwell on her face, as +she bent, absorbed, over the illumination. + +After a while he had asked: "How knew you that I was tired, my dear +Prioress?" + +Without lifting her eyes, she had made answer: "Because, my Lord +Bishop, you twice smiled when there was no occasion for smiling." + +Another period of restful silence, while she worked, and he watched her +working. Then he had remarked: "My friends say I am never tired." + +And she had answered: "They would speak more truly if they said that +you are ever brave." + +It had amazed the Bishop to find himself thus understood. Moreover he +could scarce put on his biretta, so crowned was his head by the laurels +of her praise. Also this had been the only time when he had wondered +whether the Prioress really believed Father Gervaise to be at the +bottom of the ocean. It is ever an astonishment to a man when the +unerring intuition of a woman is brought to bear upon himself. + +Now, in this hour of his overwhelming fatigue, he recalled that scene. +Closing his eyes on the distant view, and opening them upon the +enchanted vistas of memory, he speedily saw that calm face, with its +chastened expression of fine self-control, bending above the page she +was illuminating. He saw the severe lines of the wimple, the folds of +the flowing veil, the delicate movement of the long fingers, +and--yes!--resting upon her bosom the jewelled cross, sign of her high +office. + +Thus looking back, he vividly recalled the extraordinary restfulness of +sitting there in silence, while she worked. No words were needed. Her +very presence, and the fact that she knew him to be weary, rested him. + +He looked again. But now the folds of the wimple and veil were gone. +A golden circlet clasped the shining softness of her hair. + +The Bishop opened tired eyes, and fixed them once again upon the +landscape. + +He supposed the long rides on two successive days had exhausted him +physically; and the strain of securing and ensuring the safety and +happiness of the woman who was dearer to him than life, had reacted now +in a mental lassitude which seemed unable to rise up and face the +prospect of the lonely years to come. + +The thought of her as now with the Knight, did not cause him suffering. +His one anxiety was lest anything unforeseen should arise, to prevent +the full fruition of their happiness. + +He had never loved her as a man loves the woman he would wed;--at +least, if that side of his love had attempted to arise, it had +instantly been throttled and flung back. + +It seemed to him that, from the very beginning he had ever loved her as +Saint Joseph must have loved the maiden intrusted to his keeping--his, +yet not his; called, in the inspired dream, "Mary, thy wife"; but so +called only that he might have the right to guard and care for her--she +who was shrine of the Holiest, o'ershadowed by the power of the +Highest; Mother of God, most blessèd Virgin forever. + +It seemed to the Bishop that his joy in watching over Mora, since his +appointment to the See of Worcester, had been such as Saint Joseph +could well have understood; and now he had accomplished the supreme +thing; and, in so doing, had left himself desolate. + +On the afternoon of the previous day, so soon as the body of the old +lay-sister had been removed from the Prioress's cell, the Bishop had +gathered together all those things which Mora specially valued and +which she had asked him to secure for her; mostly his gifts to her. + +The Sacramentaries, from which she so often made copies and +translations, now lay upon his table. + +His tired eyes dwelt upon them. How often he had watched the firm +white fingers opening those heavy clasps, and slowly turning the pages. + +The books remained; yet her presence was gone. + +His weary brain repeated, over and over, this obvious fact; then began +a hypothetical reversal of it. Supposing the books had gone, and her +presence had remained? . . . Presently a catalogue formed itself in +his mind of all those things which might have gone, unmissed, +unmourned, if her dear presence had remained. . . . Before long the +Palace . . . the City . . . the Cathedral itself . . . all had swelled +the list. . . . He was alone with Mora and the sunset; . . . and the +battlements of glory were the radiant walls of heaven; . . . and soon +he and she were walking up old Mary Antony's golden stair +together. . . . + +Hush! . . . "So He giveth His belovèd sleep." + + * * * * * * + +The Bishop had but just returned from laying to rest, in the +burying-ground of the Convent, the worn-out body of the aged lay-sister. + +When he had signified that he intended himself to perform the last +rites, Mother Sub-Prioress had ventured upon amazed expostulation. + +Such an honour had never, in the history of the Community, been +accorded even to the Canonesses, much less to a lay-sister. Surely +Father Peter--or the Prior? Had it been the Prioress herself, why +then---- + +Few can remember the petrifying effect of a flash of sudden anger in +the kindly eyes of Symon of Worcester. Mother Sub-Prioress will never +forget it. + +So, with as much pomp and circumstance as if she had been Prioress of +the White Ladies, old Mary Antony's humble remains were laid in that +plot in the Convent burying-ground which she had chosen for herself, +half a century before. + +Much sorrow was shewn, by the entire Community. The great loss they +had sustained by the mysterious passing of the Prioress from their +midst, weighed heavily upon them; and seemed, in some way which they +could not fathom, to be connected with the death of the old lay-sister. + +As the solemn procession slowly wended its way from the Chapel, along +the Cypress Walk, and so, across the orchard, to the burying-ground, +the tears which ran down the chastened faces of the nuns, were as much +a tribute of love to their late Prioress, as a sign of sorrow for the +loss of Mary Antony. The little company of lay-sisters sobbed without +restraint. Sister Abigail, so often called "noisy hussy" by old +Antony, fully, on this final occasion, justified the name. + +As the procession was re-forming to leave the grave, Sister Mary +Seraphine felt that the moment had now arrived, old Antony being +disposed of, when she might suitably become the centre of attention, +and be carried, on the return journey. She therefore fell prone upon +the ground, in a fainting fit. + +The Bishop, his chaplain, the priests and acolytes, paused uncertain +what to do. + +Sister Teresa, and other nuns, would have hastened to raise her, but +the command of Mother Sub-Prioress rang sharp and clear. + +"Let her lie! If she choose to remain with the Dead, it is but small +loss to the Living." + +And with hands devoutly crossed upon her breast, ferret face peering to +right and left from out the curtain of her veil, Mother Sub-Prioress +moved forward at the head of the nuns. + +The Bishop's procession, which had wavered, continued to lead the way; +solemn chanting began; and, as the Bishop turned into the Cypress Walk +he saw the flying figure of Mary Seraphine running among the trees in +the orchard, trying to catch up, and to take her place again, +unnoticed, among the rest. + +The Bishop smiled, remembering his many talks with the Prioress +concerning Seraphine, and the Knight's dismay when he feared they were +foisting the wayward nun upon him. + +Then he sighed as he realised that the control of the Convent had now +passed into the able hands of Mother Sub-Prioress; and that, in these +unusual circumstances, the task of selecting and appointing a new +Prioress, fell to him. + +Perhaps his conversations on this subject, first with the Prior, and +later on with Mother Sub-Prioress, partly accounted for his extreme +fatigue, now that he found himself at last alone in his library. + + +But the reward of those "whose strength is to sit still," had come to +the Bishop. + +Soon after he fixed his eyes upon the Gregorian and Gelasian +Sacramentaries, his eyelids gently began to droop. Sleep was already +upon him when he decided to let the Palace, the City, yea, even the +Cathedral go, if he might but keep the Prioress. And as he walked with +Mora up the golden stair, his mind was at rest; his weary body slept. + +A very few minutes of sleep sufficed the Bishop. + +He awoke as suddenly as he had fallen asleep; and, as he awoke, he +seemed to hear himself say: "Nay, Hugh. None save the old lay-sister, +Mary Antony." + +He sat up, wondering what this sentence could mean; also when and where +it had been spoken. + +As he wondered, his eye fell upon the white stone which he had flung +into the Severn, and which the Knight, diving from the parapet, had +retrieved from the river bed. The stone seemed in some way connected +with this chance sentence which had repeated itself in his brain. + +The Bishop rose, walked over to his deed chest, took the white stone in +his hand and stood motionless, his eyes fixed upon it, wrapped in +thought. Then he passed out on to the lawn, and paced slowly to and +fro between the archway leading from the courtyard, to the parapet +overlooking the river. + +Yes; it was here. + +He had ridden in on Shulamite, from the heights above the town, whence +he had watched the Prioress ride in the river meadow. + +He had found Hugh d'Argent awaiting him, and together they had paced +this lawn in earnest conversation. + +Hugh had been anxious to hear every detail of his visit to the Convent +and the scene in the Prioress's cell when he had shewn her the copy of +the Pope's mandate, just received from Rome. In speaking of the +possible developments which might take place in the course of the next +few hours, Hugh had asked whether any in the Convent, beside Mora +herself, knew of his presence in Worcester, or that he had managed to +obtain entrance to the cloisters by the crypt passage, to make his way +disguised to Mora's cell, and to have speech with her. + +The Bishop had answered that none knew of this, save the old lay-sister +Mary Antony, who was wholly devoted to the Prioress, made shrewd by +ninety years of experience in outwitting her superiors, and could be +completely trusted. + +"How came she to know?" the Bishop seemed to remember that the Knight +had asked. And he had made answer that he had as yet no definite +information, but was inclined to suspect that when the Prioress had +bidden the old woman begone, she had slipped into some place of +concealment from whence she had seen and heard something of what passed +in the cell. + +To this the Knight had made no comment; and now, walking up and down +the lawn, the white stone in his hand, the Bishop could not feel sure +how far Hugh had taken in the exact purport of the words; yet well he +knew that sentences which pass almost unnoticed when heard with a mind +preoccupied, are apt to return later on, with full significance, should +anything occur upon which they shed a light. + +This then was the complication which had brought the Bishop out to pace +the lawn, recalling each step in the conversation, there where it had +taken place. + +Sooner or later, Mora will tell her husband of Mary Antony's wondrous +vision. If she reaches the conclusion, uninterrupted, all will be +well. The Knight will realise the importance of concealing the fact of +the old lay-sister's knowledge--by non-miraculous means--of his +presence in the cell, and his suit to the Prioress. But should she +preface her recital by remarking that none in the Community had +knowledge of his visit, the Knight will probably at once say: "Nay, +there you are mistaken! I have it from the Bishop that the old +lay-sister, Mary Antony, knew of it, having stayed hidden where she saw +and heard much that passed; yet being very faithful, and more than +common shrewd, could--so said the Bishop--be most completely trusted." + +Whereupon irreparable harm would be done; for, at once, Mora would +realise that she had been deceived; and her peace of mind and calm of +conscience would be disturbed, if not completely overthrown. + +One thing seemed clear to the Bishop. + +Hugh must be warned. Probably no harm had as yet been done. The +vision was so sacred a thing to Mora, that weeks might elapse before +she spoke of it to her husband. + +With as little delay as possible Hugh must be put upon his guard. + + + + +CHAPTER XLII + +THE WARNING + +Alert, determined, all trace of lassitude departed, the Bishop returned +to the library, laid the stone upon the deed chest, sat down at a table +and wrote a letter. He had made up his mind as to what must be said, +and not once did he pause or hesitate over a word. + +While still writing, he lifted his left hand and struck upon a silver +gong. + +When his servant entered, the Bishop spoke without raising his eyes +from the table. + +"Request Brother Philip to come here, without loss of time." + +When the Bishop, having signed his letter, laid down the pen, and +looked up, Brother Philip stood before him. + +"Philip," said the Bishop, "select a trustworthy messenger from among +the stable men, one possessed of wits as well as muscle; mount him on a +good beast, supply him with whatsoever he may need for a possible six +days' journey. Bring him to me so soon as he is ready to set forth. +He must bear a letter, of much importance, to Sir Hugh d'Argent; and, +seeing that I know only the Knight's route and stopping places, on his +northward ride, but not his time of starting, which may have been +yesterday or may not be until to-morrow, my messenger must ride first +to Warwick, which if the Knight has left, he must then follow in his +tracks until he overtake him." + +"My lord," said Brother Philip, "the sun is setting and the daylight +fades. The messenger cannot now reach Warwick until long after +nightfall. Would it not be safer to have all in readiness, and let him +start at dawn. He would then arrive early in the day, and could +speedily overtake the most worshipful Knight who, riding with his lady, +will do the journey by short stages." + +"Nay," said the Bishop, "the matter allows of no delay. Mount him so +well, that he shall outdistance all dangers. He must start within half +an hour." + +Brother Philip, bowing low, withdrew. + +The Bishop bent again over the table, and read what he had written. +Glancing quickly through the opening greetings, he considered carefully +what followed. + + +_"This comes to you, my son, by messenger, riding in urgent haste, +because the advice herein contained is of extreme importance. + +"On no account let Mora know that which I told you here, four days +since, as we paced the lawn; namely: that the old lay-sister, Mary +Antony, was aware of your visit to the Convent, and had, from some +place of concealment, seen and heard much of what passed in Mora's +cell. How far you realised this, when I made mention of it, I know +not. You made no comment. It mattered little, then; but has now +become a thing of extreme importance. + +"On that morning, finding the old lay-sister knew more than any +supposed, and was wholly devoted to the Prioress, I had chanced to +remark to her as I rode out of the courtyard that the Reverend Mother +would thrust happiness from her with both hands unless our Lady herself +offered it, by vision or revelation. + +"Whereupon, my dear Knight, that faithful old heart using wits she had +prayed our Lady to sharpen, contrived a vision of her own devising, so +wondrously contrived, so excellently devised, that Mora--not dreaming +of old Antony's secret knowledge--could not fail to believe it true. +In fact, my son, you may praise heaven for an old woman's wits, for, as +you will doubtless some day hear from Mora herself, they gave you your +wife! + +"But beware lest any chance words of yours lead Mora to suspect the +genuineness of the vision. It would cost HER her peace of mind. It +might cost YOU her presence. + +"Meanwhile the agèd lay-sister died yesterday, after having mystified +the entire Community by locking herself into the Prioress's cell, and +remaining there, from the time she found it empty when the nuns +returned from Vespers, until I arrived on the following afternoon. She +thus prevented any questionings concerning Mora's flight, and averted +possible scandal. But the twenty-four hours without food or drink cost +the old woman her life. A faithful heart indeed, and a most shrewd wit! + +"Some day, if occasion permit, I will recount to you the full story of +Mary Antony's strategy. It is well worth the hearing. + +"I trust your happiness is complete; and hers, Hugh, hers! + +"But we must take no risks; and never must we forget that, in dealing +with Mora, we are dealing with the heart of a nun. + +"Therefore, my son, be wary. Heaven grant this may reach you without +delay, and in time to prevent mischief."_ + + +When the messenger, fully equipped for his journey, was brought before +the Bishop by Brother Philip, this letter lay ready, sealed, and +addressed to Sir Hugh d'Argent, at Warwick Castle in the first place, +but failing there, to each successive stopping place upon the northward +road, including Castle Norelle, which, the Bishop had gathered, was to +be reached on the seventh day after leaving Warwick. + +So presently the messenger swung into the saddle, and rode out through +the great gates. In a leathern wallet at his belt, was the letter, and +a good sum of money for his needs on the journey; and in his somewhat +stolid mind, the Bishop's very simple instructions--simple, yet given +with so keen a look, transfixing the man, that it seemed to the honest +fellow he had received them from the point of a blue steel blade. + +He was to ride to Warwick, without drawing rein; to wake the porter at +the gate, and the seneschal within, no matter at what hour he arrived. +If the Knight were still at the Castle, the letter must be placed in +his hands so soon as he left his chamber in the morning. But had he +already gone from Warwick, the messenger, after food and rest for +himself and his horse, was to ride on to the next stage and, if +needful, to the next, until he overtook Sir Hugh and delivered into his +own hands, with as much secrecy as possible, the letter. + + +The Bishop passed along the gallery, after the messenger had left the +library, mounted to the banqueting hall and watched him ride away, from +that casement, overlooking the courtyard, from which Hugh had looked +down upon the arrival of Roger de Berchelai, bringing the letter from +Rome. + +A great relief filled the mind of the Bishop as he heard the clattering +hoofs of the fastest nag in his stables, ring on the paving stones +without, and die away in the distance. + +A serious danger would be averted, if the Knight were warned in time. + +The Bishop prayed that his letter might reach Hugh's hands before Mora +was moved to speak to him of Mary Antony's vision. + +He blamed himself bitterly for not having sooner recalled that +conversation on the lawn. How easy it would have been, after hearing +Mora's story in the arbour, to have given Hugh a word of caution before +leaving Warwick. + +Just after sunset, one of the Bishop's men, who had remained behind at +Warwick, reached the Palace, bringing news that the Knight, his Lady, +and their entire retinue, had ridden out from Warwick in the afternoon +of the previous day. + +The Bishop chafed at the delay this must involve, yet rejoiced at the +prompt beginning of the homeward journey, having secretly feared lest +Hugh should find some difficulty in persuading his bride to set forth +with him. + +After all, they were but two days ahead of the messenger who, by fast +riding, might overtake them on the morrow. Mistress Deborah, even on a +pillion, should prove a substantial impediment to rapid progress. + +But, alas, before noon on the day following, Brother Philip appeared in +haste, with an anxious countenance. + +The messenger had returned, footsore and exhausted, bruised and +wounded, with scarce a rag to his back. + +In the forest, while still ten miles from Warwick, overtaken by the +darkness, he had met a band of robbers, who had taken his horse and all +he possessed, leaving him for dead, in a ditch by the wayside. Being +but stunned and badly bruised, when he came to himself he thought it +best to make his way back to Worcester and there report his +misadventure. + +The Bishop listened to this luckless tale in silence. + +When it was finished he said, gently: "My good Philip, thou art proved +right, and I, wrong. Had I been guided by thee, I should not have lost +a good horse, nor--which is of greater importance at this +juncture--twenty-four hours of most precious time." + +Brother Philip made a profound obeisance, looking deeply ashamed of his +own superior foresight and wisdom, and miserably wishful that the +Reverend Father had been right, and he, wrong. + +"However," continued the Bishop, after a moment of rapid thought, "I +must forgo the melancholy luxury of meditating upon my folly, until +after we have taken prompt measures, so far as may be, to put right the +mischief it has wrought. + +"This time, my good Philip, you shall be the bearer of my letter. Take +with you, as escort, two of our men--more, if you think needful. Ride +straight from here, by the most direct route to Castle Norelle, the +home of the noble Countess, lately wedded to Sir Hugh. I will make you +a plan of the road. + +"If, when you reach the place, Sir Hugh and his bride have arrived, ask +to have speech with the Knight alone, and put the letter into his own +hands. But if they are yet on the way, ride to meet them, by a road I +will clearly indicate. Only be careful to keep out of sight of all +save the Knight or his body-servant, Martin Goodfellow. + +"The letter delivered, and the answer in thy hands, return, to me as +speedily as may be, without overpressing men or steeds. How soon canst +thou set forth?" + +"Within the hour, my lord," said Brother Philip, joyfully, cured of his +shame by this call to immediate service; "with an escort of three, that +we may ride by night as well as by day." + +"Good," said the Bishop; and, as the lay-brother, bowing low, hastened +from the chamber, Symon of Worcester drew toward him writing materials, +and penned afresh his warning to the Knight; not at such length as in +the former missive, but making very clear the need for silence +concerning Mary Antony's previous knowledge of his visit to the +Nunnery, lest Mora should come to doubt the genuineness of the vision +which had brought her to her great decision, and which in very truth +had been wholly contrived by the loving heart and nimble wits of Mary +Antony. + + +So once again the Bishop stood at the casement in the banqueting hall; +and, looking down into the courtyard, saw faithful Philip, with an +escort fully armed, ride out at the Palace gates. + +No time had been lost in repairing the mistake. Yet there was heavy +foreboding at the Bishop's heart, as he paced slowly down the hall. + +Greatly he feared lest this twenty-four hours' delay should mean +mischief wrought, which could never be undone. + +Passing into the chapel, he kneeled long before the shrine of Saint +Joseph praying, with an intense fervour of petition, that his warning +might reach the Knight before any word had passed his lips which could +shake Mora's belief in that which was to her the sole justification for +the important step she had taken. + +The Bishop prayed and fasted; fasted, prayed, and kept vigil. And all +the night through, in thought, he followed Brother Philip and his +escort as they rode northward, through the forests, up the glens, and +over the moors, making direct for Mora's home, to which she and Hugh +were travelling by a more roundabout way. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIII + +MORA MOUNTS TO THE BATTLEMENTS + +The moonlight, shining in at the open casement, illumined, with its +clear radiance, the chamber which had been, during the years of her +maidenhood, Mora de Norelle's sleeping apartment. + +It held many treasures of childhood. Every familiar thing within it, +whispered of the love and care of those long passed into the realm of +silence and of mystery; a noble father, slain in battle; a gentle +mother, unable to survive him, the call to her of the spirit of her +Warrior, being more compelling than the need of the beautiful young +daughter, to whom both had been devoted. + +The chamber seemed to Mora full of tender and poignant memories. + +How many girlish dreams had been dreamed while her healthy young body +rested upon that couch, after wild gallops over the moors, or a long +day's climbing among the rocky hills, searching for rare ferns and +flowers to transplant into her garden. + +In this room she had mourned her father, with her strong young arms +wrapped around her weeping mother. + +In this room she had wept for her mother, with none to comfort her, +saving the faithful nurse, Deborah. + +To this room she had fled in wrath, after the scene with, her +half-sister, Eleanor, who had tried to despoil her of her heritage--the +noble Castle and lands left to her by her father, and confirmed to her, +with succession to her father's title, by the King. These Eleanor +desired for her son; but neither bribes nor cajolery, threats, nor +cruel insinuations, had availed to induce Mora to give up her rightful +possession--the home of her childhood. + +Before the effects of this storm had passed, Hugh d'Argent had made his +first appearance upon the scene, riding into the courtyard as a King's +messenger, but also making himself known to the young Countess as a +near neighbour, heir to a castle and lands, not far distant, among the +Cumberland hills. + +With both it had been love at first sight. His short and ardent +courtship had, unbeknown to him, required not so much to win her heart, +as to overcome her maidenly resistance, rendered stubborn by the +consciousness that her heart had already ranged itself on the side of +her lover. + +When at last, vanquished by his eager determination, she had yielded +and become betrothed to him, it had seemed to her that life could hold +no sweeter joy. + +But he, hard to content, ever headstrong and eager, already having +taken the cross, and being now called at once to join the King in +Palestine, begged for immediate marriage that he might take her with +him to the Court of the new Queen, to which his cousin Alfrida had +already been summoned; or, if he must leave her behind, at least leave +her, not affianced maid, but wedded wife. + +Here Eleanor and her husband had interposed; and, assuming the position +of natural guardians, had refused to allow the marriage to take place. +This necessitated the consent of the King, which could not be obtained, +he being in the Holy Land; and Hugh had no wish to make application to +the Queen-mother, then acting regent during the absence of the King; or +to allow his betrothed to be brought again into association with the +Court at Windsor. + +Mora--secretly glad to keep yet a little longer the sweet bliss of +betrothal, with its promise of unknown yet deeper joys to +come--resisted Hugh's attempts to induce her to defy Eleanor, flout her +wrongful claim to authority, and wed him without obtaining the Royal +sanction. Steeped in the bliss of having taken one step into an +unimagined state of happiness, she felt no necessity or inclination +hurriedly to take another. + +Yet when, upheld by the ecstasy of those final moments together, she +had let him go, as she watched him ride away, a strange foreboding of +coming ill had seized her, and a restless yearning, which she could not +understand, yet which she knew would never be stilled until she could +clasp his head again to her breast, feel his crisp hair in her fingers, +and know him safe, and her own. + +This chamber then had witnessed long hours of prayer and vigil, as she +knelt at the shrine in the nook between the casements, beseeching our +Lady and Saint Joseph for the safe return of her lover. + +Then came the news of Hugh's supposed perfidy; and from this chamber +she had gone forth to hide her broken heart in the sacred refuge of the +Cloister; to offer to God and the service of Holy Church, the life +which had been robbed of all natural joys by the faithlessness of a man. + + +And this had happened eight years ago, as men count time. But as nuns +count it? And lovers? A lifetime? A night? + +It had seemed indeed a lifetime to the Prioress of the White Ladies, +during the first days of her return to the world. But to the woman who +now kneeled at the casement, drinking in the balmy sweetness of the +summer night, looking with soft yearning eyes at the well-remembered +landscape flooded in silvery moonlight, it seemed--a night. + +A night--since she stood on the battlements, her lover's arms about her. + +A night--since she said: "Thou wilt come back to me, Hugh. . . . My +love will ever be around thee as a silver shield." + +A night--since, as the last words he should hear from her lips, she had +said: "Maid or wife, God knows I am all thine own. Thine, and none +other's, forever." + +Of all the memories connected with this chamber, the clearest to-night +was of the hungry ache at her heart, when Hugh had gone. It had seemed +to her then that never could that ache be stilled, until she could once +again clasp his head to her breast. She knew now that it never had +been stilled. Dulled, ignored, denied; called by other names; but +stilled--never. + +On this night it was as sweetly poignant as on that other night eight +years ago, when she had slowly descended to this very room, from the +moonlit battlements. + +Yet to-night she was maid _and_ wife. Moreover Hugh was here, under +this very roof. Yet had he bidden her a grave good-night, without so +much as touching her hand. Yet his dark eyes had said: "I love thee." + +Kneeling at the casement, Mora reviewed the days since they rode forth +from Warwick. + +It had been a wondrous experience for her--she, who had been Prioress +of the White Ladies--thus to ride out into the radiant, sunny world. + +Hugh was ever beside her, watchful, tender, shielding her from any +possible pain or danger, yet claiming nothing, asking nothing, for +himself. + +One night, not being assured of the safety of the place where they +lodged, she found afterwards that he had lain all night across the +threshold of the chamber within which she and Debbie slept. + +Another night she saw him pacing softly up and down beneath her window. + +Yet when each morning came, and they began a new day together, he +greeted her gaily, with clear eye and unclouded brow; not as one +chilled or disappointed, or vexed to be kept from his due. + +And oh, the wonder of each new day! The glory of those rides over the +mossy softness of the woodland paths, where the sunlight fell, in +dancing patches, through the thick, moving foliage, and shy deer peeped +from the bracken, with soft eyes and gentle movements; out on to the +wild liberty of the moors, where Icon, snuffing the fresher air, would +stretch his neck and gallop for pure joy at having left cobbled streets +and paved courtyards far behind him. And ever they rode northward, and +home drew nearer. Looking back upon those long hours spent alone +together, Mora realised how simply and easily she had grown used to +being with Hugh, and how entirely this was due to his unselfishness and +tact. He talked with her constantly; yet never of his own feelings +regarding her. + +He told her of his adventures in Eastern lands; of the happenings in +England during the past eight years, so far as he had been able to +learn them; of his home and property; of hers, and of the welcome which +awaited her from her people. + +He never spoke of the Convent, nor of the eventful days through which +he and she had so recently passed. + +So successfully did he dominate her mind in this, that almost it seemed +to her she too was returning home after a long absence in a foreign +land. + +Her mind awoke to unrestrained enjoyment of each hour, and to the keen +anticipation of the traveller homeward bound. + +Each day spent in Hugh's company seemed to wipe out one, or more, of +the intervening years, so that when, toward evening, on the seventh +day, the grey turrets of her old home came in sight, it might have been +but yesterday they had parted, on those same battlements, and she had +watched him ride away, until the firwood from which they were now +emerging, had hidden him from view. + +Kneeling at her casement, her mind seemed lost in a whirlpool of +emotion, as she reviewed the hour of their arrival. The road up to the +big gates--every tree and hillock, every stock and stone, loved and +familiar, recalling childish joys and sorrows, adventure and +enterprise. Then the passing in through the gates, the familiar faces, +the glad greetings; Zachary--white-haired, but still rosy and +stalwart--at the foot of the steps; and, in the doorway, just where +loneliness might have gripped her, old Debbie, looking as if she had +never been away, waiting with open arms. So this was the moment +foreseen by Hugh when he had planned an early start, that morning, for +Mistress Deborah, and a more roundabout ride for her. + +She turned, with an impulsive gesture, holding out to him her left +hand, that he might cross the threshold with her. But the Knight was +stooping to examine the right forehoof of her palfrey, she having +fancied Icon had trod tenderly upon it during the last half-mile; so +she passed in alone. + +Afterwards she overheard old Debbie say, in her most scolding tones: +"She did stretch out her hand to you, Sir Hugh, and you saw it not!" +But the Knight's deep voice made courteous answer: "There is no look or +gesture of hers, however slight, good Mistress Deborah, which doth +escape me." And at this her heart thrilled far more than if he had met +her hand, responsive; knowing that thus he did faithfully keep his +pledge to her, and that he could so keep it, only by never relaxing his +stern hold upon himself. + +Yet almost she began to wish him less stern and less faithful, so much +did she long to feel for one instant the strong clasp of his arms about +her. By his rigid adherence to his promise, she felt herself punished +for having shuddered. Why had she shuddered? . . . Would she shudder +now? This wonderful first evening had quickly passed, in going from +chamber to chamber, walking in the gardens, and supping with Hugh in +the dining-hall, waited on by Mark and Beaumont, with Zachary to +supervise, pour the wine, and stand behind her chair. + +Then a final walk on the terrace; a grave good-night upon the stairs; +and, at last, this time of quiet thought, in her own chamber. + +She could not realise that she was wedded to Hugh; but her heart awoke +to the fact that truly she was betrothed to him. And she was +happy--deeply happy. + +Leaving the casement, she kneeled before the shrine of the +Virgin--there where she had put up so many impassioned prayers for the +safe return of her lover. + +"Blessèd Virgin," she said, "I thank thee for sending me home." + +Years seemed to roll from her. She felt herself a child again. She +longed for her mother's understanding tenderness. Failing that, she +turned to the sweet Mother of God. + +The image before which she knelt, shewed our Lady standing, tall and +fair and gracious, the Infant Saviour, seated upon her left hand, her +right hand holding Him leaning against her, His baby arms outstretched. +Neither the Babe nor His Mother smiled. Each looked grave and somewhat +sad. + +"Home," whispered Mora. "Blessèd Virgin I thank thee for sending me +home." + +"Nay," answered a voice within her. "I sent thee not home. I gave +thee to him to whom thou didst belong. He hath brought thee home. +What said the vision? 'Take her. She is thine own. I have but kept +her for thee.'" + +Yet Hugh knew naught of this gracious message--knew naught of the +vision which had given her to him. Until to-night she had felt it +impossible to tell him of it. Now she longed that he should share with +her the wonder. + +She sought her couch, but sleep would not come. The moonlight was too +bright; the room too sweetly familiar. Moreover it seemed but +yesterday that she had parted from Hugh, in such an ecstasy of love and +sorrow, up on the battlements. + +A great desire seized her to mount to those battlements, and to stand +again just where she had stood when she bade him farewell. + +She rose. + +Among the garments put ready for her use, chanced to be the robe of +sapphire velvet which she had worn on that night. + +She put it on; with jewels at her breast and girdle. Then, with the +mantle of ermine falling from her shoulders, and her beautiful hair +covering her as a veil, she left her chamber, passed softly along the +passage, found the winding stair, and mounted to the ramparts. + +As she stepped out from the turret stairway, she exclaimed at the +sublime beauty of the scene before her; the sleeping world at midnight, +bathed in the silvery light of the moon; the shadows of the firs, lying +like black bars across the road to the Castle gate. + +"There I watched him ride away," she said, with a sweep of her arm +toward the road, "watched, until the dark woods swallowed him. And +here"--with a sweep toward the turret--"here, we parted." + +She turned; then caught her breath. + +Leaning against the wall with folded arms, stood Hugh. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIV + +"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. + + + + +CHAPTER XLV + +THE SONG OF THE THRUSH + +The morning sun already poured into her room, when Mora opened her +eyes, waking suddenly with that complete wide-awakeness which follows +upon profound and dreamless slumber. + +Even as she woke, her heart said: "Our bridal day! The day I give +myself to Hugh! The day he leads me home." + +She stretched herself at full length upon the couch, her hands crossed +upon her breast, and let the delicious joy of her love sweep over her, +from the soles of her feet to the crown of her head. + +The world without lay bathed in sunshine; her heart within was flooded +by the radiance of this new and perfect realisation of her love for +Hugh. + +She lay quite still while it enveloped her. + +Ten days ago, our Lady had given her to Hugh. + +Eight days ago, the Bishop, voicing the Church, had done the same. + +But to-day she--she herself--was going to give herself to her lover. + +This was the true bridal! For this he had waited. And the reward of +his chivalrous patience was to be, that to-day, of her own free will +she would say; "Hugh, my husband, take me home." + +She smiled to remember how, riding forth from the city gates of +Warwick, she had planned within herself that, once safely established +in her own castle, she would abide there days, weeks, perhaps even, +months! + +She stretched her arms wide, then flung them above her head. + +"Take me home," she whispered. "Hugh, my husband, take me home." + +A thrush in the coppice below, whistled in liquid notes: "_Do it now! +Do it now! Do it now!_" + +Laughing joyously, Mora leapt from her bed and looked out upon a sunny +summer's day, humming with busy life, fragrant with scent of flowers, +thrilling with songs of birds. + +"What a bridal morn!" she cried. "All nature says 'Awake! Arise!' Yet +I have slept so late. I must quickly prepare myself to find and to +greet my lover." + +"_Do it now!_" sang the thrush. + + +Half an hour later, fresh and fragrant as the morn, Mora left her +chamber and made her way to the great staircase. + +Hearing shouting in the courtyard, and the trampling of horses' feet, +she paused at a casement, and looked down. + +To her surprise she saw the well-remembered figure of Brother Philip, +mounted; with him three other horsemen wearing the Bishop's livery, and +Martin Goodfellow leading Hugh's favourite steed, ready saddled. + +Much perplexed, she passed down the staircase, and out on to the +terrace where she had bidden them to prepare the morning meal. + +From the terrace she looked into the banqueting hall, and her +perplexity grew; for there Hugh d'Argent, booted and spurred, ready for +a journey, strode up and down. + +For two turns she watched him, noting his knitted brows, and the heavy +forward thrust of his chin. + +Then, lifting his eyes as he swung round for the third time, he saw +her, outside in the sunlight; such a vision of loveliness as might well +make a man's heart leap. + +He paused in his rapid walk, and stood as if rooted to the spot, making +no move toward her. + +For a moment, Mora hesitated. + +"_Do it now!_" sang the thrush. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVI + +"HOW SHALL I LET THEE GO?" + +Mora passed swiftly into the banqueting hall. + +"Hugh," she said, and came to him. "Hugh, my husband, this is our +bridal day. Will you take me to our home?" + +His eyes, as they met hers, were full of a dumb misery. + +Then a fierce light of passion, a look of wild recklessness, flashed +into them. He raised his arms, to catch her to him; then let them fall +again, glancing to right and left, as if seeking some way of escape. + +But, seeing the amazement on her face, he mastered, by a mighty effort, +his emotion, and spoke with calmness and careful deliberation. + +"Alas, Mora," he said, "it is a hard fate indeed for me on this day, of +all days, to be compelled to leave thee. But in the early morn there +came a letter which obliges me, without delay, to ride south, in order +to settle a matter of extreme importance. I trust not to be gone +longer than nine days. You, being safely established in your own home, +amongst your own people, I can leave without anxious fears. Moreover, +Martin Goodfellow will remain here representing me, and will in all +things do your bidding." + +"From whom is this letter, Hugh, which takes you from me, on such a +day?" + +"It is from a man well known to me, dwelling in a city four days' +journey from here." + +"Why not say at once: 'It is from the Bishop, written from his Palace +in the city of Worcester'?" + +Hugh frowned. + +"How knew you that?" he asked, almost roughly. + +"My dear Knight, hearing much champing of horses in my courtyard, I +looked down from a casement and saw a lay-brother well known to me, and +three other horsemen wearing the Bishop's livery. What can Symon of +Worcester have written which takes you from me on this day, of all +days?" + +"That I cannot tell thee," he made answer. "But he writes, without +much detail, of a matter about which I must know fullest details, +without loss of time. I have no choice but to ride and see the Bishop, +face to face. It is not a question which can be settled by writing nor +could it wait the passing to and fro of messengers. Believe me, Mora, +it is urgent. Naught but exceeding urgency could force me from thee on +this day." + +"Has it to do with my flight from the Convent?" she asked. + +He bowed his head. + +"Will you tell me the matter on your return, Hugh?" + +"I know not," he answered, with face averted. "I cannot say." Then +with sudden violence: "Oh, my God, Mora, ask me no more! See the +Bishop, I must! Speak with him, I must! In nine days at the very +most, I will be back with thee. Duty takes me, my belovèd, or I would +not go." + +Her mind responded instinctively to the word "duty," "Go then, dear +Knight," she said. "Settle this business with Symon of Worcester. I +have no desire to know its purport. If it concerns my flight from the +Convent, surely the Pope's mandate is all-sufficient. But, be it what +it may, in the hands of my faithful Knight and of my trusted friend, +the Bishop, I may safely leave it. I do but ask that, the work +accomplished, you come with all speed back to me." + +With a swift movement he dropped on one knee at her feet. + +"Send me away with a blessing," he said. "Bless me before I go." + +She laid her hands on the bowed head. + +"Alas!" she cried, "how shall I let thee go?" + +Then, pushing her fingers deeper into his hair and bending over him, +with infinite tenderness: "How shall thy wife bless thee?" she +whispered. + +He caught his breath, as the fragrance of the newly gathered roses at +her bosom reached and enveloped him. + +"Bless me," he said, hoarsely, "as the Prioress of the White Ladies +used to bless her nuns, and the Poor at the Convent gate." + +"Dear Heart," she said, and smiled. "That seems so long ago!" Then, as +with bent head he still waited, she steadied her voice, lifting her +hands from off him; then laid them back upon his head, with reverent +and solemn touch. "The Lord bless thee," she said, "and keep thee; and +may our blessèd Lady, who hath restored me to thee, bring thee safely +back to me again." + +At that, Hugh raised his head and looked up into her face, and the +misery in his eyes stirred her tenderness as it had never been stirred +by the vivid love-light or the soft depths of passion she had +heretofore seen in them. + +Her lips parted; her breath came quickly. She would have caught him to +her bosom; she would have kissed away this unknown sorrow; she would +have smothered the pain, in the sweetness of her embrace. + +But bending swiftly he lifted the hem of her robe and touched it with +his lips; then, rising, turned and left her without a word; without a +backward look. + +He left her standing there, alone in the banqueting hall. And as she +stood listening, with beating heart, to the sound of his voice raised +in command; to the quick movements of his horse's hoofs on the paving +stones, as he swung into the saddle; to the opening of the gates and +the riding forth of the little cavalcade, a change seemed to have come +over her. She ceased to feel herself a happy, yielding bride, a +traveller in distant lands, after long journeyings, once more at home. + +She seemed to be again Prioress of the White Ladies. The calm fingers +of the Cloister fastened once more upon her pulsing heart. The dignity +of office developed her. + +And wherefore? + +Was it because, when her lips had bent above him in surrendering +tenderness, her husband had chosen to give her the sign of reverent +homage accorded to a prioress, rather than the embrace which would have +sealed her surrender? + +Or was it because he had asked her to bless him as she had been wont to +bless the Poor at the Convent gate? + +Or was it the unconscious action of his mind upon hers, he being +suddenly called to face some difficulty which had arisen, concerning +their marriage, or the Bishop's share in her departure from the Nunnery? + +The clang of the closing gates sounded in her ears as a knell. + +She shivered; then remembered how she had shivered at sound of the +turning of the key in the lock of the crypt-way door. How great the +change wrought by eight days of love and liberty. She had shuddered +then at being irrevocably shut out from the Cloister. She shuddered +now because the arrival of a messenger from the Bishop, and something +indefinable in Hugh's manner, had caused her to look back. + +She stood quite still. None came to seek her. She seemed to have +turned to stone. + +It was not the first time this looking back had had a petrifying effect +upon a woman. She remembered Lot's wife, going forward led by the +gentle pressure of an angel's hand, yet looking back the moment that +pressure was removed. + +She had gone forward, led by the sweet angel of our Lady's gracious +message. Why should she look back? Rather would she act upon the +sacred precept: "Forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching +forth unto those things which are before"--this, said the apostle Saint +Paul, was the one thing to do. Undoubtedly now it was the one and only +thing for her to do; leaving all else which might have to be done, to +her husband and to the Bishop. + +"This one thing I do," she said aloud; "this one thing I do." And +moving forward, in the strength of that resolve, she passed out into +the sunshine. + +"_Do it now!_" sang the thrush, in the rowan-tree. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVII + +THE BISHOP IS TAKEN UNAWARES + +Symon of Worcester, seated before a table in the library, pondered a +letter which had reached him the evening before, brought by a messenger +from the Vatican. + +It was a call to return to the land he loved best; the land of sunshine +and flowers, of soft speech and courteous ways; the land of heavenly +beauty and seraphic sounds; and, moreover, to return as a Cardinal of +Holy Church. + +His acceptance or refusal must be penned before night. The messenger +expected to start upon his return journey early on the morrow. + +Should he go? Or should he stay? + +Was all now well for Mora? Or did she yet need him? + +Surely never had Cardinal's hat hung poised for such a reason! How +little would the Holy Father dream that a question affecting the +happiness or unhappiness of a woman could be a cause of hesitancy. + +Presently, with a quick movement, the Bishop lifted his head. The +library was far removed from the courtyard; but surely he heard the +clatter of horses' hoofs upon the raving stones. + +He had hardly hoped for Brother Philip's return until after sunset; +yet--with fast riding---- + +If the Knight's answer were in all respects satisfactory--If Mora's +happiness was assured--why, then---- + +He sounded the silver gong. + +His servant entered. + +"What horsemen have just now ridden into the courtyard, Jasper?" + +"My lord, Brother Philip has this moment returned, and with him----" + +"Bid Brother Philip to come hither, instantly." + +"May it please you, my lord----" + +"Naught will please me," said the Bishop, "but that my commands be +obeyed without parley or delay." + +Jasper's obeisance took him through the door. + +The Bishop bent over the letter from Rome, shading his face with his +hand. + +He could scarcely contain his anxiety; but he did not wish to give +Brother Philip occasion to observe his tremulous eagerness to receive +the Knight's reply. + +He heard the door open and close, and a firm tread upon the floor. It +struck him, even then, that the lay-brother had not been wont to enter +his presence with so martial a stride, and he wondered at the ring of +spurs. But his mind was too intently set upon Hugh d'Argent's letter, +to do more than unconsciously notice these things. + +"Thou art quickly returned, my good Philip," he said, without looking +round. "Thou has done better than my swiftest expectations. Didst +thou give my letter thyself into the hands of Sir Hugh d'Argent, and +hast thou brought me back an answer from that most noble Knight?" + +Wherefore did Brother Philip make no reply? + +Wherefore did his breath come sharp and short--not like a stout +lay-brother who has hurried; but, rather, like a desperate man who has +clenched his teeth to keep control of his tongue? + +The Bishop wheeled in his chair, and found himself looking full into +the face of Hugh d'Argent--Hugh, haggard, dusty, travel-stained, with +eyes, long strangers to sleep, regarding him with a sombre intensity. + +"You!" exclaimed the Bishop, surprised out of his usual gentle calm. +"You? Here!" + +"Yes, I," said the Knight, "I! Does it surprise you, my Lord Bishop, +that I should be here? Would it not rather surprise you, in view of +that which you saw fit to communicate to me by letter, that I should +fail to be here--and here as fast as horse could bring me?" + +"Naught surprises me," said the Bishop, testily. "I have lived so long +in the world, and had to do with so many crazy fools, that human +vagaries no longer have power to surprise me. And, by our Lady, Sir +Knight, I care not where you are, so that you have left safe and well, +her peace of mind undisturbed, the woman whom I--acting as mouthpiece +of the Pope and Holy Church--gave, not two weeks ago, into your care +and keeping." + +The Knight's frown was thunderous. + +"It might be well, my Lord Bishop, to leave our blessèd Lady's name out +of this conversation. It hath too much been put to shameful and +treacherous use. Mora is safe and well. How far her peace of mind can +be left undisturbed, I am here to discover. I require, before aught +else, the entire truth." + +But the Bishop had had time to recover his equanimity. He rose with +his most charming smile, both hands out-stretched in gracious welcome. + +"Nay, my dear Knight, before aught else you require a bath! Truly it +offends my love of the beautiful to see you in this dusty plight." He +struck upon the gong. "Also you require a good meal, served with a +flagon of my famous Italian wine. You did well to come here in person, +my son. If naught hath been said to Mora, no harm is done; and +together we can doubly safeguard the matter. I rejoice that you have +come. But the strain of rapid travelling, when anxiety drives, is +great. . . . Jasper, prepare a bath for Sir Hugh d'Argent in mine own +bath-chamber; cast into it some of that fragrant and refreshing powder +sent to me by the good brethren of Santa Maria Novella. While the +noble Knight bathes, lay out in the ante-chamber the complete suit of +garments he was wearing on the day when the sudden fancy seized him to +have a swim in our river. I conclude they have been duly dried and +pressed and laid by with sweet herbs? . . . Good. That is well. Now, +my dear Hugh, allow Jasper to attend you. He will give his whole mind +to your comfort. Send word to Brother Philip, Jasper, that I will +speak with him here." + +The Bishop accompanied the Knight to the door of the library; watched +him stride along the gallery, silent and sullen, in the wake of the +hastening Jasper; then turned and walked slowly back to the table, +smiling, and gently rubbing his hands together as he walked. + +He had gained time, and he had successfully regained his sense of +supremacy. Taken wholly by surprise, he had not felt able to cope with +this gaunt, dusty, desperately determined Knight. But the Knight would +leave more than mere travel stains behind, in the scented waters of the +bath! He would reappear clothed and in his right mind. A good meal +and a flagon of Italian wine would further improve that mind, mellowing +it and rendering it pliable and easy to convince; though truly it +passed comprehension why the Knight should need convincing, or of what! +Even more incomprehensible was it, that a man wedded to Mora, not two +weeks since, should of his own free will elect to leave her. + +The Bishop turned. + +Brother Philip stood in the doorway, bowing low. + +"Come in, my good Philip," said the Bishop; "come in, and shut the +door. . . . I must have thy report with fullest detail; but, time +being short, I would ask thee to begin from the moment when the +battlements of Castle Norelle came into view." + + + + +CHAPTER XLVIII + +A STRANGE CHANCE + +On the fourth day of her husband's absence, Mora climbed to the +battlements to watch the glories of a most gorgeous sunset. + +Also she loved to find herself again there where she and Hugh had spent +that wonderful hour in the moonlight, when she had told him of the +vision, and afterwards had given him the promise that on the morrow he +should take her to his home. + +She paused in the low archway at the top of the winding stair, +remembering how she had turned a moment there, to whisper: "I love +thee." Ah, how often she had said it since: "Dear man of mine, I love +thee! Come back to me safe; come back to me soon; I love thee!" + +That he should have had to leave her just as her love was ready to +respond to his, had caused that love to grow immeasurably in depth and +intensity. + +Also she now realised, more fully, his fine self-control, his +chivalrous consideration for her, his noble unselfishness. From the +first, he had been so perfect to her; and now her one desire was that, +if her love could give it, he should have his reward. + +Ah, when would he come! When would he come! + +She could not keep from shading her eyes and looking along the road to +the point where it left the fir wood, though this was but the fourth +day since Hugh's departure--the day on which, by fast riding and long +hours, he might arrive at Worcester--and the ninth was the very +earliest she dared hope for his return. + +How slowly, slowly, passed the days. Yet they were full of a quiet joy +and peace. + +From the moment when she had stepped out into the sunshine, resolved to +go steadily forward without looking back, she had thrown herself with +zest and pleasure into investigating and arranging her house and estate. + +Also, on the second day an idea had come to her with her first waking +thoughts, which she had promptly put into execution. + +Taking Martin Goodfellow with her she had ridden over to Hugh's home; +had found it, as she expected, greatly needing a woman's hand and mind, +and had set to work at once on those changes and arrangements most +needed, so that all should be in readiness when Hugh, returning, would +take her home. + +Under her direction the chamber which should be hers was put into +perfect order; her own things were transported thither, and all was +made so completely ready, that at any moment she and Hugh could start, +without need of baggage or attendants, and ride together home. + +This chamber had two doors, the one leading down a flight of steps on +to a terrace, the other opening directly into the great hall, the +central chamber of the house. + +Mora loved to stand in this doorway, looking into the noble apartment, +with its huge fireplace, massive carved chairs on either side of the +hearth, weapons on the walls, trophies of feats of arms, all those +things which made it home to Hugh, and to remember that of this place +he had said in his petition to our Lady: "Take pity on a lonely home, a +desolate hearth . . . and send her to me." + +No longer should it be lonely or desolate. Aye, and no longer should +his faithful heart be hungry. + +On this day she had been over for the third time, riding by the road, +because she and Martin both carried packages of garments and other +things upon their saddles; but returning by a shorter way through the +woods, silent and mossy, most heavenly cool and green. + +This journey had served to complete her happy preparations. So now, +should Hugh arrive, even at sunset, and be wishful to ride on without +delay, she could order the saddling of Icon, and say: "I am ready, dear +Knight; let us go." + +She stood on the Castle wall, gazing at the blood-red banners of the +sunset, flaming from the battlements of a veritable city of gold; then, +shading her eyes, turned to look once again along the road. + +And, at that moment, out from the dark fir wood there rode a horseman, +alone. + + +For one moment only did her heart leap in the wild belief that Hugh had +returned. The next instant she knew this could not be he; even before +her eyes made out a stranger. + +She watched him leave the road, and turn up the winding path which led +to the Castle gate; saw the porter go to the grating in answer to a +loud knocking without; saw him fetch old Zachary, who in his turn sent +for Martin Goodfellow; upon which the gates were opened wide, and the +stranger rode into the courtyard. + +Whereupon Mora thought it time that she should descend from the +battlements and find out who this unexpected visitor might be. + +At the head of the great staircase, she met Martin. + +"Lady," he said, "there waits a man below who urgently desires speech +with Sir Hugh. Learning from us that the Knight hath ridden south, and +is like to be away some days longer, he begs to have word with you, +alone; yet refuses to state his business or to give his name. Master +Zachary greatly hopeth that it may be your pleasure that we bid the +fellow forthwith depart, telling him--if he so will--to ride back in +six days' time, when the worshipful Knight, whom he desires to see, +will have returned." + +Mora knitted her brows. It did not please her that Zachary and Martin +Goodfellow should arrange together what she should do. + +"Describe him, Martin," she said. "What manner of man is he?" + +"Swarthy," said Martin, "and soldierly; somewhat of a dare-devil, but +on his best behaviour. Zachary and I would suggest----" + +"I will see him," said Mora, beginning to descend the stairs. "I will +see him in the banqueting hall, and alone. You, Martin, can wait +without, entering on the instant if I call. Tell Zachary to bid them +prepare a meal of bread and meat, with a flagon of wine, or a pot of +good ale, which I may offer to this traveller, should he need +refreshment." + +She was standing in the banqueting hall, on the very spot where Hugh +had kneeled at their parting, when the swarthy fellow, soldierly, yet +somewhat of a dare-devil, entered. + +Most certainly he was on his best behaviour. He doffed his cap at +first sight of her, advanced a few paces, then stood still, bowing low; +came forward a few more paces, then bowed again. + +She spoke. + +"You wished to see my husband, Friend, and speak with him? He is away +and hardly can return before five days, at soonest. Is your business +with Sir Hugh such as I can pass on to him for you, by word of mouth?" + +She hoped those bold, dark eyes did not perceive how she glowed to +speak for the first time, to another, of Hugh as her husband. + +He answered, and his words were blunt; his manner, frank and soldierly. + +"Most noble Lady, failing the Knight, whom I have ridden far to find, +my business may most readily be told to you. + +"Years ago, on a Syrian battle-field it was my good fortune, in the +thick of the fray, to find myself side by side with Sir Hugh d'Argent. +The Infidels struck me down; and, sorely wounded, I should have been at +their mercy, had not the noble Knight, seeing me fall, wheeled his +horse and, riding back, hewn his way through to me, scattering mine +assailants right and left. Then, helping me to mount behind him, +galloped with me back to camp. Whereupon I swore, by the holy Cross at +Lucca, that if ever the chance came my way to do a service to Sir Hugh +of the Silver Shield, I would travel to the world's end to do it. + +"Ten nights ago, I chanced to be riding through a wood somewhere +betwixt Worcester and Warwick. A band of lawless fellows coming by, I +and my steed drew off the path, taking cover in a thicket. But a +solitary horseman, riding from Worcester, failed to avoid them. Within +sight of my hiding-place he was set upon, made to dismount, stripped +and bidden to return on foot to the place from whence he came. I could +do naught to help him. We were two, to a round dozen. The robbers +took the money from his wallet. Within it they found also a letter, +which they flung away as worthless. I marked where it fell, close to +my hiding-place. + +"When the affray was over, their victim having fled and the lawless +band ridden off, I came forth, picked up the letter and slipped it into +mine own wallet. So soon as the sun rose I drew forth the letter, +when, to my amaze, I found it addressed to my brave rescuer, the Knight +of the Silver Shield and Azure Pennant. It appeared to be of +importance as, failing Warwick Castle, six halting places, all on the +northward road, were named on the outside; also it was marked to be +delivered with most urgent haste. + +"It seemed to me that now had come my chance, to do this brave Knight +service. Therefore have I ridden from place to place, following; and, +after some delay, I find myself at length at Castle Norelle, only to +hear that he to whom I purposed to hand the letter has ridden south by +another road. Thus is my endeavour to serve him rendered fruitless." + +"Nay, Friend," said Mora, much moved by this recital. "Not fruitless. +Give me the letter you have thus rescued and faithfully attempted, to +deliver. My husband returns in five days. I will then hand him the +letter and tell him your tale. Most grateful will he be for your good +service, and moved by your loyal remembrance." + +The swarthy fellow drew from his wallet a letter, heavily sealed, and +inscribed at great length. He placed it in Mora's hands. + +Her clear eyes dwelt upon his countenance with searching interest. It +was wonderful to her to see before her a man whose life Hugh had saved, +so far away, on an Eastern battle-field. + +"In my husband's name, I thank you, Friend," she said. "And now my +people will put before you food and wine. You must have rest and +refreshment before you again set forth." + +"I thank you, no," replied the stranger. "I must ride on, without +delay. I bid you farewell, Lady; and I do but wish the service, which +a strange chance has enabled me to render to the Knight, had been of +greater importance and had held more of risk or danger." + +He bowed low, and departed. A few moments later he was riding out at +the gates, and making for the northward road. + +Had Brother Philip chanced to be at hand, he could not have failed to +note that the swarthy stranger was mounted upon the fastest nag in the +Bishop's stable. + +For a life of lawlessness, rapine, and robbery, does not debar a man +from keeping an oath sworn, out of honest gratitude, in cleaner, better +days. + +Left alone, Mora passed on to the terrace and, in the clearer light, +examined this soiled and much inscribed missive. + +To her amazement she recognised the well-known script of Symon, Bishop +of Worcester. How many a letter had reached her hands addressed in +these neat characters. + +Yet Hugh had left her, and gone upon this ride of many days to +Worcester in order to see the Bishop, because he had received a letter +telling him, without sufficient detail, a matter of importance. +Probably the letter she now held in her hands should have reached him +first. Doubtless had he received it, he need not have gone. + +Pondering this matter, and almost unconscious that she did so, Mora +broke the seals. Then paused, even as she began to unfold the +parchment, questioning whether to read it or to let it await Hugh's +return. + +But not long did she hesitate. It was upon a matter which closely +concerned her. That much Hugh had admitted. It might be imperative to +take immediate action concerning this first letter, which by so strange +a mishap had arrived after the other. Unless she mastered its +contents, she could not act. + +Ascending the turret stairway, Mora stepped again on to the battlements. + +The golden ramparts in the west had faded; but a blood-red banner still +floated above the horizon. The sky overhead was clear. + +Sitting upon the seat on which she had sat while telling Hugh of old +Mary Antony's most blessèd and wondrous vision, Mora unfolded and read +the Bishop's letter. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIX + +TWICE DECEIVED + +The blood-red banner had drooped, dipped, and vanished. + +The sky overhead had deepened to purple, and opened starry eyes upon +the world beneath. Each time the silent woman, alone upon the +battlements, lifted a sorrowful face to the heavens, yet another bright +eye seemed to spring wide and gaze down upon her. + +At length the whole expanse of the sky was studded with stars; the +planets hung luminous; the moon, already waning, rose large and golden +from behind the firs, growing smaller and more silvery as she mounted +higher. + +Mora covered her face with her hands. The summer night was too full of +scented sweetness. The stars sang together. The moon rode triumphant +in the heavens. In this her hour of darkness she must shut out the +brilliant sky. She let her face sink into her hands, and bowed her +head upon her knees. + +Blow after blow had fallen upon her from the Bishop's letter. + +First that the Bishop himself was plotting to deceive her, and seemed +to take Hugh's connivance for granted. + +Then that she had been hoodwinked by old Mary Antony, on the evening of +Hugh's intrusion into the Nunnery; that this hoodwinking was known to +the Bishop, and appeared but to cause him satisfaction, tempered by a +faint amusement. + +Then the overwhelming news that Mary Antony's vision had been an +imposition, devised and contrived by the almost uncannily shrewd wits +of the old woman; and that the Bishop advised the Knight to praise +heaven for those wits, and to beware lest any chance word of his should +lead her--Mora--to doubt the genuineness of the vision, and to realise +that she had been hocussed, hoodwinked, outwitted! In fact the Bishop +and her husband were to become, and to continue indefinitely, parties +to old Antony's deception. + +She now understood the full significance of the half-humorous, +half-sceptical attitude adopted by the Bishop, when she recounted to +him the history of the vision. No wonder he had called Mary Antony a +"most wise and prudent babe." + +But even as her anger rose, not only against the Bishop, but against +the old woman she had loved and trusted and who had so deceived her, +she came upon the news of the death of the aged lay-sister and the +account of her devoted fidelity, even to the end. + +Mary Antony living, was often a pathetic figure; Mary Antony dead, +disarmed anger. + +And, after all, the old lay-sister and her spurious vision faded into +insignificance in view of the one supreme question: What course would +Hugh take? Would he keep silence and thus tacitly become a party to +the deception; or would he, at all costs, tell her the truth? + +It was evidence of the change her love had wrought in her, that this +one point was so paramount, that until it was settled, she could not +bring herself to contemplate other issues. + +She remembered, with hopeful comfort, his scrupulous honesty in the +matter of Father Gervaise. Yet wherefore had he gone to consult with +the Bishop unless he intended to fall in with the Bishop's suggestions? + +Not until she at last sought her chamber and knelt before the shrine of +the Madonna, did she realise that her justification in leaving the +Convent was gone, if there had been no vision. + +"Blessèd Virgin," she pleaded, with clasped hands uplifted; "I, who +have been twice deceived--tricked into entering the Cloister, and +tricked into leaving it--I beseech thee, by the sword which pierced +through thine own soul also, grant me now a vision which shall be, in +very deed, a VISION OF TRUTH." + + + + +CHAPTER L + +THE SILVER SHIELD + +The Bishop sat at the round table in the centre of the banqueting hall, +sipping water from his purple goblet while the Knight dined. + +They were not alone. Lay-brethren, with sandalled feet, moved +noiselessly to and fro; and Brother Philip stood immovable behind the +Reverend Father's chair. + +The Bishop discoursed pleasantly of many things, watching Hugh the +while, and blessing the efficacy of the bath. It had, undoubtedly, +cleansed away much beside travel-stains. + +The thunder-cloud had lifted from the Knight's brow; his eyes, though +tired, were no longer sombre; his manner was more than usually +courteous and deferential, as if to atone for the defiant brusquerie of +his first appearance. + +He listened in absolute silence to the Bishop's gentle flow of +conversation; but this was a trait the Bishop had observed in him +before; and, after all, a lapse into silence could be easily understood +when a man had travelled far, on meagre fare, and found himself seated +at a well-spread board. + +Yet the Knight ate but sparingly of the good cheer, so lavishly +provided; and the famous Italian wine, he scarce touched at all. + +The meal over, the Bishop dismissed Brother Philip and the attendant +monks, and, rising, went to his chair near the hearth, motioning the +Knight to the one opposite. + +Thus they found themselves seated again as they had sat on the night of +the arrival of the Pope's messenger; save that now no fire burned upon +the hearth; no candles were lighted on the table. Instead, the summer +sunshine poured in through open casements. + +"Well, my dear Hugh," said the Bishop, "suppose you now tell me the +reason which brings you hither. It must surely be a matter of grave +importance which could cause so devoted a lover and husband to leave +his bride, and go a five days' journey from her, within two weeks of +the bridal day." + +"I have come, my lord," said the Knight, speaking slowly and with +evident effort, "to learn from your lips the entire truth concerning +that vision which caused the Prioress of the White Ladies to hold +herself free to renounce her vows, leave her Nunnery, and give herself +in marriage where she had been betrothed before entering the Cloister." + +"Tut!" said the Bishop. "The White Ladies have no Prioress. Mother +Sub-Prioress doth exercise the functions of that office until such time +as the Prior and myself shall make a fresh appointment. We are not +here to talk of prioresses, my son, but of that most noble and gracious +lady who, by the blessing of God and our Lady's especial favour, is now +your wife. See to it that you continue to deserve your great good +fortune." + +The Knight made no protest at the mention of our Lady; but his left +hand moved to the medallion hanging by a gold chain from his neck, +covered it and clasped it firmly. + +The Bishop paused; but finding that the Knight had relapsed into +silence, continued: + +"So you wish the entire history of the inspired devotion of the old +lay-sister, Mary Antony--may God rest her soul." Both men crossed +themselves devoutly, as the Bishop named the Dead. "Shall I give it +you now, my son, or will you wait until the morrow, when a good night's +rest shall fit you better to enjoy the recital?" + +"My lord," said Hugh, "ere this sun sets, I hope to be many miles on my +homeward way." + +"In that case," said the Bishop, "I must tell you this moving story, +without further delay." + +So, beginning with her custom of counting the White Ladies by means of +the dried peas, the Bishop gave the Knight the whole history of Mary +Antony's share in the happenings in the Nunnery on the day of his +intrusion, and those which followed; laying especial stress on her +devotion to Mora, and her constant prayers to our Lady to sharpen her +old wits. + +The Bishop had undoubtedly intended to introduce into the recital +somewhat more of mysticism and sublimity than the actual facts +warranted. But once launched thereon, his sense of humour could not be +denied its full enjoyment in this first telling of the entire tale. +Full justice he did to the pathos, but he also shook with mirth over +the ludicrous. As he quoted Mary Antony, the old lay-sister's odd +manner and movements could be seen; her mumbling lips, and cunning +wink. And here was Mother Sub-Prioress, ferret-faced and peering; and +here Sister Mary Rebecca, long-nosed, flat-footed, eager to scent out +and denounce wrong doing. And at last the Bishop told of his talk with +Mora in the arbour of golden roses; and lo, there was Mora, devout, +adoring, wholly believing. "Thou hast hid these things from the wise +and prudent and hast revealed them unto babes"; and here, the Bishop +himself, half amused, half incredulous: "An ancient babe! Truly, a +most wise and prudent babe." Then the scene outside the Prioress's +cell when the Bishop unlocked the door; the full confession and the +touching death of old Mary Antony. + +To it all the Knight listened silently, shading his face with his right +hand. + +"Therefore, my son," concluded Symon of Worcester, "when on a sudden I +remembered our conversation on the lawn, and that I had told you of my +belief that the old lay-sister knew of your visit to the Convent and +had seen you in Mora's cell, I hastened to send you a warning, lest you +should, unwittingly, mention this fact to Mora, and raise a doubt in +her mind concerning the genuineness of the vision, thus destroying her +peace, and threatening her happiness and your own. Hath she already +told you of the vision?" + +Still shielding his face the Knight spoke, very low: + +"The evening before the messenger arrived, bringing your letter, my +lord, Mora told me of the vision." + +"Said you aught concerning my words to you?" + +"So soon as she mentioned the name of Mary Antony, I said that I seemed +to recall that you, my lord, had told me she alone knew of my visit to +the Convent. But Mora at once said nay, that it was she herself who +had told me so, even while I stood undiscovered in her cell; but that +afterward the lay-sister had confessed herself mistaken. This seemed +to me to explain the matter, therefore I said no more; nor did I, for a +moment, doubt the truth and wonder of the vision." + +"For that, the saints be praised," said the Bishop. "Then no harm is +done. You and I, alone, know the entire story; and you and I, who +would safeguard Mora's happiness with our lives, must see to it that +she never has cause for misgivings." + +Hugh d'Argent lifted his head, and looked full at the Bishop. + +"My lord," he said, "had there been no vision, no message from our +Lady, no placing by her of Mora's hand in mine, think you she would +have left the Nunnery and come to me?" + +"Nay, dear lad, that I know she would not. On that very morning, as I +told you, she set her foot upon the Pope's mandate, and would accept no +absolving from her vows. Naught would suffice, said she, but a direct +vision and revelation from our Lady herself." + +"But," said the Knight, slowly, "was there a vision, my lord? Was +there a revelation? Was there a spoken message or a given sign?" + +The Bishop met the earnest eyes, full of a deep searching. He stirred +uneasily; then smiled, waving a deprecatory hand. + +"Between ourselves, my dear Hugh--though even so, it is not well to be +too explicit--between ourselves of course nothing--well--miraculous +happened, beyond the fact that our Lady most certainly sharpened the +wits of old Antony. Therefore is it, that you undoubtedly owe your +wife to those same wits, and may praise our Lady for sharpening them." + +Then it was that the Knight rose to his feet. + +"And I refuse," he said, "to owe my wife to sacrilege, fraud, and +falsehood." + +The Bishop leaned forward, gripping with both hands the arms of his +chair. His face was absolutely colourless; but his eyes, like blue +steel, seemed to transfix the Knight, who could not withdraw his regard +from those keen points of light. + +The Bishop's whisper, when at length he spoke, was more alarming than +if he had shouted. + +"Fool!" he said. "Ungrateful, unspeakable fool! What mean you by such +words?" + +"Call me fool if you will, my Lord Bishop," said the Knight, "so long +as I give not mine own conscience cause to call me knave." + +"What mean you by such words?" persisted the Bishop. "I mean, my lord, +that if the truth opened out an abyss which plunged me into hell, I +would sooner know it than attempt to enter Paradise across the flimsy +fabric of a lie." + +Now during many days, Symon of Worcester had worked incessantly, +suffered much, accomplished much, surrendered much, lost much. Perhaps +it is hardly to be wondered at, that, at this juncture, he lost his +temper. + +"By Saint Peter's keys!" he cried, "I care not, Sir Knight, whether you +drop to hell or climb to Paradise. But it is my business to see to it +that you do not disturb the peace of mind of the woman you have wed. +Therefore I warn you, that if you ride from here set upon so doing, you +will not reach your destination alive." + +The Knight smiled. The film of weariness lifted as if by magic from +his eyes, and they shone bright and serene. + +"I cannot draw my sword upon threats, my Lord Bishop; but let those +threats take human shape, and by Saint George, I shall find pleasure in +rendering a good account of them. With this same sword I once did hew +my way through a score of Saracens. Think you a dozen Worcester +cut-throats could keep me from reaching my wife?" + +Something in the tone with which the Knight spoke these final words +calmed the Bishop; something in the glance of his eye quelled the angry +Prelate. In the former he recognised a depth of love such as he had +not hitherto believed possible to Hugh d'Argent; in the latter, calm +courage, nay, a serene joy at the prospect of danger, against which his +threats and fury could but break themselves, even as stormy waves +against the granite rocks of the Cornish coast. + +The Bishop possessed that somewhat rare though valuable faculty, the +ability to recognise instantly, and instantly to accept, the +inevitable. Also when he had made a false move, he knew it, and was +preparing to counteract it almost before his opponent had perceived the +mistake. + +So rarely was the Bishop angry, that his anger now affected him +physically, with a sickening sense of faintness. With closed eyes, he +leaned his head against the back of the chair. His face, always white +and delicate, now appeared as if carved in ivory. His lips fell apart, +but no breath issued from them. Except for a slight twitching of the +eyelids, the Bishop's countenance was lifeless. + +Startled and greatly alarmed, Hugh looked around for some means whereby +he might summon help, but could see none. + +Hastening to the table, he poured wine into the Venetian goblet, +brought it back, and moistened the Bishop's lips. Then kneeling on one +knee loosed the cold fingers from their grip. + +Presently the Bishop opened his eyes--no longer points of blue steel, +but soft and dreamy like a mist of bluebells on distant hills. He +looked, with unseeing gaze, into the anxious face on a level with his +own; then turned his eyes slowly upon the ruby goblet which the Knight +had lifted from the floor and was trying to hold to his lips. + +Waving it away, the Bishop slipped the finger and thumb of his left +hand into his sash, and drew out a small gold box of exquisite +workmanship, set with emeralds. + +At this he gazed for some time, as if uncertain what to do with it; +then touched a spring and as the lid flew open, sat up and took from +the box a tiny white tablet. This he dropped into the wine. + +The Knight, watching with anxious eyes, saw it rapidly dissolve as it +sank to the bottom. + +But all consciousness of the tablet, the wine, or the kneeling Knight, +appeared to have instantly faded from the Bishop's mind. He lay back +gazing dreamily at a banner which, for no apparent reason, stirred and +wafted to and fro, as it hung from an oaken beam, high up among the +rafters. + +"Wherefore doth it waft?" murmured the Bishop, thereby adding greatly +to the Knight's alarm. "Wherefore?--Wherefore?--Wherefore doth it +waft?" + +"Drink this, Reverend Father," urged the Knight. "I implore you, my +dear lord, raise yourself and drink." + +"Methinks there must be a draught," mused the Bishop. + +"Yea, truly," said the Knight, "of your famous Italian wine. Father, I +pray you drink." + +"Among the rafters," said the Bishop. But he sat up, took the goblet +from the Knight's hand, and slowly sipped its contents. + +Almost at once, a faint tinge of colour shewed in his cheeks and on his +lips; his eyes grew bright. He smiled at the Knight, as he placed the +empty goblet on the table beside him. + +"Ah, my dear Hugh," he said, extending his hand; "it is good to find +you here. Let us continue our conversation, if you are sufficiently +rested and refreshed. I have much to say to you." + +In the reaction of a great relief, Hugh d'Argent seized the extended +hand and fervently kissed the Bishop's ring. + +It was the reverent homage of a loyal heart. Symon of Worcester, as +with a _Benedicite_ he graciously acknowledged it, suffered a slight +twinge of conscience; almost as unusual an experience as the ebullition +of temper. He took up the conversation exactly at that point to which +it best suited him to return, namely, there where he had made the first +false step. + +"Therefore, my dear Hugh, I have now given you in detail the true +history of the vision, making it clear that we owe it, alas! to earthly +devotion, rather than to Divine interposition--though indeed the one +may well be the means used by the other. It remains for us to +consider, and to decide upon, the best line to take with Mora in order +to safeguard most surely her peace of mind, and permanently to secure +her happiness." + +"I have considered, Reverend Father," said the Knight, simply; "and I +have decided." + +"What have you decided to do, my son?" questioned Symon of Worcester, +in his smoothest tones. + +"To make known to Mora, so soon as I return, the entire truth." + +The Bishop cast his eyes upward, to see whether the banner still waved. + +It did. + +Undoubtedly there must be a current of air among the rafters. + +"And what effect do you suppose such a communication will have, my son, +upon the mind of your wife?" + +"I am not called to face suppositions, Reverend Father; I am simply +confronted by facts." + +"Precisely, my son, precisely," replied the Bishop, pressing his +finger-tips together, and raising them to his lips. "Yet even while +dealing with causes, it is well sometimes to consider effects, lest +they take us wholly unawares. Do you realise that, as your wife felt +justified in leaving the Nunnery and wedding you, solely by reason of +our Lady's miraculously accorded permission, when she learns that that +permission was not miraculous, she will cease to feel justified?" + +"I greatly fear it," said the Knight. + +"Do you yourself now consider that she was not justified?" + +"Nay!" answered the Knight, with sudden vehemence. "Always, since I +learned how we had been tricked by her sister, I have held her to be +rightfully mine. Heaven knew, when she made her vows, that I was +faithful, and she therefore still my betrothed. Heaven allowed me to +discover the truth, and to find her--alive, and still unwed. To my +thinking, no Divine pronouncement was required; and when the Holy +Father's mandate arrived bringing the Church's sanction, why then +indeed naught seemed to stand between us. But Mora thought otherwise." + +A tiny gleam came into the Bishop's eyes; an exceedingly refined +edition of the look of cunning which used to peep out of old Mary +Antony's. + +"Have you ever heard tell, my son, that two negatives make an +affirmative? Think you not that, in something the same way, two +deceptions may make a truth. Mora was deceived into entering the +Convent, and deceived into leaving it; but from out that double +deception arises the great truth that she has, in the sight of Heaven, +been all along yours. The first deception negatives the second, and +the positive fact alone remains that Mora is wedded to you, is yours to +guard and shield from sorrow; and those whom God hath joined together, +let no man put asunder." + +Hugh d'Argent passed his hand across his brow. + +"I trust the matter may appear thus to Mora," he said. + +The banner still wafted, gently. The Bishop gave himself time to +ponder whence that draught could come. + +Then: "It will not so appear," he said. "My good Hugh, when your wife +learns from you that she was tricked by Mary Antony, she will go back +in mind to where she was before the spurious vision, and will feel +herself to be still Prioress of the White Ladies." + +"I have so felt her, since the knowledge reached me," agreed the Knight. + +The efficacy of the soothing drug taken by the Bishop was strained to +its utmost. + +"And what then do you propose to do, my son, with this wedded Prioress? +Do you expect her to remain with you in your home, content to fulfil +her wifely duties?" + +"I fear," said the Knight sadly, "that she will leave me." + +"And I am certain she will leave you," said the Bishop. + +"It was largely this fear for the future which brought me at once to +you, my lord. If Mora desires, as you say, to consider herself as she +was, before she was tricked into leaving the Convent, will you arrange +that she shall return, unquestioned, to her place as Prioress of the +White Ladies of Worcester?" + +"Impossible!" said the Bishop, shortly. "It is too late. We can have +no Madonna groups in Nunneries, saving those carven in marble or stone." + +To which there followed a silence, lasting many minutes. + +Then the Knight said, with effort, speaking very low: "It is _not_ too +late." + +Instantly the keen eyes were searching his face. A line of crimson +leapt to the Bishop's cheek, as if a whip-lash had been drawn across it. + +Presently: "Fool!" he whispered, but the word savoured more of pitying +tenderness than of scorn. Alas! was there ever so knightly a fool, or +so foolish a knight! "What was the trouble, boy? Didst find that +after all she loved thee not?" + +"Nay," said Hugh, quickly, "I thank God, and our Lady, that my wife +loves me as I never dreamed that such as I could be loved by one so +perfect in all ways as she. But--at first--all was so new and strange +to her. It was wonder enough to be out in the world once more, free to +come and go; to ride abroad, looking on men and things. I put her +welfare first. . . . Nay, it was easy, loving her as I loved, also +greatly desiring the highest and the best. Father, I wanted what you +spoke of as the Madonna in the Home. Therefore--'twas I who made the +plan--we agreed that, the wedding having of necessity been so hurried, +the courtship should follow, and we would count ourselves but +betrothed, even after reaching Castle Norelle, for just so many days or +weeks as she should please; until such time as she herself should tell +me she was wishful that I should take her home. But--each day of the +ride northward had been more perfect than that which went before; each +hour of each day, sweeter than the preceding. Thus it came to pass +that on the very evening of our arrival at Mora's home, after parting +for the night at the door of her chamber, we met again on the +battlements, where years before we had said farewell; and there, seated +in the moonlight, she told me the wonder of our Lady's grace in the +vision; and, afterwards, in words of perfect tenderness, the even +greater wonder of her love, and that she was ready on the morrow to +ride home with me. So we parted in a rapture so deep and pure, that +sleep came, for very joy of it. But early in the morning I was wakened +by a rapping at my door, and there stood Brother Philip, holding your +letter, Reverend Father." + +"Alas!" said the Bishop. "Would that I had known she would have +whereby to explain away thy memory of that which I had said." + +Yet the Bishop spoke perfunctorily; he spoke as one who, even while +speaking, muses upon other matters. For, within his secret soul, he +was fighting the hardest temptation yet faced by him, in the whole +history of his love for Mora. + +By rapid transition of mind, he was back on the seat in the garden of +the White Ladies' Nunnery, left there by Mary Antony while she went to +fetch the Reverend Mother. He was looking up the sunny lawn toward the +cloisters, from out the shade of the great beech tree. Presently he +saw the Prioress coming, tall and stately, her cross of office gleaming +upon her breast, her sweet eyes alight with welcome. And at once they +were talking as they always talked together--he and she--each word +alive with its very fullest meaning; each thought springing to meet the +thought which matched it. + +Next he saw himself again on that same seat, looking up the lawn to the +sunlit cloisters; realising that never again would the Prioress come to +greet him; facing for the first time the utter loneliness, the +irreparable loss to himself, of that which he had accomplished for Hugh +and Mora. + +The Bishop's immeasurable loss had been Hugh's infinite gain. And now +that Hugh seemed bent upon risking his happiness, the positions were +reversed. Would not his loss, if he persisted, be the Bishop's gain? + +How easy to meet her on the road, a few miles from Worcester; to +proceed, with much pomp and splendour, to the White Ladies' Nunnery; to +bid them throw wide the great gates; to ride in and, then and there, +reinstate Mora as Prioress, announcing that the higher service upon +which the Holy Father had sent her had been duly accomplished. Picture +the joy in the bereaved Community! But, above and beyond all, picture +what it would mean to have her there again; to see her, speak with her, +sit with her, when he would. No more loneliness of soul, no more +desolation of spirit; and Mora's conscience at rest; her mind content. + +But at that, being that it concerned the woman he loved, the true soul +of him spoke up, while his imaginative reason fell silent. + +Never again could the woman who had told Hugh d'Argent, in words of +perfect tenderness, the wonder of her love, and that she was ready on +the morrow to ride home with him, be content in the calm of the +Cloister. + +If Hugh persisted in this folly of frankness and disturbed her peace, +she might leave him. + +If the Bishop made the way easy, she might return to the Nunnery. + +But all the true life of her would be left behind with her lover. + +She would bring to the Cloister a lacerated conscience, and a broken +heart. + +Surely the two men who loved her, if they thrust away all thought of +self, and thought only of her, could save her this anguish. + +At once the Bishop resolved to do his part. + +"My dear Hugh," he said, "you did well to come to me in order to +consult over these plans before taking the irrevocable step which +should set them in motion. I, alone, could reinstate your wife as +Prioress of the White Ladies; moreover my continued presence here would +be essential, to secure her comfort in that reinstatement. And I shall +not be here. I am shortly leaving Worcester, leaving this land and +returning to my beauteous Italy. The Holy Father has been pleased to +tell me privately of high preferment shortly to be offered me. I have +to-day decided to accept it. I return to Italy a Cardinal of Holy +Church." + +Hugh rose to his feet and bowed. An immense scorn blazed in his eyes. + +"My Lord High Cardinal, I congratulate you! That a cardinal's hat +should tempt you from your cathedral, from this noble English city, +from your people who love you, from the land of your birth, may perhaps +be understood. But that, for the sake of Church preferment, however +high, you should willingly depart, leaving Mora in sorrow, Mora in +difficulty, Mora needing your help----" + +The Knight paused, amazed. The Bishop, who seldom laughed aloud, was +laughing. Yet no! The Bishop, who never wept, seemed near to weeping. + +The scales fell from Hugh's eyes, even before the Bishop spoke. He +realised a love as great as his own. + +"Ah, foolish lad!" said Symon of Worcester; "bent upon thine own ways, +and easy to deceive. When I spoke of going, I said it for her sake, +hoping the prospect of my absence might hold you from your purpose. +But now truly am I convinced that you are bent upon risking your own +happiness, and imperilling hers. Therefore will I devise some means of +detaining the Holy Father's messenger, so that my answer need not be +given until two weeks are past. You will reach Mora, at longest, five +days from this. As soon as she decides what she will do, send word to +me by a fast messenger. Should she elect to return to the Nunnery, +state when and where, upon the road, I am to meet her. Her habit as +Prioress, and her cross of office, I have here. The former you +returned to me, from the hostel; the latter I found in her cell. You +must take them with you. If she returns, she must return fully robed. +If, on the other hand, she should decide to remain with you; if--as may +God grant--she is content, and requires no help from me, send me this +news by messenger. I can then betake myself to that fair land to which +I first went for her sake; left for her sake, and to which I shall most +gladly return, if her need of me is over. The time I state allows a +four days' margin for vacillation." + +"My lord," said the Knight, humbly, "forgive the wrong I did you. +Forgive that I took in earnest that which you meant in jest; or rather, +I do truly think, that which you hoped would turn me from my purpose. +Alas, I would indeed that I might rightly be turned therefrom." + +"Hugh," said the Bishop, eagerly, "you deemed her justified in coming +to you, apart from any vision." + +"True," replied the Knight, "but I cannot feel justified in taking her, +and all she would give me, knowing she gives it, with a free heart, +because of her faith in the vision. Moments of purest joy would be +clouded by my secret shame. Being aware of the deception, I too should +be deceiving her; I, whom she loves and trusts." + +"To withhold a truth is not to lie," asserted the Bishop. + +"My lord," replied Hugh d'Argent, rising to his feet and standing +erect, his hand upon his sword, "I cannot reason of these things; I +cannot define the difference between withholding a truth and stating a +lie. But when mine Honour sounds a challenge, I hear; and I ride out +to do battle--against myself, if need be; or, if it must so be, against +another. On Eastern battle-fields, in Holy War, I won a name known +throughout all the camp, known also to the enemy: 'The Knight of the +Silver Shield.' Our name is Argent, and we ever have the right to +carry a pure silver shield. But I won the name because my shield was +always bright; because not once in battle did it fall in the dust; +because it never was allowed to tarnish. So bright it was, that as I +rode, bearing it before me, reflecting the rays of the sun, it dazzled +and blinded the enemy. My lord, I cannot tarnish my silver shield by +conniving at falsehood, or keeping silence when mine Honour bids me +speak." + +Looking at the gallant figure before him, the Bishop's soul responded +to the noble words, and he longed to praise them and applaud. But he +thought of Mora's peace of mind, Mora's awakened heart and dawning +happiness. For her sake he must make a final stand. + +"My dear Hugh," he said, "all this talk, of a silver shield and of the +challenge of honour, is well enough for the warrior on the +battle-field. But the lover has to learn the harder lesson; he has to +give up Self, even the Self which holds honour dear. When you polished +your silver shield, keeping it so bright, what saw you reflected +therein? Why, your own proud face. Even so, now, you fear the +faintest tarnish on your sense of honour, but you will keep that silver +shield bright at Mora's expense, riding on proudly alone in your glory, +reflecting the sun, dazzling all beholders, while your wife who loved +and trusted you, Mora, who told you the sweet wonder of her love in +words of deepest tenderness, lies desolate in the dark, with a +shattered life, and a broken heart. Hugh, I would have you think of +the treasure of her golden heart, rather than of the brightness of your +own selfish, silver shield." + +"Selfish!" cried the Knight. "Selfish! Is it selfish to hold honour +dear? Is it selfish to be ashamed to deceive the woman one loves? +Have I, who have so striven in all things to put her welfare first, +been selfish towards my wife in this hour of crisis?" + +He sat down, heavily; leaned his elbows on his knees, and dropped his +head into his hands. + +This attitude of utter dejection filled the Bishop with thankfulness. +Was he, in the very moment when he had given up all hope of winning, +about to prove the victor? + +"Perilously selfish, my dear Hugh," he said. "But, thank Heaven, no +harm has yet been done. Listen to me and I will shew you how you may +keep your honour safely untarnished, yet withhold from Mora all +knowledge which might cause her disquietude of mind, thus securing her +happiness and your own." + + + + +CHAPTER LI + +TWO NOBLE HEARTS GO DIFFERENT WAYS + +On that same afternoon, an hour before sunset, the two men who loved +Mora faced one another, for a final farewell. + +The Bishop had said all he had to say. Without interruption, his words +had flowed steadily on; eloquent, logical, conciliatory, persuasive. + +At first he had talked to the top of the Knight's head, to the clenched +hands, to the arms outstretched across the table. + +He had wondered what thoughts were at work beneath the crisp thickness +of that dark hair. He had wished the rigid attitude of tense despair +might somewhat relax. He had used the most telling inflexions of his +persuasive voice in order to bring this about, but without success. He +had wished the Knight would break silence, even to rage or to disagree. +To that end he had cast as a bait an intentional slip in a statement of +facts; and, later on, a palpable false deduction in a weighty argument. +But the Knight had not risen to either. + +After a while Hugh had lifted his head, and leaned back in his chair; +fixing his eyes, in his turn, upon the banner hanging from the rafters. + +It had ceased to wave gently to and fro. Probably Father Benedict had +closed the trap-door, concealed behind an upright beam, through which +he was wont to peer down into the banqueting hall below, in order to +satisfy himself that all was well and that the Reverend Father needed +naught. + +Let it be here recorded that this exceeding vigilance, on the part of +Father Benedict, met with but scant reward. For, having deduced a +draught, and its reason, from the slight stirring of the banner during +his conversation with the Knight, the Bishop gave certain secret +instructions to Brother Philip, with the result that the next time the +Chaplain peered down upon a private conference he found, at its close, +the door by which he had gained access to the roof chamber barred on +the outside, and, forcing it, he was in no better case, the ladder +which connected it with another disused chamber below having been +removed. Thereafter Father Benedict watched the Bishop, and his guest, +partake of three meals, before he could bring himself to make known his +predicament, and beg to be released. And, even then, the Bishop was +amazingly slow in locating the place from which issued the agitated +voice imploring assistance. Several brethren were summoned to help; so +that quite a little crowd stood gazing up at the pallid countenance of +Father Benedict, framed in the trap-door as, lying upon his very empty +stomach, he called down replies to the Bishop's questions; vainly +striving to give a plausible reason for the peculiar situation in which +he was discovered. + +But, to return to the interview which brought about this later +development. + +The Knight had lifted his head, yet had still remained silent and +impassive. + +Where at length the Bishop had paused, awaiting comment of some kind, +Hugh d'Argent, removing his eyes from the rafters, had asked: + +"When, my lord, do you propose to meet the Prioress, should my wife, +upon learning the truth, elect to return to the Nunnery?" + +Thus had the Bishop been forced to realise that the flow of his +eloquence, the ripple of his humour, the strong current of his +arguments, the gentle lapping of his tenderness, the breakers of his +threats, and the thunderous billows of his denunciations, had alike +expended themselves against the rock of the Knight's unshakable +resolve, and left it standing. + +Whereupon, in silence, the Bishop had risen, and had led the way to the +library. + +Here they now faced one another in final farewell. + +Each knew that his loss would be the other's gain; his gain, the +other's irreparable loss. + +Yet, at that moment, each thought only of Mora's peace of soul. They +did but differ in their conception of the way in which that peace might +best be preserved and maintained. + +"I must take her cross of office, my Lord Bishop," said the Knight, +with decision. + +The Bishop went to a chest, standing in one corner of the room, opened +it, and bent over it, his back to Hugh d'Argent; then, slipping his +hand into his bosom drew therefrom a cross of gold gleaming with +emeralds. Shutting down the massive lid of the chest, he returned, and +placed the cross in the outstretched hand of the Knight. + +"I entrust it to you, my dear Hugh, only on one condition: that it +shall without fail return to me in two weeks' time. Should you decide +to tell your wife the true history of the vision, I must see this cross +of office upon her breast when I meet her riding back to Worcester, +once more Prioress of the White Ladies. If, on the other hand, wiser +counsel prevails, and you decide not to tell her, you must, by swift +messenger, at once return it to me in a sealed packet." + +"I shall tell her," said the Knight. "If she elects to leave me, you +will see the cross upon her breast, my lord. If she elects to stay, +you shall receive it by swift messenger." + +"She will leave you," said the Bishop. "If you tell her, she will +leave you." + +"She loves me," said the Knight; and he said it with a tender +reverence, and such a look upon his face, as a man wears when he speaks +of his faith in God. + +"Hugh," said the Bishop, sadly; "Hugh, my dear lad, you have but little +experience of the heart of a nun. The more she loves, the more +determined will she be to leave you, if you yourself give her reason to +think her love unjustified. The very thing which is now a cause of +bliss will instantly become a cause for fear. She will flee from joy, +as all pure hearts flee from sin; because, owing to your folly, her joy +will seem to her to be sinful. My son!"--the Bishop stretched out his +hands; a passion of appeal was in his voice--"God and Holy Church have +given you your wife. If you tell her this thing, you will lose her." + +"I must take with me the dress she left behind," said the Knight, "so +that, should she decide to go, she may ride back fully robed." + +The Bishop went again to the chest, raised the heavy lid, and lifted +out the white garments rolled together. At sight of them both men fell +silent, as in presence of the dead; and the Knight felt his heart grow +cold with apprehension, as he received them from the Bishop's hand. + +They passed together through the doorway leading to the river terrace, +and so down the lawn, under the arch, and into the courtyard. + +There Brother Philip waited, mounted, while another lay-brother held +the Knight's horse. + +As they came in sight of the horses: "Philip will see you a few miles +on your way," said the Bishop. + +"I thank you, Father," replied the Knight, "but it is not needful. The +good Brother has had many long days in the saddle." + +"It is most needful," said the Bishop. "Let Philip ride beside you +until you have passed through the Monk's Wood, and are well on to the +open ground beyond. There, if you will, you may bid him turn back." + +"Is this to ensure the safety of the Worcester cut-throats, my lord?" + +The Bishop smiled. + +"Possibly," he said. "Saracens may be hewn in pieces, with impunity. +But we cannot allow our Worcester lads rashly to ride to such a fate. +Also, my dear Hugh, you carry things of so great value that we must not +risk a scuffle. These are troublous times, and dangers lurk around the +city. Three miles from here you may dismiss Brother Philip, and ride +forward alone." + +Arrived at the horses, the Knight put away safely, that which he +carried, into his saddle-bag. Then he dropped on one knee, baring his +head for the Bishop's blessing. + +Symon of Worcester gave it. Then, bending, added in low tones: "And +may God and the blessèd Saints aid thee to a right judgment in all +things." + +"Amen," said Hugh d'Argent, and kissed the Bishop's ring. + +Then he mounted; and, without one backward look, rode out through the +Palace gates, closely followed by Brother Philip. + + + + +CHAPTER LII + +THE ANGEL-CHILD + +Symon of Worcester turned, walked slowly across the courtyard, made his +way to the parapet above the river, and stood long, with bent head, +watching the rapid flow of the Severn. + +His eyes rested upon the very place where the Knight had cleft the +water in his impulsive dive after the white stone, made, by the +Bishop's own words, to stand to him for his chances of winning the +Prioress. + +Yet should that sudden leap be described as "impulsive"? The Bishop, +ever a stickler for accuracy in descriptive words, considered this. + +Nay, not so much "impulsive" as "prompt." Even as the warrior who, +having tested his trusty sword, knowing its readiness in the scabbard +and the strength of his own right arm, draws, on the instant, when +surprised by the enemy. Prompt, not impulsive. A swift action, based +upon an assured certainty of power, and a steadfast determination, of +long standing, to win at all costs. + +The Bishop's hand rested upon the parapet. The stone in his ring held +neither blue nor purple lights. Its colour had paled and faded. It +shone--as the Prioress had once seen it shine--like a large tear-drop +on the Bishop's finger. + +Deep dejection was in the Bishop's attitude. With the riding away of +the Knight, something strong and vital seemed to have passed out of his +life. + +A sense of failure oppressed him. He had not succeeded in bending Hugh +d'Argent to his will, neither had he risen to a frank appreciation of +the loyal chivalry which would not enjoy happiness at the expense of +honour. + +While his mind refused to accept the Knight's code, his soul yearned to +rise up and acclaim it. + +Yet, working to the last for Mora's peace of mind, he had maintained +his tone of scornful disapproval. + +He would never again have the chance to cry "Hail!" to the Silver +Shield. The deft fingers of his sophistry had striven to loosen the +Knight's shining armour. How far they had succeeded, the Bishop could +not tell. But, as he watched the swiftly moving river, he found +himself wishing that his task had been to strengthen, rather than to +weaken; to gird up and brace, rather than subtly to unbuckle and +disarm. Yet by so doing, would he not have been ensuring his own +happiness, bringing back the joy of life to his own heart, at the +expense of the two whom he had given to be each other's in the Name of +the Divine Trinity? + +If Hugh persisted in his folly, he would lose his bride, yet would the +Bishop meet and reinstate the Prioress with a clear conscience, having +striven to the very last to dissuade the Knight. + +If, on the other hand, Hugh, growing wiser as he rode northward, +decided to keep silence, why then the sunny land he loved, and the +Cardinal's office, for Symon, Bishop of Worcester. + +But meanwhile, two weeks of uncertainty; and the Bishop could not abide +uncertainty. + +He turned from the river and began to pace the lawn slowly from end to +end, his head bent, his hands clasped behind him. + +Each time he reached the wall between the garden and the courtyard, he +found himself confronted by two rose trees, a red and a white, climbing +so near together that their branches intertwined, crimson blooms +resting their rich petals against the fragrant fairness of their white +neighbours. + +Presently these roses became symbolic to the Bishop--the white, of the +fair presence of the Prioress; the red, of the high honour awaiting him +in Rome. + +He was seized by the whimsical idea that, were he to close his eyes, +beseech the blessèd Saint Joseph to guide his hand, take three steps +forward, and pluck the first blossom his fingers touched, he might put +an end to this tiresome uncertainty. + +But he smiled at the childishness of the fancy. It savoured of the old +lay-sister, Mary Antony, playing with her peas and confiding in her +robin. Moreover the Bishop never did anything with his eyes shut. He +would have slept with them open, had not Nature decreed otherwise. + +Once again he paced the full length of the lawn, his hands clasped +behind his back, his eyes looking beyond the river to the distant hills. + +"Will she come, or shall I go? Shall I depart, or will she return?" + +As he turned at the parapet, a voice seemed to whisper with insistence: +"A white rose for her pure presence in the Cloister. A red rose for +Rome." + +And, as he reached the wall again, the bright eyes of a little maiden +peeped at him through the archway. + +He stood quite still and looked at her. + +Never had he seen so lovely an elf. A sunbeam had made its home in +each lock of her tumbled hair. Her little brown face had the soft +bloom of a ripe nectarine; her eyes, the timid glance of a startled +fawn. + +The Bishop smiled. + +The bright eyes lost their look of fear, and sparkled responsive. + +The Bishop beckoned. + +The little maid stole through the archway; then, gaining courage flew +over the turf, and stood between the Bishop and the roses. + +"How camest thou here, my little one?" questioned Symon of Worcester, +in his softest tones. + +"The big gate stood open, sir, and I ran in." + +"And what is thy name, my little maid?" + +"Verity," whispered the child, shyly, blushing to speak her own name. + +"Ah," murmured the Bishop. "Hath Truth indeed come in at my open gate?" + +Then, smiling into the little face lifted so confidingly to his: "Dost +thou want something, Angel-child, that I can give thee?" + +One little bare, brown foot rubbed itself nervously over the other. +Five little brown, bare toes wriggled themselves into the grass. + +"Be not afraid," said the Bishop. "Ask what thou wilt and I will give +it thee, unto the half of my kingdom. Yea, even the head of Father +Benedict, in a charger." + +"A rose," said the child, eagerly ignoring the proffered head of Father +Benedict and half the Bishop's kingdom. "A rose from that lovely tree! +Their pretty faces looked at me over the wall." + +The Bishop's lips still smiled; but his eyes, of a sudden, grew grave. + +"Blessèd Saint Joseph!" he murmured beneath his breath, and crossed +himself. + +Then, bending over the little maid, he laid his hand upon the tumbled +curls. + +"Truly, my little Verity," he said, "thou shalt gather thyself a rose, +and thou shall gather one for me. I leave thee free to make thy +choice. See! I clasp my hands behind me--thus. Then I shall turn and +walk slowly up the lawn. So soon as my back is turned, pluck thou two +roses. Fly with those little brown feet after me, and place one of the +roses--whichever thou wilt--in my hands. Then run home thyself, with +the other. Farewell, little Angel-child. May the blessing of +Bethlehem's purple hills be ever thine." + +The Bishop turned and paced slowly up the lawn, head bent, hands +clasped behind him. + +The small bare feet made no sound on the turf. But before the Bishop +was half-way across the lawn, the stem of a rose was thrust between his +fingers. As they closed over it, a gay ripple of laughter sounded +behind him, fading fleetly into the distance. + +The Angel-child had made her choice, and had flown with her own rose, +leaving the Bishop's destiny in his clasped hands. + +Without pausing or looking round, he paced onward, gazing for a while +at the sparkling water; then beyond it, to the distant woods through +which the Knight was riding. + +Presently he turned, still with his hands behind him, passed to the +garden-door, left standing wide, and entered the library. + +But not until he kneeled before the shrine of Saint Joseph did he move +forward his right hand, and bring into view the rose placed therein by +Verity. + +It was many years since the Bishop had wept. He had not thought ever +to weep again. Yet, at sight of the rose, plucked for him by the +Angel-child, something gave way within him, and he fell to weeping +helplessly. + +Saint Joseph, bearded and stalwart, seemed to look down with compassion +upon the bowed head with its abundant silvery hair. + +Even thus, it may be, had he himself wept when, after his time of hard +mental torture, the Angel of the Lord appeared unto him, saying: "Fear +not." + +After a while the Bishop left the shrine, went over to the deed chest, +and laid the rose beside the white stone. + +"There, my dear Hugh," he murmured; "thy stone, and my rose. Truly +they look well together. Each represents the triumph of firm resolve. +Yet mine will shortly fade and pass away; while thine, dear lad, will +abide forever." + +The Bishop seated himself at his table, and sounded the silver gong. + +A lay-brother appeared. + +"_Benedicite_," said the Bishop. "Request Fra Andrea Filippo at once +to come hither. I must have speech with him, without delay." + + + + +CHAPTER LIII + +ON THE HOLY MOUNT + +On the ninth day since Hugh's departure, the day when fast riding might +make his return possible before nightfall, Mora rose early. + +At the hour when she had been wont to ring the Convent bell, she was +walking swiftly over the moors and climbing the heather-clad hills. + +She had remembered a little chapel, high up in the mountains, where +dwelt a holy Hermit, held in high repute for his saintliness of life, +his wisdom in the giving of spiritual counsel, and his skill in +ministering to the sick. + +It had come to Mora, as she prayed and pondered during the night, that +if she could make full confession to this holy man, he might be able to +throw some clear beam of light upon the dark tangle of her perplexity. + +This hope was strongly with her as she walked. + +"Lighten my darkness! Lead me in a plain path!" was the cry of her +bewildered soul. + +It seemed to her that she had two issues to consider. First: the +question as to whether Hugh, guided by the Bishop, would keep silence; +thus making himself a party to her deception. Secondly: the position +in which she was placed by the fact that she had left the Convent, +owing to that deception. But, for the moment the first issue was so +infinitely the greater, that she found herself thrusting the second +into the background, allowing herself to be conscious of it merely as a +question to be faced later on, when the all-important point of Hugh's +attitude in the matter should be settled. + +She walked forward swiftly, one idea alone possessing her: that she +hastened toward possible help. + +She did not slacken speed until the chapel came into view, its grey +walls glistening in the morning light, a clump of feathery rowan trees +beside it; at its back a mighty rock, flung down in bygone centuries +from the mountain which towered behind it. From a deep cleft in this +rock sprang a young oak, dipping its fresh green to the roof of the +chapel; all around it, in every crack and cranny, parsley fern, +hare-bells on delicate, swaying stalks, foxgloves tall and straight, +and glorious bunches of purpling heather. + +Nearby was the humble dwelling of the Hermit. The door stood ajar. + +Softly approaching, Mora lifted her hand, and knocked. + +No voice replied. + +The sound of her knock did but make evident the presence of a vast +solitude. + +Pushing open the door, she ventured to look within. + +The Hermit's cell was empty. The remains of a frugal meal lay upon the +rough wooden table. Also an open breviary, much thumbed and worn. At +the further end of the table, a little pile of medicinal herbs heaped +as if shaken hastily from the wallet which lay beside them. Probably +the holy man, even while at an early hour he broke his fast, had been +called to some sick bedside. + +Mora turned from the doorway and, shading her eyes, scanned the +landscape. + +At first she could see only sheep, slowly moving from tuft to tuft as +they nibbled the short grass; or goats, jumping from rock to rock, and +suddenly disappearing in the high bracken. + +But soon, on a distant ridge, she perceived two figures and presently +made out the brown robe and hood of the Hermit, and a little, barefoot +peasant boy, running to keep up with his rapid stride. They vanished +over the crest of the hill, and Mora--alone in this wild +solitude--realised that many hours might elapse ere the Hermit returned. + +This check to the fulfilment of her purpose, instead of disappointing +her, flooded her heart with a sudden sense of relief. + +The interior of the Hermit's cell had recalled, so vividly, the +austerities of the cloistered life. + +The Hermit's point of view would probably have been so completely from +within. + +It would have been impossible that he should comprehend the wonder--the +growing wonder--of these days, since she and Hugh rode away from +Warwick, culminating in that exquisite hour on the battlements when she +had told him of the vision, whispered her full surrender, and yet +he--faithful and patient even then--had touched her only with his +glowing eyes. + +How could a holy Hermit, dwelling alone among great silent hills, +realise the tremendous force of a strong mutual love, the glow, the +gladness, the deep, sweet unrest, the call of soul to soul, the throb +of hearts, filling the purple night with the soft beat of angels' wings? + +How could a holy Hermit understand the shock to Hugh, how fathom the +maddening torment of suspense, the abyss of hope deferred, into which +the Bishop's letter must have plunged him, coming so soon after he had +said: "I ask no higher joy, than to watch the breaking of the day which +gives thee to my home"? But the breaking of the day had brought the +stern necessity which took him from her. + +Yet why? How much was in that second letter? Was it less detailed +than the first? Had Hugh ridden south to learn the entire truth? Or +had he ridden south to arrange with the Bishop for her complete and +permanent deception? + +Standing on this mountain plateau--the morning breeze blowing about +her, the sun mounting triumphant in the heavens "as a bridegroom coming +out of his chamber," and all around the scent of heather, the hum of +bees, the joyful trill of the soaring lark; her own body bounding with +life after the swift climb--it seemed to Mora impossible that Hugh +should withstand the temptation to hold to his happiness, at all costs. +And how could a saintly Hermit judge him as mercifully as she--the +woman who loved him--knew that he should be judged? + +She felt thankful for the good man's absence, yet baffled in her need +for help. + +Looking back toward the humble dwelling, she perceived a rough device +of carved lettering on a beam over the doorway. She made out Latin +words, and going nearer she, who for years had worked so continuously +at copying and translating, read them without difficulty. + +"WITH HIM, IN THE HOLY MOUNT," was inscribed across the doorway of the +Hermit's dwelling. + +Mora repeated the words, and again repeated them; and, as she did so +there stole over her the sense of an Unseen Presence in this solitude. + +"With Him, in the Holy Mount." + +She turned to the chapel. Over that doorway also were carven letters. +Moving closer, she looked up and read them. + +"AND WHEN THEY HAD LIFTED UP THEIR EYES, THEY SAW NO MAN, SAVE JESUS +ONLY." + +Mora opened the door and entered the tiny chapel. At first, coming in +from the outer brightness it seemed dark; but she had left the door +standing wide, and light poured in behind her. + +Then she lifted up her eyes and saw; and seeing, understood the meaning +of the legend above the entrance. + +In that little chapel was one Figure, and one Figure only. No pictured +saints were there. No image of our Lady. No crucifix hung on the wall. + +But, in a niche above the altar, stood a wondrous figure of the Christ; +not dying, not dead; not glorified and ascending; but the Christ as +very man, walking the earth in human form, yet calmly, unmistakably, +triumphantly Divine. The marble form was carved by the same hand as +the Madonna which the Bishop had brought from Rome, and placed in +Mora's cell at the Convent. It had been his gift to his old friend the +Hermit. At first sight of it, Mora remembered hearing it described by +the Bishop himself. Then the beauty of the sculpture took hold upon +her, and she forgot all else. + +It lived! The face wore a look of searching tenderness; on the lips, a +smile of loving comprehension; in the out-stretched hands, an attitude +of infinite compassion. + +Mora fell upon her knees. Instinctively she recalled the earnest +injunction of Father Gervaise to his penitents that, when kneeling +before the crucifix, they should repeat: "He ever liveth to make +intercession for us." And, strangely enough, there came back with this +the remembrance of the wild voice of Mary Seraphine, shrieking, when +told to contemplate the dying Redeemer: "I want life--not death!" + +Here was Life indeed! Here was the Saviour of the world, in mortal +guise, the Word made manifest. + +Mora lifted her eyes and read the words, illumined in letters of gold +around the arch of the niche, gleaming in the sunlight above the +patient head of the Man Divine. + +"IN ALL POINTS TEMPTED LIKE AS WE ARE, YET WITHOUT SIN." + +And higher still, above the arch: + +"A GREAT HIGH PRIEST. . . . PASSED INTO THE HEAVENS." + +In the silence and stillness of that utter solitude, she who had so +lately been Prioress of the White Ladies kneeled and worshipped. + +The Unseen Presence drew nearer. + +She closed her eyes to the sculptured form. + +The touch of her Lord was upon her heart. + +She had prayed in her cell that His piercèd feet nailed to the wood +might become as dear to her as the Baby feet on the Virgin Mother's +knees. In her anguish of cloistered sorrow, that prayer had been +granted. + +But out in the world of living men and things, she needed more. She +needed Feet that walked and moved, passed in and out of house and home; +paused by the hearth; went to the wedding feast; moved to the fresh +closed grave; Feet that had sampled the dust of life's highway; Feet +that had trod rough places, yet never tripped nor stumbled. + +"Tempted in all points." . . . Then here was One Who could understand +Hugh's hard temptation; Who could pity, if Hugh fell. Here was One Who +would comprehend the breaking of her poor human heart if, loving Hugh +as she now loved, she yet must leave him. + +"A great High Priest." . . . What need of any other priest, while +"with Him in the Holy Mount"? Passed into the heavens, yet ever living +to make intercession for us. + +Deep peace stole into her heart, as she knelt in absorbed communion in +this sacred place, where, for the first time, in her religious life, +she had found herself with "Jesus only." + +"Ah, blessèd Lord!" she cried at length, "Thou Who knowest the heart of +a man, and canst divine the heart of a woman, grant unto me this day a +true vision; a vision which shall make clear to me, without any +possibility of doubt, what is Thy will for me." + + + + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER LVII + +"I CHOOSE TO RIDE ALONE" + +Mora escaped from the restraining arms of old Debbie, and appeared at +the top of the steps leading down to the courtyard. + +Framed in the doorway, in her green riding dress, she stood for a +moment, surveying the scene before her. + +The two men bound for Worcester, bearing her packet to the Bishop, had +just ridden out at the great gates. Through the gates, still standing +open, she could see them guiding their horses down the hill and taking +the southward road. + +The porter was attempting to close the gates, but a stable lad hindered +him, pointing to Icon, whom a groom was leading, ready saddled, to and +fro, before the door; Icon, with proudly arched neck and swishing tail, +as conscious of his snowy beauty as when, in the river meadow at +Worcester, he found himself the centre of an admiring crowd of nuns. + +At sight of his flowing mane, powerful forequarters, and high stepping +action, Mora was irresistibly reminded of the scene in the courtyard at +the Nunnery, when the Bishop rode in on his favourite white palfrey, +she standing at the top of the steps to receive him. Never again would +she stand so, to receive the Bishop; never again would Icon proudly +carry him. The Bishop had given her to Hugh and Icon to her. A faint +sense of compunction stirred within her. Perhaps at that moment she +came near to realising something of what both gifts had cost the Bishop. + +Bending her head, she looked across the courtyard and under the +gateway. The messengers were riding fast. Even as she looked, they +disappeared into the pine wood. + +Her letter to Symon was well on its way. She remembered with comfort +and gladness certain things she had written in that letter. + +Then--as the pine wood swallowed the messengers--with a joyous bound of +reaction her whole mind turned to Hugh. + +Three steps below her, a page waited, holding a dagger which she had +been wont to wear, when riding in the forests. She had sent it out to +be sharpened. She took it from him, tested its point, slipped it into +the sheath at her belt, smiled upon the boy, descended the remaining +steps, and laid her hand upon Icon's mane. + +Then it was that Mistress Deborah's agitated signals from within the +doorway, took effect upon old Zachary. + +Coming forward, he bared his white head, and adventured a humble +expostulation. + +"My lady," he said, "it is not safe nor well that you should ride +alone. A few moments' delay will suffice Beaumont to saddle a horse +and be ready to attend you." + +She mounted before she made answer. + +She kept her imperious temper well in hand, striving to remember that +to old Debbie and Zachary she seemed but the child they had loved and +watched over from infancy, of a sudden grown older. They had not known +the Prioress of the White Ladies. + +Bending from the saddle, her hand on Icon's mane: + +"I go to my husband, Zachary," she said, "and I choose to ride alone." + +Then gathering up the reins, she turned Icon toward the gates and so +rode across the courtyard, looking, neither back to where Mistress +Deborah alternately wrung her hands and shook her fist at Zachary; nor +to right or left, where Mark and Beaumont, standing with doffed caps +waited till she should have passed, to yield to the full enjoyment of +Mistress Deborah's gestures, and of Master Zachary's discomfiture. + +She rode forth looking straight before her, over the pointed ears of +Icon. She was riding to Hugh, and, they who stood by must not see the +love-light in her eyes. + +Grave and serene, her head held high, she paced the white palfrey +through the gates. And if the porter marked a wondrous shining in her +eyes--well, the sun began to slant its rays, and she rode straight +toward the west. + +Zachary mounted the steps and hastened across the hall, followed by +Deborah. + +Mark thereupon enacted Mistress Deborah, and Beaumont, Master Zachary; +while the page sat down on the steps to laugh. + +The porter clanged to the gates. + +The day's work was done. + + + + +CHAPTER LVIII + +THE WARRIOR HEART + +As Mora turned off the highway, and pressed Icon deep into the glades, +she cried over and over aloud, for there was none to hear: "I go to my +husband, and I choose to ride alone." + +How wondrous it seemed, this going to him; a second giving, a deeper +surrender, a fuller yielding. + +When she went to him in the crypt, her body had recoiled, her spirit +had shrunk, shamed, humbled, and unwilling. Her mind alone, governed +by her will, had driven her along the path of her resolve, holding her +upon the stretcher, until too late to cry out or to return. + +Now--how different! Free as air, alone, uncoerced, even unexpected, +she left her own home, and her own people, to ride, unattended, +straight to the arms of the man who had won her. + +A wild joy seized and shook her. + +The soft, mysterious glades, beneath vast, leafy domes, seemed +enchanted ground. The hoofs of Icon thudded softly on the moss. The +stillness seemed alive with whispering life. Rabbits sat still to +peep, then whisked and ran. Great birds rose suddenly, on whirring +wings. Tiny birds, fearless, stayed on their twigs and sang. + +There was scurrying among ferns and rocks, telling of bright, watchful +eyes; of life, safeguarding itself, unseen. Yet all these varied +sounds, Nature disturbed in the shady haunts which were her rightful +home, did but emphasize the vast stillness, the utter solitude, the +complete remoteness from human dwelling-place. + +Shining through parted boughs and slowly moving leaves, the sunlight +fell, in golden bars or shifting yellow patches, on the glade. + +The joy which thrilled his rider, seemed to communicate itself to Icon. +He galloped over the moss on the broad rides, and would scarce be +restrained when passing between great rocks, or turning sharply into an +unseen way. + +Mora rode as in a dream. "I ride to my husband," she cried to the +forest, "and I choose to ride alone!" And once she sang, in an +irrepressible burst of praise: "_Jesu dulsis memoria_!" Then, when she +fell silent: "_Dulsis_! _Dulsis_!" carolled unseen choristers in leafy +clerestories overhead. And each time Icon heard her voice, he laid +back his ears and cantered faster. + +Not far from her journey's end, the way lay through a deep gorge in the +very heart of the pine wood. + +Here the sun's rays could scarce penetrate; the path became rough and +slippery; a hidden stream oozed up between loose stones. + +Icon picked his way, with care; yet even so, he slipped, recovered, and +slipped again. + +With a sudden rush, some wild animal, huge and heavy, went crashing +through the undergrowth. + +Stealthy footsteps seemed to keep pace with Icon's, high up among the +tree trunks. + +Yet this valley of the shadow held no terrors for the woman whose heart +was now so blissfully at rest. + +Having left behind forever the dark vale of doubt and indecision, she +mounted triumphant on the wings of trust and certainty. + +"I ride to my husband," she whispered, as if the words were a charm +which might bring the sense of his strong arms about her, "and I choose +to ride alone." + +With a gentle caress on the arch of his snowy neck, and with soft words +in the anxiously pointing ears, she encouraged the palfrey to go +forward. + +At length they rounded a great grey rock jutting out into the path, and +the upward slope of a mossy glade came into view. + +With a whinny of pleasure, Icon laid back his ears and broke into a +swift canter. + +Up the glade they flew; out into the sunshine; clear into the open. + +Here was the moor! Here the highroad, at last! And there in the +distance, the grey walls of Hugh's castle; the portals of home. + + * * * * * * + +It was the Knight's trusted foster-brother, Martin Goodfellow, amazed, +yet smiling a glad welcome, who held Icon's bridle as Mora dismounted +in the courtyard. + +She fondled the palfrey's nose, laying her cheek against his neck. For +the moment it became imperative that she should hide her happy eyes +even from this faithful fellow, in whom she had learned to place entire +confidence. + +"Icon, brave and beautiful!" she whispered. "Thou hast carried me here +where I longed to be. Thy feet were well-nigh as swift as my desire." + +Then she turned, speaking quickly and low. + +"Martin, where is my husband? Where shall I find Sir Hugh?" + +"My lady," said Martin, "I saw him last in the armoury." + +"The armoury?" she questioned. + +"A chamber opening out of the great hall, facing toward the west, with +steps leading down into the garden." + +"Even as my chamber?" + +"The armoury door faces the door of your chamber, Countess. The width +of the hall lies between." + +"Can I reach my chamber without entering the hall, or passing the +armoury windows? I would rid me of my travel-stains, before I make my +presence known to Sir Hugh." + +"Pass round to the right, and through the buttery; then you reach the +garden and the steps up to your chamber from the side beyond the +armoury." + +"Good. Tell no one of my presence, Martin. I have here the key of my +chamber. Has Sir Hugh asked for it?" + +"Nay, my lady; nor guessed how often we rode hither. We reached the +castle scarce two hours ago. The Knight bathed, and changed his dusty +garments; then dined alone. After which he went into the armoury." + +"When did you see him last, Martin?" + +"Two minutes ago, lady. I come this moment from the hall." + +"What was he doing, Martin?" + +Martin Goodfellow hesitated. He knew something of love, and as much as +an honest man may know, of women. He shrewdly suspicioned what she +would expect the Knight to be doing. He was sorely tempted to give a +fancy picture of Sir Hugh d'Argent, in his lovelorn loneliness. + +He looked into the clear eyes bent upon him; glanced at the firm hand, +arrested for a moment in its caress of Icon's neck; then decided that, +though the truth might probably be unexpected, a lie would most +certainly be unwise. + +"Truth to tell," said Martin Goodfellow, "Sir Hugh was testing his +armour, and sharpening his battle-axe." + + +As Mora passed into the dim coolness of the buttery, she was conscious +of a very definite sense of surprise. She had pictured Hugh in his +lonely home, nursing his hungry heart, beside his desolate hearth. She +had seen herself coming softly behind him, laying a tender hand upon +those bowed shoulders; then, as he lifted eyes in which dull despair +would quickly give place to wondering joy, saying: "Hugh, I am come +home." + +But now, as she passed through the buttery, Mora had to realise that +yet again she had failed to understand the man she loved. + +It was not in him, to sit and brood over lost happiness. If she failed +him finally, he was ready in this, as in all else, to play the man, +going straight on, unhindered by vain regret. + +Once again her pride in him, in that he was finer than her own +conceptions, quickened her love, even while it humbled her, in her own +estimation, to a place at his feet. + +A glory of joy was on her face as, making her way through to the +terrace, now bathed in sunset light, she passed up to the chamber she +had prepared during Hugh's absence. + +All was as she had left it. + +Fastening the door by which she had entered from the garden, she +noiselessly opened that which gave on to the great hall. + +The hall was dark and deserted, but the door into the armoury stood +ajar. + +A shaft of golden sunshine streamed through the half-open door. + +She heard the clang of armour. She could not see Hugh, but even as she +stood in her own doorway, looking across the hall, she heard his voice, +singing, as he worked, snatches of the latest song of Blondel, the +King's Minstrel. + +With beating heart, Mora turned and closed her door, making it fast +within. + + + + +CHAPTER LIX + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER LX + +THE CONVENT BELL + +The slanting rays of the setting sun lay, in golden bands, upon the +flags of the Convent cloister. + +Complete silence reigned. + +The White Ladies had returned from Vespers. Each, in the solitude of +her own cell, was spending, in prayer and meditation, the hour until +the Refectory bell should ring. + +The great door into the cloisters stood wide. + +Mother Sub-Prioress appeared in the far distance, moving down the +passage. As she passed between the long line of closed doors, she +turned her face quickly from side to side, pausing occasionally to +listen, ear laid against the panelling. + +Presently she stepped from the cool shadow into the sunny brightness of +the cloister. + +She did not blink, as old Mary Antony used to blink. Her small eyes +peered from out her veil as sharply in sunshine as in shadow. + +Yet was there something curiously furtive about Mother Sub-Prioress, +when she entered the cloister. Listening at the doors in the cell +passage, she had been merely official, acting with a precise celerity +which bespoke long practice. Now she hesitated; looked around as if to +make sure she was not observed, and obviously held, with her left hand, +something concealed. + +Moving along the cloister, she seated herself upon the stone slab in +the archway overlooking the lawn and the pieman's tree; then drew forth +from beneath her scapulary, the worn leathern wallet which had belonged +to the old lay-sister, Mary Antony. + +At the same moment there came a gentle flick of wings, and the robin +alighted on the stone coping, not three feet from the elbow of Mother +Sub-Prioress. + +Very bright-eyed, and tall on his legs, was Mary Antony's little vain +man. With his head on one side, he looked inquiringly at Mother +Sub-Prioress; and Mother Sub-Prioress, from out the curtain of her +veil, frowned back at him. + +There was a solemn quality in the complete silence. No naughty tales +of bakers' boys or piemen. No gay chirps of expectation. Receiving +cheese from Mother Sub-Prioress, bestowed for conscience' sake, partook +of the nature of a sacred ceremony. Yet the robin had come for his +cheese, and the Sub-Prioress had come to give it to him. + +Presently she slowly opened the wallet, took therefrom some choice +morsels, and strewed them on the coping. + +"Here, bird," she said, grimly; "I cannot let thee miss thy cheese +because the foolish old creature who taught thee to look for it, comes +this way no more. Take it and begone!" + +This was the daily formula. + +The "jaunty little layman," undismayed--though the look was austere, +and the voice, forbidding--hopped gaily nearer, pecking eagerly. No +gaping mouths now waited his return. His nestlings were grown and +flown. At last he could afford to feast himself. + +Mother Sub-Prioress turned her back upon the coping and stared at the +archway opposite. She had no wish to see the bird's enjoyment. + +Then a strange thing happened. + +Having pecked up all he wanted, the robin turned his bright eye upon +the motionless figure, seated so near him, wrapped in the aloofness of +an impenetrable silence. + +Excepting in her dying moments, Mary Antony's much loved little bird +had never adventured nearer to her than to hop along the coping, +pecking at her fingers when, to test his boldness, she reached out and +with them covered the cheese. + +Yet now, with a gentle flick of wings, lo, he alighted on the knee of +Mother Sub-Prioress! Then, while she scarce dared breathe, for wonder +and amaze, hopped to her arm and pecked gently at her veil. + +Whereupon something broke in the cold heart of Mother Sub-Prioress. +Tears ran slowly down the thin face. She would not stir nor lift her +hand to wipe them away, and they fell in heavy drops upon her folded +fingers. + +At length she spoke, in a broken whisper. + +"Oh, thou little winged thing," she said, "who so easily could'st fly +from me! Dost thou use those wings of liberty to draw yet nearer? In +this place of high walls and narrow cells, they who have not full +freedom, use to the full what freedom they possess, to turn, at my +approach and fly from me. Not one if she could choose, would choose to +come to me. . . . Is there any honour so great as that of being feared +by all? Is there any loneliness so great as by all to be hated? That +honour, little bird, is mine; also that loneliness. Who then hath sent +thee thus to essay to take both from me?" + +Heavy tears continued to fall upon the clasped hands; the worn face was +distorted by mental suffering. The frozen soul of Mother Sub-Prioress +having melted, the iron of self-knowledge was entering into it, causing +the dull ache of a pain unspeakable. Yet she dared not sob, lest the +heaving of her bosom should frighten away the little bird perched so +lightly on her arm. + +This evidence of the trust in her of a little living thing, was the one +rope to which Mother Sub-Prioress clung in those first moments, during +which the black waters of remorse and despair passed over her head--a +rope made of frail enough strands, God knows: bright eyes alert, small +clinging feet, a pair of folded wings. Yet do the frailest threads of +love and trust, make a safer rope to which to cling when shipwreck +threatens the heart, than the iron chains of obligation and duty. + +Presently a sordid doubt seized upon Mother Sub-Prioress. Had the +robin finished the cheese, and come to her thus, merely to ask for more? + +Very slowly she ventured to turn her head, until the stone coping at +her elbow came into her range of vision. + +Then a glow of pride and happiness warmed her heart. Three--four--five +fragments remained! Not for greed or favour had this little wild thing +of his own free will drawn near. + +For what, then? . . . + +Mother Sub-Prioress whispered the answer; and as she whispered it, her +tears fell afresh; but now they were tears without bitterness; a +healing fount seemed to well up within her softening heart. + +For love? Yea, verily! For love of her, those small brown wings had +brought him near, those bright eyes were unafraid. + +"For love of me," she whispered. "For love of me." + +When at length he chirped and flew, she still sat motionless, listening +as he sang his evening song high up in the pieman's tree. + +Then she rose and swept the untouched fragments back into the wallet. +There was triumph in the action. + +"For love!" she said. "Not of that which I brought and gave, but of +that which he thought me to be." + +Slowly she left the cloister, moving, with bent head, until she reached +the open door of the empty chamber which had been the Reverend Mother's. + +Before long this chamber would be hers. At noon she had received word +from the Bishop that it was his intention to appoint her to be +Prioress, for the years which yet remained of the Reverend Mother's +term of office. + +She had experienced a sinister pleasure in being thus promoted to this +high office by the Bishop, owing to the certainty that had the usual +election by ballot taken place, her name would not have been inscribed +by a single member of the Community. + +Yet now, in this strangely softened mood, she began wistfully to desire +that there might be looks of pleasure and satisfaction on at least a +few faces, when the announcement should be made on the morrow. + +Mother Sub-Prioress passed into the cell, and closed the door. + +She was drawn, by the glow of the sunset, to the oriel window. But on +her way thither she found herself unexpectedly arrested before the +marble group of the Virgin and Child. + +Mother Sub-Prioress never could see a naked babe without experiencing a +feeling of irritation against those who had failed to provide it with +suitable clothing. Possibly this was why she had hurriedly looked the +other way if her eye chanced to fall upon the beautiful sculpture in +the Prioress's cell. + +Now, for the first time, she really saw it. + +She stood and gazed; then knelt, and tried to understand. + +The tenderness reached her heart and shook it. The encircling arms, +the loving breast, the watchful mother-eyes; the exquisite human love, +called forth by the necessity, the dependence, the helplessness of a +little child. + +And were there not souls equally helpless, and hearts just as dependent +upon sympathy and tenderness? + +The Prioress had understood this, and had ruled by love. + +But Mother Sub-Prioress had ever preferred the briers and the burning. + +She recalled a conversation she had had a day or two before with the +Prior and the Chaplain, when they came to consult with her concerning +the future of the Community, and her possible appointment. In speaking +of the late Prioress, the Prior had said: "She ever seemed as one +apart, who walked among the stars; yet full, to overflowing, of the +milk of human kindness and the gracious balm of sympathy." He had then +asked Mother Sub-Prioress if she felt able to follow in her steps. To +which Mother Sub-Prioress, vexed at the question, had answered, tartly: +Nay; that she knew no Milky Way! Whereupon Father Benedict, a sudden +gleam of approval on his sinister face, had interposed, addressing the +Prior: "Nay, verily! Our excellent Sub-Prioress knows no Milky Way! +She is the brier, which hath sharply taught the tender flesh of each. +She is the bed of nettles from which the most weary moves on to rest +elsewhere. She is the fearsome burning, from which the frightened +brands do snatch themselves!" + +These words, spoken in approbation, had been meant to please; and at +first she had been flattered. Then the look upon the kind face of the +Prior, had given her the sense of being shut up with Father Benedict in +a fearsome Purgatory of their own making--nay rather, in a hell, where +pity, mercy, and loving-kindness were unknown. + +Perhaps this was the hour when the change of mind in Mother +Sub-Prioress really had its beginning, for Father Benedict's terrible +yet true description of her methods and her rule, now came forcefully +back to her. + +Putting out a trembling hand, she touched the little foot of the Babe. + +"Give me tenderness," she said, and an agony of supplication was in her +voice; also a rain of tears softened the hard lines of her face. + +Our blessèd Lady smiled, and the sweet Babe looked merry. + + +Mother Sub-Prioress passed to the window. The sun, round and blood +red, as at that very moment reflected in Hugh d'Argent's shield, was +just about to dip below the horizon. When next it rose, the day would +have dawned which would see her Prioress of the White Ladies of +Worcester. + +She turned to the place where the Prioress's chair of state stood +empty. During the walk to and from the Cathedral, she had planned to +come alone to this chamber, and seat herself in the chair which would +so soon be hers. But now a new humbleness restrained her. + +Falling upon her knees before the empty chair, she lifted clasped hands +heavenward. + +"O God," she said, "I am not worthy to take Her place. My heart is +hard and cold; my tongue is ofttimes cruel; my spirit is censorious. +But I have learned a lesson from the bird and a lesson from the Babe; +and that which I know not teach Thou me. Create in me a new heart, O +God, and renew a right spirit within me. Grant unto me to follow in +Her gracious steps, and to rule, as She ruled, by that love which never +faileth." + +Then, stooping to the ground, she kissed the place where the feet of +the Prioress had been wont to rest. + + +The sun had set behind the distant hills, when Mother Sub-Prioress rose +from her knees. + +An unspeakable peace filled her soul. She had prayed, by name, for +each member of the Community; and as she prayed, a gift of love for +each had been granted to her. + +Ah, would they make discovery, before the morrow, that instead of the +brier had come up the myrtle tree? + +With this hope filling her heart, Mother Sub-Prioress hastened along +the passage, and rang the Convent bell. + + * * * * * * + +And at that moment, Mora stood within her chamber, looking over +terrace, valley, and forest to where the sun had vanished below the +horizon, leaving behind a deep orange glow, paling above to clear blue +where, like a lamp just lit, hung luminous the evening star. + +Hugh's arms were still wrapped about her. As they stood together at +the casement, she leaned upon his heart. His strength enveloped her. +His love infused a wondrous sense of well-being, and of home. + +Yet of a sudden she lifted her head, as if to listen. + +"What is it," questioned Hugh, his lips against her hair. + +"Hush!" she whispered. "I seem to hear the Convent bell." + +His arms tightened their hold of her. + +"Nay, my belovèd," he said. "There is no place for echoes of the +Cloister, in the harmony of home." + +She turned and looked at him. + +Her eyes were soft with love, yet luminous with an inward light, that +moment kindled. + +"Dear Heart," she said--hastening to reassure him, for an anxious +question was in his look--"I have come home to thee with a completeness +of glad giving and surrender, such as I did not dream could be, and +scarce yet understand. But Hugh, my husband, to one who has known the +calm and peace of the Cloister there will always be an inner sanctuary +in which will sound the call to prayer and vigil. I am not less thine +own--nay, rather I shall ever be free to be more wholly thine because, +as we first stood together in our chamber, I heard the Convent bell." + +One look she gave, to make sure he understood; then swiftly hid her +face against his breast. + +Hugh spoke his answer very low, his lips close to her ear. + +But his eyes--with that light in them, which her happy heart scarce yet +dared see again--were lifted to the evening star. + + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The White Ladies of Worcester +by Florence L. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + +*** END: FULL LICENSE *** + diff --git a/16368-8.zip b/16368-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..287e6a3 --- /dev/null +++ b/16368-8.zip diff --git a/16368.txt b/16368.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c498039 --- /dev/null +++ b/16368.txt @@ -0,0 +1,15910 @@ +Project Gutenberg's The White Ladies of Worcester, by Florence L. Barclay + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The White Ladies of Worcester + A Romance of the Twelfth Century + +Author: Florence L. Barclay + +Release Date: July 27, 2005 [EBook #16368] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHITE LADIES OF WORCESTER *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + + + + + + +The White Ladies of Worcester + + +A Romance of the Twelfth Century + + + +by + +Florence L. Barclay + + + + +Author of "The Rosary," "The Mistress of Shenstone," etc. + + + + + + +G. P. Putnam's Sons + +New York and London + +The Knickerbocker Press + +1917 + + + + +COPYRIGHT, 1917 + +BY + +FLORENCE L. BARCLAY + + + + + + +The Knickerbocker Press, New York + + + + +TO + +FAITHFUL HEARTS + +ALL THE WORLD OVER + + + + +CONTENTS + +CHAPTER + + I. THE SUBTERRANEAN WAY + II. SISTER MARY ANTONY DISCOURSES + III. THE PRIORESS PASSES + IV. "GIVE ME TENDERNESS," SHE SAID + V. THE WAYWARD NUN + VI. THE KNIGHT OF THE BLOODY VEST + VII. THE MADONNA IN THE CLOISTER + VIII. ON THE WINGS OF THE STORM + IX. THE PRIORESS SHUTS THE DOOR + X. "I KNOW YOU FOR A MAN" + XI. THE YEARS ROLL BACK + XII. ALAS, THE PITY OF IT! + XIII. "SEND HER TO ME!" + XIV. FAREWELL HERE, AND NOW + XV. "SHARPEN THE WITS OF MARY ANTONY" + XVI. THE ECHO OF WILD VOICES + XVII. THE DIMNESS OF MARY ANTONY + XVIII. IN THE CATHEDRAL CRYPT + XIX. THE BISHOP PUTS ON HIS BIRETTA + XX. HOLLY AND MISTLETOE + XXI. SO MUCH FOR SERAPHINE + XXII. WHAT BROTHER PHILIP HAD TO TELL + XXIII. THE MIDNIGHT ARRIVAL + XXIV. THE POPE'S MANDATE + XXV. MARY ANTONY RECEIVES THE BISHOP + XXVI. LOVE NEVER FAILETH + XXVII. THE WOMAN AND HER CONSCIENCE + XXVIII. THE WHITE STONE + XXIX. THE VISION OF MARY ANTONY + XXX. THE HARDER PART + XXXI. THE CALL OF THE CURLEW + XXXII. A GREAT RECOVERY AND RESTORATION + XXXIII. MARY ANTONY HOLDS THE PORT + XXXIV. MORA DE NORELLE + XXXV. IN THE ARBOUR OF GOLDEN ROSES + XXXVI. STRONG TO ACT; ABLE TO ENDURE + XXXVII. WHAT MOTHER SUB-PRIORESS KNEW + XXXVIII. THE BISHOP KEEPS VIGIL + XXXIX. THE "SPLENDID KNIGHT" + XL. THE HEART OF A NUN + XLI. WHAT THE BISHOP REMEMBERED + XLII. THE WARNING + XLIII. MORA MOUNTS TO THE BATTLEMENTS + XLIV. "I LOVE THEE" + XLV. THE SONG OF THE THRUSH + XLVI. "HOW SHALL I LET THEE GO?" + XLVII. THE BISHOP is TAKEN UNAWARES + XLVIII. A STRANGE CHANCE + XLIX. TWICE DECEIVED + L. THE SILVER SHIELD + LI. TWO NOBLE HEARTS GO DIFFERENT WAYS + LII. THE ANGEL-CHILD + LIII. ON THE HOLY MOUNT + LIV. THE UNSEEN PRESENCE + LV. THE HEART OF A WOMAN + LVI. THE TRUE VISION + LVII. "I CHOOSE TO RIDE ALONE" + LVIII. THE WARRIOR HEART + LIX. THE MADONNA IN THE HOME + LX. THE CONVENT BELL + + + + +The White Ladies of Worcester + + +CHAPTER I + +THE SUBTERRANEAN WAY + +The slanting rays of afternoon sunshine, pouring through stone arches, +lay in broad, golden bands, upon the flags of the Convent cloister. + +The old lay-sister, Mary Antony, stepped from the cool shade of the +cell passage and, blinking at the sunshine, shuffled slowly to her +appointed post at the top of the crypt steps, up which would shortly +pass the silent procession of nuns returning from Vespers. + +Daily they went, and daily they returned, by the underground way, a +passage over a mile in length, leading from the Nunnery of the White +Ladies at Whytstone in Claines, to the Church of St. Mary and St. +Peter, the noble Cathedral within the walls of the city of Worcester. + +Entering this passage from the crypt in their own cloisters, they +walked in darkness below the sunny meadows, passed beneath the +Fore-gate, moving in silent procession under the busy streets, until +they reached the crypt of the Cathedral. + +From the crypt, a winding stairway in the wall led up to a chamber +above the choir, whence, unseeing and unseen, the White Ladies of +Worcester daily heard the holy monks below chant Vespers. + +To Sister Mary Antony fell the task of counting the five-and-twenty +veiled figures, as they passed down the steps and disappeared beneath +the ground, and of again counting them as they reappeared, and moved in +stately silence along the cloister, each entering her own cell, to +spend, in prayer and adoration, the hours until the Refectory bell +should call them to the evening meal. + +This counting of the White Ladies dated from the day, now more than +half a century ago, when Sister Agatha, weakened by prolonged fasting, +and chancing to walk last in the procession, fainted and, falling +silently, remained behind, unnoticed, in the solitude and darkness. + +It was the habit of this saintly lady to abide in her own cell after +Vespers, dispensing with the evening meal; thus her absence was not +discovered until the following morning when Mary Antony, finding the +cell empty, hastened to report that Sister Agatha having long, like +Enoch, walked with God, had, even, as Enoch, been translated! + +The nuns who flocked to the cell, inclining to Mary Antony's view of +the strange happening, kneeled upon the floor before the empty couch, +and worshipped. + +The Prioress of that time, however, being of a practical turn of mind, +ordered the immediate lighting of the lanterns, and herself descended +to search the underground way. + +She did not need to go far. + +The saintly spirit of Sister Agatha had indeed been translated. + +They found her frail body lying prone against the door, the hands +broken and torn by much wild beating upon its studded panels. + +She had run to and fro in the dank darkness, beating first upon the +door beneath the Convent cloisters, then upon the door, a mile away, +leading into the Cathedral crypt. + +But the nuns were shut into their cells, beyond the cloister; the good +people of Worcester city slept peacefully, not dreaming of the +despairing figure running to and fro beneath them--tottering, +stumbling, falling, arising to fall again, yet hurrying blindly +onwards; and the Cathedral Sacristan, when questioned, confessed that, +hearing cries and rappings coming from the crypt at a late hour, he +speedily locked the outer gate, said an "Ave," and went home to supper; +well knowing that, at such a time, none save spirits of evil would be +wandering below, in so great torment. + +Thus, through much tribulation, poor Sister Agatha entered into rest; +being held in deepest reverence ever after. + +More than fifty years had gone by. The Prioress of that day, and most +of those who walked in that procession, had long lain beside Sister +Agatha in the Convent burying-ground. But Mary Antony, now oldest of +the lay-sisters, never failed to make careful count, as each veiled +figure passed, nor to impart the mournful reason for this necessity to +all new-comers. So that the nun whose turn it was to walk last in the +procession, prayed that she might not hear behind her the running feet +of Sister Agatha; while none went alone into the cloisters after dark, +lest they should hear the poor thin hands of Sister Agatha beating upon +the panels of the door. + +Thus does the anguish of a tortured brain leave its imperishable +impress upon the surroundings in which the mind once suffered, though +the freed spirit may have long forgotten, in the peace of Paradise, +that slight affliction, which was but for a moment, through which it +passed to the eternal weight of glory. + +Of late, the old lay-sister, Mary Antony, had grown fearful lest she +should make mistake in this solemn office of the counting. Therefore, +in the secret of her own heart, she devised a plan, which she carried +out under cover of her scapulary. Twenty-five dried peas she held +ready in her wallet; then, as each veiled figure, having mounted the +steps leading from the crypt doorway, moved slowly past her, she +dropped a pea with her right hand into her left. When all the holy +Ladies had passed, if all had returned, five-and-twenty peas lay in her +left hand, none remained in the wallet. + +This secret dropping of peas became a kind of game to Mary Antony. +She kept the peas in a small linen bag, and often took them out and +played with them when alone in her cell, placing them all in a row, and +settling, to her own satisfaction, which peas should represent the +various holy Ladies. + +A large white pea, of finer aspect than the rest, stood for the noble +Prioress herself; a somewhat shrivelled pea, hard, brown, and wizened, +did duty as Mother Sub-Prioress, an elderly nun, not loved by Mary +Antony because of her sharp tongue and strict fault-finding ways; while +a pale and speckled pea became Sister Mary Rebecca, held in high scorn +by the old lay-sister, as a traitress, sneak, and liar, for if ever +tale of wrong or shame was whispered in the Convent, it could be traced +for place of origin to the slanderous tongue and crooked mind of Sister +Mary Rebecca. + +When all the peas in line upon the floor of her cell were named, old +Mary Antony marked out a distant flagstone, on which the sunlight fell, +as heaven; another, partially in shadow, purgatory; a third, in a far +corner of exceeding darkness, hell. She then proceeded, with +well-directed fillip of thumb and middle finger, to send the holy +Ladies there where, in her judgment, they belonged. + +If the game went well, the noble Prioress landed safely in heaven, +without even the most transitory visit to purgatory; Mother +Sub-Prioress, rolling into purgatory, remained there; while the pale +and speckled pea went straight to hell! + +When these were safely landed, Mary Antony rubbed her hands and, +chuckling gleefully, finished the game at gay hap-hazard, it being of +less importance where the rest of the holy Ladies chanced to go. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +SISTER MARY ANTONY DISCOURSES + +As Mary Antony shuffled slowly from the shadow into the sunshine, a gay +little flutter of wings preceded her, and a robin perched upon the +parapet behind the stone seat upon which it was the lay-sister's custom +to await the sound of the turning of the key in the lock of the heavy +door beneath the cloisters. + +"Thou good-for-nothing imp!" exclaimed Mary Antony, her old face +crinkling with delight. "Thou little vain man, in thy red jerkin! +Beshrew thine impudence, intruding into a place where women alone do +dwell, and no male thing may enter. I would have thee take warning by +the fate of the baker's boy, who dared to climb into a tree, so that he +might peep over the wall and spy upon the holy Ladies in their garden. +Boasting afterward of that which he had done, and making merry over +that which he pretended to have seen, our great Lord Bishop heard of +it, and sent and took that baker's boy, and though he cried for mercy, +swearing the whole tale was an empty boast, they put out his bold eyes +with heated tongs, and hanged him from the very branches he had +climbed. They'd do the like to thee, thou little vain man, if Mary +Antony reported on thy ways. Wouldst like to hang, in thy red doublet?" + +The robin had heard this warning tale many times already, told by old +Mary Antony with infinite variety. + +Sometimes the tongue of the baker's boy was cut out at the roots; +sometimes he lost his ears, or again, he was tied to a cart-tail, and +flogged through the Tything. Often he became a pieman, and once he was +a turnspit in the household of the Lord Bishop himself. But, whatever +the preliminaries, and whether baker, pieman, or turnspit, his final +catastrophe was always the same: he was hanged from a bough of the very +tree into which, impious and greatly daring, he had climbed. + +This was an ancient tale. All who might vouch for it, saving the old +lay-sister, had passed away; and, of late, Mary Antony had been +strictly forbidden by the Reverend Mother, to tell it to new-comers, or +to speak of it to any of the nuns. + +So, daily, she told it to the robin; and he, being neither baker's lad, +pieman, nor turnspit, and having a conscience void of offence, would +listen, wholly unafraid; then, hopping nearer to Mary Antony, would +look up at her, eager inquiry in his bright eyes. + +On this particular afternoon he flew up into the very tree climbed by +the prying and ill-fated baker's lad, settled on a bough which branched +out over the Convent wall, and poured forth a gay trill of song. + +"Ha, thou little vain man, in thy brown and red suit!" chuckled Mary +Antony, leaning her gnarled hands on the stone parapet, as she stood +framed in one of the cloister arches overlooking the garden. "Is that +thy little 'grace before meat'? But, I pray thee, Sir Robin, who said +there was cheese in my wallet? Nay, is there like to be cheese in a +wallet already containing five-and-twenty holy Ladies on their way back +from Vespers? Out upon thee for a most irreverent little glutton! I +fear me thou hast not only a high look, thou hast also a proud stomach; +just the reverse of the great French Cardinal who came, with much pomp, +to visit us at Easter time. He had a proud look and a-- Come down +again, thou little naughty man, and I will tell thee what the Lord +Cardinal had under his crimson sash. 'Tis not a thing to shout to the +tree-tops. I might have to recite ten Paternosters, if I let thee +tempt me so to do. For whispering it in thine ear, I should but say +one; for having remarked it, none at all. Facts are facts; and, even +in the case of so weighty a fact, the responsibility rests not upon the +beholder." + +Mary Antony leaned over the parapet, looking upward. The afternoon +sunlight fell full upon the russet parchment of her kind old face, +shewing the web of wrinkles spun by ninety years of the gently turning +wheel of time. + +But the robin, perched upon the bough, trilled and sang, unmoved. He +was weary of tales of bakers and piemen. He was not at all curious as +to what had been beneath the French Cardinal's crimson sash. He wanted +the tasty morsels which he knew lay concealed in Sister Mary Antony's +leathern wallet. So he stayed on the bough and sang. + +The old face, peering up from between the pillars, softened into +tenderness at the robin's song. + +"I cannot let thy little grace return unto thee void," she said, and +fumbled at the fastenings of her wallet. + +A flick of wings, a flash of red. The robin had dropped from the +bough, and perched beside her. + +She doled out crumbs, and fragments of cheese, pushing them toward him +along the parapet; leaving her fingers near, to see how close he would +adventure to her hand. + +She watched him peck a morsel of cheese into five tiny pieces, then +fly, with full beak, on eager wing, to the hidden nest, from which five +gaping mouths shrieked a shrill and hungry welcome. Then, back +again--swift as an arrow from the archer's bow--noting, with bright +eye, and head turned sidewise, that the hand resting on the coping had +moved nearer; yet brave to take all risks for the sake of those yellow +beaks, which would gape wide, in expectation, at sound of the beat of +his wings. + +"Feed thyself, thou little worldling!" chuckled old Antony, and covered +the remaining bits of cheese with her hand. "Who art thou to come here +presuming to teach thy betters lessons of self-sacrifice? First feed +thyself; then give to the hungry, the fragments that remain. Had I +five squealing children here--which Heaven forbid--I should eat mine +own mess, and count myself charitable if I let them lick the dish. The +holy Ladies give to the poor at the Convent gate, that for which they +have no further use. Does thy jaunty fatherhood presume to shame our +saintly celibacy? Mother Sub-Prioress did chide me sharply because, to +a poor soul with many hungry mouths to feed, I gave a good piece of +venison, and not the piece which was tainted. Truth to tell, I had +already made away with the tainted piece; but Mother Sub-Prioress was +pleased to think it was in the pot, seething for the holy Ladies' +evening meal; and wherefore should Mother Sub-Prioress not think as she +pleased? + +"'Woman!' she cried; 'Woman!'--and when Mother Sub-Prioress says +'Woman!' the woman she addresses feels her estate would be higher had +God Almighty been pleased to have let her be the Man, or even the +Serpent, so much contempt does Mother Sub-Prioress infuse into the +name--'Woman!' said Mother Sub-Prioress, 'wouldst thou make all the +Ladies of the Convent ill?' + +"'Nay,' said I, 'that would I not. Yet, if any needs must be ill, +'twere easier to tend the holy Ladies in their cells, than the Poor, in +humble homes, outside the Convent walls, tossing on beds of rushes.' + +"'Tush, fool!' snarled Mother Sub-Prioress. "'The Poor are not easily +made ill.' + +"Tush indeed! I tell thee, little bright-eyed man, old Antony, can +'tush' to better purpose! That night there were strong purging herbs +in the broth of Mother Sub-Prioress. Yet she did but keep her bed for +one day. Like the Poor, she is not easily made ill! . . . Well, have +thy way; only peck not my fingers, Master Robin, or I will have thee +flogged through the Tything at the cart-tail, as was done to a certain +pieman, whose history I will now relate. + +"Once upon a time, when Sister Mary Antony was young, and fair to look +upon--Nay, wink not thy naughty eye----" + +At that moment came the sound of a key turning slowly in the lock of +the door at the bottom of the steps leading from the crypt to the +cloister. + + + + +CHAPTER III + +THE PRIORESS PASSES + +A key turned slowly in the lock of the oaken door at the entrance to +the underground way. + +The old lay-sister seized her wallet and pulled out the bag of peas. + +Below, the heavy door swung back upon its hinges. + +Mary Antony dropped upon her knees to the right of the steps, her hands +hidden beneath her scapulary, her eyes bent in lowly reverence upon the +sunlit flagstones, her lips mumbling chance sentences from the Psalter. + +The measured sound of softly moving feet drew near, slightly shuffling +as they reached the steps and began to mount, up from the mile-long +darkness, into the sunset light. + +First to appear was a young lay-sister, carrying a lantern. Hastening +up the steps, she extinguished the flame, grown sickly in the sunshine, +placed the lantern in a niche, and, dropping upon her knees, opposite +old Mary Antony, sought to join in the latter's pious recitations. + +"_Adhaesit pavimento anima mea_," chanted Mary Antony. "Wherefore are +the holy Ladies late to-day?" + +"One fell to weeping in the darkness," intoned the young lay-sister, +"whereupon Mother Sub-Prioress caused all to stand still while she +strove, by the light of my lantern held high, to discover who had burst +forth with a sob. None shewing traces of tears, she gave me back the +lantern, herself walking last in the line, as all moved on." + +"_Convertentur ad vesperam_, and the devil catch the hindmost," chanted +Mary Antony, with fervour. + +"Amen," intoned Sister Abigail, eyes bent upon the ground; for the tall +figure of the Prioress, mounting the steps, now came into view. + +The Prioress passed up the cloister with a stately grace of motion +which, even beneath the heavy cloth of her white robe, revealed the +noble length of supple limbs. Her arms hung by her sides, swaying +gently as she walked. There was a look of strength and of restfulness +about the long fingers and beautifully moulded hands. Her face, calm +and purposeful, was lifted to the sunlight. Suffering and sorrow had +left thereon indelible marks; but the clear grey eyes, beneath level +brows, were luminous with a light betokening the victory of a pure and +noble spirit over passionate and most human flesh. + +No sinner, in her presence, ever felt crushed by hopeless weight of +sin; no saint, before the gaze of her calm eyes, felt sure of being +altogether faultless. + +So truly was she woman, that all humanity seemed lifted to her level; +so completely was she saint, that sin did slink away abashed before her +coming. + +They who feared her most, were most conscious of her kindness. They +who loved her best, were least able to venture near. + +In the first bloom of her womanhood she had left the world, resigning +high rank, fair lands, and the wealth which makes for power. Her faith +in human love having been rudely shattered, she had sought security in +Divine compassion, and consolation in the daily contemplation of the +Man of Sorrows. In her cell, on a rough wooden cross, hung a life-size +figure of the dying Saviour. + +She had not reached her twenty-fifth year when, fleeing from the world, +she joined the Order of the White Ladies of Worcester, and passed into +the seclusion and outward calm of the Nunnery at Whytstone. + +Five years later, on the death of the aged Prioress, she was elected, +by a large majority, to fill the vacant place. + +She had now, during two years, ruled the Nunnery wisely and well. + +She had ruled her own spirit, even better. She had won the victory +over the World and the Flesh; there remained but the Devil. The Devil, +alas, always remains. + +As she moved, with uplifted brow and mien of calm detachment, along the +sunlit cloister to the lofty, stone passage, within, the Convent, she +was feared by many, loved by most, and obeyed by all. + +And, as she passed, old Mary Antony, bowing almost to the ground, +dropped a large white pea, from between her right thumb and finger, +into the horny palm of her left hand. + +Behind the Prioress there followed a nun, tall also, but ungainly. Her +short-sighted eyes peered shiftily to right and left; her long nose +went on before, scenting possible scandal and wrong-doing; her weak +lips let loose a ready smile, insinuating, crafty, apologetic. She +walked with hands crossed upon her breast, in attitude of adoration and +humility. As she moved by, old Mary Antony let drop the pale and +speckled pea. + +Keeping their distances, mostly with shrouded faces, bent heads, and +folded hands, all the White Ladies passed. + +Each went in silence to her cell, there kneeling in prayer and +contemplation until the Refectory bell should call to the evening meal. + +As the last, save one, went by, the keen eyes of the old lay-sister +noted that her hands were clenched against her breast, that she +stumbled at the topmost step, and caught her breath with a half sob. + +Behind her, moving quickly, came the spare form of the Sub-Prioress, +ferret-faced, alert, vigilant; fearful lest sin should go unpunished; +wishful to be the punisher. + +She must have heard the half-strangled sob burst from the slight figure +stumbling up the steps before her, had not old Mary Antony been +suddenly moved at that moment to uplift her voice in a cracked and +raucous "Amen." + +Startled, and vexed at being startled, the Sub-Prioress turned upon +Mary Antony. + +"Peace, woman!" she said. "The Convent cloister is not a hen-yard. +Such ill-timed devotion well-nigh merits penance. Rise from thy knees, +and go at once about thy business." + +The Sub-Prioress hastened on. + +Scowling darkly, old Antony bent forward, looking, past Mother +Sub-Prioress, up the cloister to the distant passage. + +Sister Mary Seraphine had reached her cell. The door was shut. + +Old Antony's knees creaked as she arose, but her wizened face was once +more cheerful. + +"Beans in her broth to-night," she said. "One for 'woman'; another for +the hen-yard; a third for threatening penance when I did but chant a +melodious 'Amen.' I'll give her beans--castor beans!" + +Down the steps she went, pushed the heavy door to, locked it, and drew +forth the key; then turned her steps toward the cell of the Reverend +Mother. + +On her way thither, she paused at a certain door and listened, her ear +against the oaken panel. Then she hurried onward, knocked upon the +door of the Reverend Mother's cell and, being bidden to enter, passed +within, closed the door behind her, and dropped upon her knees. + +The Prioress stood beside the casement, gazing at the golden glory of +the sunset. She was, for the moment, unconscious of her surroundings. +Her mind was away behind those crimson battlements. + +Presently she turned and saw the old woman, kneeling at the door. + +"How now, dear Antony?" she said, kindly. "Get up! Hang the key in +its appointed place, and make me thy report. Have all returned? As +always, is all well?" + +The old lay-sister rose, hung the massive key upon a nail; then came to +the feet of the Prioress, and knelt again. + +"Reverend Mother," she said, "all who went forth have returned. But +all is not well. Sister Mary Seraphine is uttering wild cries in her +cell; and much I fear me, Mother Sub-Prioress may pass by, and hear +her." + +The face of the Prioress grew stern and sad; yet, withal, tender. She +raised the lay-sister, and gently patted the old hands which trembled. + +"Go thy ways, dear Antony," she said. "I myself will visit the little +Sister in her cell. None will attempt to enter while I am there." + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +"GIVE ME TENDERNESS," SHE SAID + +The Prioress knelt before a marble group of the Virgin and Child, +placed where the rays of evening sunshine, entering through the western +casement, played over its white beauty, shedding a radiance on the pure +face of the Madonna, and a halo of golden glory around the Infant +Christ. + +"Mother of God," prayed the Prioress, with folded hands, "give me +patience in dealing with wilfulness; grant me wisdom to cope with +unreason; may it be given me to share the pain of this heart in +torment, even as--when thou didst witness the sufferings of thy dear +Son, our Lord, on Calvary--a sword pierced through thine own soul also. + +"Give me this gift of sympathy with suffering, though the cross be not +mine own, but another's. + +"But give me firmness and authority: even as when thou didst say to the +servants at Cana: 'Whatsoever He saith unto you, do it.'" + +The Prioress waited, with bowed head. + +Then, of a sudden she put forth her hand, and touched the marble foot +of the Babe. + +"Give me tenderness," she said. + + + + +CHAPTER V + +THE WAYWARD NUN + +Sister Mary Seraphine lay prone upon the floor of her cell. + +Tightly clenched in her hands were fragments of her torn veil. + +She beat her knuckles upon the stones with rhythmic regularity; then, +when her arms would lift no longer, took up the measure with her toes, +in wild imitation of a galloping horse. + +As she lay, she repeated with monotonous reiteration: "Trappings of +crimson, and silver bells: mane and tail, like foam of the waves; a +palfrey as white as snow!" + +The Prioress entered, closed the door behind her, and looked +searchingly at the prostrate figure; then, lifting the master-key which +hung from her girdle, locked the door on the inside. + +Sister Mary Seraphine had been silent long enough to hear the closing +and locking of the door. + +Now she started afresh. + +"Trappings of crimson, and silver bells----" + +The Prioress walked over to the narrow casement, and stood looking out +at the rosy clouds wreathing a pale green sky. + +"Oh! . . . Oh! . . . Oh! . . ." wailed Sister Mary Seraphine, +writhing upon the floor; "mane and tail, like foam of the waves; a +palfrey as white as snow!" + +The Prioress watched the swallows on swift wing, chasing flies in the +evening light. + +So complete was the silence, that Sister Mary +Seraphine--notwithstanding that turning of the key in the lock--fancied +she must be alone. + +"Trappings of crimson, and silver bells!" she declaimed with vehemence; +then lifted her face to peep, and saw the tall figure of the Prioress +standing at the casement. + +Instantly, Sister Mary Seraphine dropped her head. + +"Mane and tail," she began--then her courage failed; the "foam of the +waves" quavered into indecision; and indecision, in such a case, is +fatal. + +For a while she lay quite still, moaning plaintively, then, of a +sudden, quivered from head to foot, starting up alert, as if to listen. + +"Wilfred!" she shrieked; "Wilfred! Are you coming to save me?" + +Then she opened her eyes, and peeped again. + +The Prioress, wholly unmoved by the impending advent of "Wilfred," +stood at the casement, calmly watching the swallows. + +Sister Mary Seraphine began to weep. + +At last the passionate sobbing ceased. + +Unbroken silence reigned in the cell. + +From without, the latch of the door was lifted; but the lock held. + +Presently Sister Mary Seraphine dragged herself to the feet of the +Prioress, seized the hem of her robe, and kissed it. + +Then the Prioress turned. She firmly withdrew her robe from those +clinging hands; yet looked, with eyes of tender compassion, upon the +kneeling figure at her feet. + +"Sister Seraphine," she said, "--for you must shew true penitence e'er +I can permit you to be called by our Lady's name--you will now come to +my cell, where I will presently speak with you." + +Sister Seraphine instantly fell prone. + +"I cannot walk," she said. + +"You will not walk," replied the Prioress, sternly. "You will travel +upon your hands and knees." + +She crossed to the door, unlocked and set it wide. + +"Moreover," she added, from the doorway, "if you do not appear in my +presence in reasonable time, I shall be constrained to send for Mother +Sub-Prioress." + +The cell of the Prioress was situated at the opposite end of the long, +stone passage; but in less than reasonable time, Sister Seraphine +crawled in. + +The unwonted exercise had had a most salutary effect upon her frame of +mind. + +Her straight habit, of heavy cloth, had rendered progress upon her +knees awkward and difficult. Her hands had become entangled in her +torn veil. Each moment she had feared lest cell doors, on either side, +should open; old Antony might appear from the cloisters, or--greatest +disaster of all--Mother Sub-Prioress might advance toward her from the +Refectory stairs! In order to attain a greater rate of speed, she had +tried lifting her knees, as elephants lift their feet. This mode of +progress, though ungainly, had proved efficacious; but would have been +distinctly mirth-provoking to beholders. The stones had hurt her hands +and knees far more than she hurt them when she beat upon the floor of +her own cell. + +She arrived at the Reverend Mother's footstool, heated in mind and +body, ashamed of herself, vexed with her garments, in fact in an +altogether saner frame of mind than when she had called upon "Wilfred," +and made reiterated mention of trappings of crimson and silver bells. + +Perhaps the Prioress had foreseen this result, when she imposed the +penance. Leniency or sympathy, at that moment, would have been fatal +and foolish; and had not the Prioress made special petition for wisdom? + +She was seated at her table, when Sister Seraphine bumped and shuffled +into view. She did not raise her eyes from the illuminated missal she +was studying. One hand lay on the massive clasp, the other rested in +readiness to turn the page. Her noble form seemed stately calm +personified. + +When she heard Sister Seraphine panting close to her foot, she spoke; +still without lifting her eyes. + +"You may rise to your feet," she said, "and shut to the door." + +Then the waiting hand turned the page, and silence fell. + +"You may arrange the disorder of your dress," said the Prioress, and +turned another page. + +When at length she looked up, Sister Seraphine, clothed and apparently +in her right mind, stood humbly near the door. + +The Prioress closed the book, and shut the heavy clasps. + +Then she pointed to an oaken stool, signing to the nun to draw it +forward. + +"Be seated, my child," she said, in tones of infinite tenderness. +"There is much which must now be said, and your mind will pay better +heed, if your body be at rest." + +With her steadfast eyes the Prioress searched the pretty, flushed face, +swollen with weeping, and now gathering a look of petulant defiance, +thinly veiled beneath surface humility. + +"What was the cause of this outburst, my child?" asked the Prioress, +very gently. + +"While in the Cathedral, Reverend Mother, up in our gallery, I, being +placed not far from a window, heard, in a moment of silence, the +neighing of a horse in the street without. It was like to the neighing +of mine own lovely palfrey, waiting in the castle court at home, until +I should come down and mount him. Each time that steed neighed, I +could see Snowflake more clearly, in trappings of gay crimson, with +silver bells, amid many others prancing impatiently, champing their +bits as they waited; for it pleased me to come out last, when all were +mounted. Then the riders lifted their plumed caps when I appeared, +while Wilfred, pushing my page aside, did swing me into the saddle. +Thus, with shouting and laughter and winding of horn, we would all ride +out to the hunt or the tourney; I first, on Snowflake; Wilfred, close +behind." + +Very quietly the Prioress sat listening. She did not take her eyes +from the flushed face. A slight colour tinged her own cheeks. + +"Who was Wilfred?" she asked, when Sister Seraphine paused for breath. + +"My cousin, whom I should have wed if----" + +"If?" + +"If I had not left the world." + +The Prioress considered this. + +"If your heart was set upon wedding your cousin, my child, why did you +profess a vocation and, renouncing all worldly and carnal desires, gain +admission to our sacred Order?" + +"My heart was not set on marrying my cousin!" cried Sister Seraphine, +with petulance. "I was weary of Wilfred. I was weary of everything! +I wanted to profess. I wished to become a nun. There were people I +could punish, and people I could surprise, better so, than in any other +way. But Wilfred said that, when the time came, he would be there to +carry me off." + +"And--when the time came?" + +"He was not there. I never saw him again." + +The Prioress turned, and looked out through the oriel window. She +seemed to be weighing, carefully, what she should say. + +When at length she spoke, she kept her eyes fixed upon the waving +tree-tops beyond the Convent wall. + +"Sister Seraphine," she said, "many who embrace the religious life, +know what it is to pass through the experience you have now had; but, +as a rule, they fight the temptation and conquer it in the secret of +their own hearts, in the silence of their own cells. + +"Memories of the life that was, before, choosing the better part, we +left the world, come back to haunt us, with a wanton sweetness. Such +memories cannot change the state, fixed forever by our vows; but they +may awaken in us vain regrets or worldly longings. Therein lies their +sinfulness. + +"To help you against this danger, I will now give you two prayers, +which you must commit to memory, and repeat whenever need arises. The +first is from the Breviary." + +The Prioress drew toward her a black book with silver clasps, opened +it, and read therefrom a short prayer in Latin. But seeing no light of +response or of intelligence upon the face of Sister Seraphine, she +slowly repeated a translation. + + +_Almighty and Everlasting God, grant that our wills be ever meekly +subject to Thy will, and our hearts be ever honestly ready to serve +Thee. Amen._ + + +Her eyes rested, with a wistful smile, upon the book. + +"This prayer might suffice," she said, "if our hearts were truly +honest, if our wills were ever yielded. But, alas, our hearts are +deceitful above all things, and our wills are apt to turn traitor to +our good intentions. + +"Therefore I have found for you, in the Gregorian Sacramentary, another +prayer--less well-known, yet much more ancient, written over six +hundred years ago. It deals effectually with the deceitful heart, the +insidious, tempting thoughts, and the unstable will. Here is a +translation which I have myself inscribed upon the margin." + +The Prioress laid her folded hands upon the missal and as she repeated +the ancient sixth-century prayer, in all its depth of inspired +simplicity, her voice thrilled with deep emotion, for she was giving to +another that which had meant infinitely much to her own inner life. + + +_Almighty God, unto Whom all hearts be open, all desires known, and +from Whom no secrets are hid: Cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the +inspiration of Thy Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love Thee, and +worthily magnify Thy Holy Name, through Christ our Lord. Amen._ + + +The Prioress turned her face from Sister Seraphine's unresponsive +countenance and fixed her eyes once more upon the tree-tops. She was +thinking of the long years of secret conflict, known only to Him from +Whom no secrets are hid; of the constant cleansing of her thoughts, for +which she had so earnestly pleaded; of the fear lest she should never +worthily magnify that Holy Name. + +Presently--her heart filled with humble tenderness--she turned to +Sister Seraphine. + +"These prayers, my child, which you will commit to memory before you +sleep this night, will protect you from a too insistent recollection of +the world you have resigned; and will assist you, with real inward +thoroughness, to die daily to self, in order that the Holy Name of our +dear Lord may be more worthily magnified in you." + +But, alas! this gentle treatment, these long silences, this quiet +recitation of holy prayers, had but stirred the naughty spirit in +Sister Seraphine. + +Her shallow nature failed to understand the deeps of the noble heart, +dealing thus tenderly with her. She measured its ocean-wide greatness, +by the little artificial runnels of her own morbid emotions. She +mistook gentleness for weakness; calm self-control, for lack of +strength of will. Her wholesome awe of the Prioress was forgotten. + +"But I do not want to die!" she exclaimed. "I want to live--to +live--to live!" + +The Prioress looked up, astonished. + +The surface humility had departed from the swollen countenance of +Sister Seraphine. The petulant defiance was plainly visible. + +"Kneel!" commanded the Prioress, with authority. + +The wayward nun jerked down upon her knees, upsetting the stool behind +her. + +The Prioress made a quick movement, then restrained herself. She had +prayed for patience in dealing with wilfulness. + +"We die that we may live," she said, solemnly. "Sister Seraphine, this +is the lesson your wayward heart must learn. Dying to self, we live +unto God. Dying to sin, we live unto righteousness. Dying to the +world, we find the Life Eternal." + +On her knees upon the floor, Sister Seraphine felt her position to be +such as lent itself to pathos. + +"But I want to _live_ to the world!" she cried, and burst into tears. + +Now Convent life does not tend to further individual grief. Constant +devout contemplation of the Supreme Sorrow which wrought the world's +salvation lessens the inclination to shed tears of self-pity. + +The Prioress was startled and alarmed by the pathetic sobs of Sister +Seraphine. + +This young nun had but lately been sent on to the Nunnery at Whytstone +from a convent at Tewkesbury in which she had served her novitiate, and +taken her final vows. The Prioress now realised how little she knew of +the inner working of the mind of Sister Seraphine, and blamed herself +for having looked upon the outward appearance rather than upon the +heart, taken too much for granted, and relied too entirely upon the +reports of others. Her sense of failure, toward the Community in +general, and toward Seraphine in particular, lent her a fresh stock of +patience. + +She raised the weeping nun from the floor, put her arm around her, with +protective gesture, and led her before the Shrine of the Madonna. + +"My child," she said, "there are things we are called upon to suffer +which we can best tell to our blessed Lady, herself. Try to unburden +your heart and find comfort . . . Does your mind hark back to the +thought of the earthly love you resigned in order to give yourself +solely to the heavenly? . . . Are you troubled by fears lest you +wronged the man you loved, when, leaving him, you became the bride of +Heaven?" + +Sister Seraphine smiled--a scornful little smile. "Nay," she said, "I +was weary of Wilfred. But--there were others." + +The voice of the Prioress grew even graver, and more sad. + +"Is it then the Fact of marriage which you desired and regret?" + +Sister Seraphine laughed--a hard, self-conscious, little laugh. + +"Nay, I could not have brooked to be bound to any man. But I liked to +be loved, and I liked to be First in the thought and heart of another." + +The Prioress looked at the pretty, tear-stained face, at the softly +moulded form. Then an idea came to her. To voice it, lifted the veil +from the very Holy of Holies of her own heart's sufferings; but she +would not shrink from aught which could help this soul she was striving +to uplift. + +With her eyes resting upon the Babe in the arms of the Virgin Mother, +she asked, gravely and low: + +"Is it the ceaseless longing to have had a little child of your own to +hold in your arms, to gather to your breast, to put to sleep upon your +knees, which keeps your heart turning restlessly back to the world?" + +Sister Seraphine gazed at the Prioress, in utter amazement. + +"Nay, then, indeed!" she replied, impatiently. "Always have I hated +children. To escape from the vexations of motherhood were reason +enough for leaving the world." + +Then the Prioress withdrew her protective arm, and looked sternly upon +Sister Seraphine. + +"You are playing false to your vows," she said; "you are slighting your +vocation; yet no worthy or noble feeling draws your heart back to the +world. You do but desire vain pomp and show; all those things which +minister to the enthronement of self. Return to your cell and spend +three hours in prayer and penitence before the crucifix." + +The Prioress lifted her hand and pointed to the figure of the Christ, +hanging upon the great rugged cross against the wall, facing the door. +The sublimity of a supreme adoration was in her voice, as she made her +last appeal. + +"Surely," she said, "surely no love of self can live, in view of the +death and sacrifice of our blessed Lord! Kneel then before the +crucifix and learn----" + +But the over-wrought mind of Sister Seraphine, suddenly convinced of +the futility of its hopeless rebellion, passed, in that moment, +altogether beyond control. + +With a shout of wild laughter, she flung back her head, pointing with +outstretched finger at the crucifix. + +"Death! Death! Death!" she shrieked, "helpless, hopeless, terrible! +I ask for life, I want to live; I am young, I am gay, I am beautiful. +And they bid--bid--bid me kneel--long hours--watching death." Her +voice rose to a piercing scream. "Ah, HA! That will I NOT! A dead +God cannot help me! I want life, not death!" + +Shrieking she leapt to her feet, flew across the room, beat upon the +sacred Form with her fists; tore at It with her fingers. + +One instant of petrifying horror. Then the Prioress was upon her. + +Seizing her by both wrists she flung her to the floor, then pulled a +rope passing over a pulley in the wall, which started the great +alarm-bell, in the passage, clanging wildly. + +At once there came a rush of flying feet; calls for the Sub-Prioress; +but she was already there. + +When they flung wide the door, lo, the Prioress stood--with white face +and blazing eyes, her arms outstretched--between them and the crucifix. + +Upon the floor, a crumpled heap, lay Sister Mary Seraphine. + +The nuns, in a frightened crowd, filled the doorway, none daring to +speak, or to enter; till old Mary Antony, pushing past the +Sub-Prioress, kneeled down beside the Reverend Mother, and, lifting the +hem of her robe, kissed it and pressed it to her breast. + +Slowly the Prioress let fall her arms. + +"Enter," she said; and they flocked in. + +"Sister Seraphine," said the Prioress, in awful tones, "has profaned +the crucifix, reviling our blessed Lord, Who hangs thereon." + +All the nuns, falling upon their knees, hid their faces in their hands. + +There was a terrifying quality in the silence of the next moments. + +Slowly the Prioress turned, prostrated herself at the foot of the +cross, and laid her forehead against the floor at its base. Then the +nuns heard one deep, shuddering sob. + +Not a head was lifted. The only nun who peeped was Sister Mary +Seraphine, prone upon the floor. + + +After a while, the Prioress arose, pale but calm. + +"Carry her to her cell," she said. + +Two tall nuns to whom she made sign lifted Sister Seraphine, and bore +her out. + +When the shuffling of their feet died away in the distance, the +Prioress gave further commands. + +"All will now go to their cells and kneel in adoration before the +crucifix. Doors are to be left standing wide. The _Miserere_ is to be +chanted, until the ringing of the Refectory bell. Mother Sub-Prioress +will remain behind." + +The nuns dispersed, as quickly as they had gathered; seeking their +cells, like frightened birds fleeing before a gathering storm. + +The tall nuns who had carried Sister Seraphine returned and waited +outside the Reverend Mother's door. + +The Prioress stood alone; a tragic figure in her grief. + +Mother Sub-Prioress drew near. Her narrow face, peering from out her +veil, more than ever resembled a ferret. Her small eyes gleamed with a +merciless light. + +"Is mine the task, Reverend Mother?" she whispered. + +The Prioress inclined her head. + +Mother Sub-Prioress murmured a second question. + +The Prioress turned and looked at the crucifix. + +"Yes," she said, firmly. + +Mother Sub-Prioress sidled nearer; then whispered her third question. + +The Prioress did not answer. She was looking at the carved, oaken +stool, overthrown. She was wondering whether she could have acted with +better judgment, spoken more wisely. Her heart was sore. Such noble +natures ever blame themselves for the wrong-doing of the worthless. + +Receiving no reply, Mother Sub-Prioress whispered a suggestion. + +"No," said the Prioress. + +Mother Sub-Prioress modified her suggestion. + +The Prioress turned and looked at the tender figure of the Madonna, +brooding over the blessed Babe. + +"No," said the Prioress. + +Mother Sub-Prioress frowned, and made a further modification; but in +tones which suggested finality. + +The Prioress inclined her head. + +The Sub-Prioress, bowing low, lifted the hem of the Reverend Mother's +veil, and kissed it; then passed from the room. + + +The Prioress moved to the window. + +The sunset was over. The evening star shone, like a newly-lighted +lamp, in a pale purple sky. The fleet-winged swallows had gone to rest. + +Bats flitted past the casement, like homeless souls who know not where +to go. + +Low chanting began in the cells; the nuns, with open doors, singing +_Miserere_. + +But, as she looked at the evening star, the Prioress heard again, with +startling distinctness, the final profanity of poor Sister Seraphine: +"I want life--not death!" + + +Along the corridor passed a short procession, on its way to the cell of +Mary Seraphine. + +First went a nun, carrying a lighted taper. + +Next, the two tall nuns who had borne Mary Seraphine to her cell. + +Behind them, Mother Sub-Prioress, holding something beneath her +scapulary which gave to her more of a presence than she usually +possessed. + +Solemn and official,--nay, almost sacrificial--was their measured +shuffle, as they moved along the passage, and entered the cell of Mary +Seraphine. + + +The Prioress closed her door, and, kneeling before the crucifix, +implored forgiveness for the sacrilege which, all unwittingly, she had +provoked. + +The nuns, in their separate cells, chanted the _Miserere_. +But--suddenly--with one accord, their voices fell silent; then hastened +on, in uncertain, agitated rhythm. + + +Old Mary Antony below, playing her favourite game, also paused, and +pricked up her ears: then filliped the wizen pea, which stood for +Mother Sub-Prioress, into the darkest corner, and hurried off to brew a +soothing balsam. + +So, when the Refectory bell had summoned all to the evening meal, the +old lay-sister crept to the cell of Mary Seraphine, carrying broth and +comfort. + +But Sister Seraphine was better content than she had been for many +weeks. + +At last she had become the centre of attention; and, although, during +the visit of Mother Sub-Prioress to her cell, this had been a +peculiarly painful position to occupy, yet to the morbid mind of Mary +Seraphine, the position seemed worth the discomfort. + +Therefore, her mind now purged of its discontent, she cheerfully supped +old Antony's broth, and applied the soothing balsam; yet planning the +while, to gain favour with the Prioress, by repeating to her, at the +first convenient opportunity, the naughty remarks concerning Mother +Sub-Prioress, now being made for her diversion, by the kind old woman +who had risked reproof, in order to bring to her, in her disgrace, both +food and consolation. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +THE KNIGHT OF THE BLOODY VEST + +"Nay, I have naught for thee this morning," said Mary Antony to the +robin; "naught, that is, save spritely conversation. I can tell thee a +tale or two; I can give thee sage advice; but, in my wallet, little +Master Mendicant, I have but my bag of peas." + +The old lay-sister sat resting in the garden. She had had a busy hour, +yet complicated in its busy-ness, for, starting out to do weeding, she +had presently fancied herself intent upon making a posy, and now, sat +upon the stone seat beneath the beech tree, holding a large nosegay +made up of many kinds of flowering weeds, arranged with much care, and +bound round with convolvulus tendrils. + +Keen and uncommon shrewd though old Antony certainly was in many ways, +her great age occasionally betrayed itself by childish vagaries. Her +mind would start off along the lines of a false premise, landing her +eventually in a dream-like conclusion. As now, when waking from a +moment's nodding in the welcome shade, she wondered why her old back +seemed well-nigh broken, and marvelled to find herself holding a big +posy of dandelions, groundsel, plantain, and bindweed. + +On the other end of the seat, stood the robin. The beech was just near +enough to the cloisters, the pieman's tree, and his own particular yew +hedge, to come within his little kingdom. + +Having mentioned her bag of peas, Mary Antony experienced an +irresistible desire to view them and, moreover, to display them before +the bright eyes of the robin. + +She laid the queer nosegay down upon the grass at her feet, turned +sidewise on the stone slab, and drew the bag from her wallet. + +"Now, Master Pieman!" she said. "At thine own risk thou doest it; but +with thine own bright eyes thou shalt see the holy Ladies; the Unnamed, +all like peas in a pod, as the Lord knows they do look, when they walk +to and fro; but first, if so be that I can find them, the Few which I +distinguish from among the rest." + +Presently, after much peering into the bag, the fine white pea, the +wizened pea, and the pale and speckled pea, lay in line upon the stone. + +"This," explained Mary Antony, pointing, with knobby forefinger, to the +first, "is the Reverend Mother, Herself--large, and pure, and +noble. . . . Nay, hop not too close, Sir Redbreast! When we enter her +chamber we kneel at the threshold, till she bids us draw nearer. True, +_we_ are merely soberly-clad, holy women, whereas _thou_ art a gay, +gaudy man; bold-eyed, and, doubtless, steeped in sin. But even thou +must keep thy distance, in presence of this most Reverend Pea of great +price. + +"This," indicating the shrivelled pea, "is Mother Sub-Prioress, who +would love to have the whipping of thee, thou naughty little rascal! + +"This is Sister Mary Rebecca who daily grows more crooked, both in mind +and body; yet who ever sweetly smileth. + +"Now will I show thee, if so be that I can find her, Sister Teresa, a +kindly soul and gracious, but with a sniff which may be heard in the +kitchens when that holy Lady taketh her turn at the Refectory reading. +And when, the reading over, having sniffed every other minute, she at +length, feels free to blow, beshrew me, Master Redbreast, one might +think our old dun cow had just been parted from a newly-born calf. +Yea, a kind, gracious soul; but noisy about the nose, and forgetful of +the ears of other people, her own necessity seeming excuse enough for +veritable trumpet blasts." + +Mary Antony, half turning as she talked, peered into the open bag in +search of Sister Teresa. + +Then, quick as thought, the unexpected happened. + +Three rapid hops, a jerky bend of the red breast, a flash of wings---- + +The robin had flown off with the white pea! The shrivelled and the +speckled alone remained upon the seat. + +Uttering a cry of horror and dismay, the old lay-sister fell upon her +knees, lifting despairing hands to trees and sky. + + +Down by the lower wall, in earnest meditation, the Prioress moved back +and forth, on the Cypress Walk. + +Mary Antony's shriek of dismay, faint but unmistakable, reached her +ears. Turning, she passed noiselessly up the green sward, on the +further side of the yew hedge; but paused, in surprise, as she drew +level with the beech; for the old lay-sister's voice penetrated the +hedge, and the first words she overheard seemed to the Prioress wholly +incomprehensible. + +"Ah, thou Knight of the Bloody Vest!" moaned Mary Antony. "Heaven send +thy wicked perfidy may fall on thine own pate! Intruding thyself into +our most private places; begging food, which could not be refused; +wheedling old Mary Antony into letting thee have a peep at the holy +Ladies--thou bold, bad man!--and then carrying off the Reverend Mother, +Herself! Ha! Hadst thou but caught away Mother Sub-Prioress, she +would have reformed thy home, whipped thy children, and mended thine +own vile manners, thou graceless churl! Or hadst thou taken Sister +Mary Rebecca, _she_ would have brought the place about thine ears, +telling thy wife fine tales of thine unfaithfulness; whispering that +Mary Antony is younger and fairer than she. But, nay, forsooth! +Neither of these will do! Thou must needs snatch away the Reverend +Mother, Herself! Oh, sacrilegious fiend! Stand not there mocking me! +Where is the Reverend Mother?" + +"Why, here am I, dear Antony," said the Prioress, in soothing tones, +coming quickly from behind the hedge. + +One glance revealed, to her relief, that the lay-sister was alone. +Tears ran down the furrows of her worn old face. She knelt upon the +grass; beside her a large nosegay of flowering weeds; upon the seat, +peas strewn from out a much-used, linen bag. Above her on a bough, a +robin perched, bending to look, with roguish eye, at the scattered peas. + +To the Prioress it seemed that indeed the old lay-sister must have +taken leave of her senses. + +Stooping, she tried to raise her; but Mary Antony, flinging herself +forward, clasped and kissed the Reverend Mother's feet, in an +abandonment of penitence and grief. + +"Nay, rise, dear Antony," said the Prioress, firmly. "Rise! I command +it. The day is warm. Thou hast been dreaming. No bold, bad man has +forced his way within these walls. No 'Knight of the Bloody Vest' is +here. Rise up and look. We are alone." + +But Mary Antony, still on her knees, half raised herself, and, pointing +to the bough above, quavered, amid her sobs: "The bold, bad man is +there!" + +Looking up, the Prioress met the bright eye of the robin, peeping down. + +Why, surely? Yes! There was the "Bloody Vest." + +The Prioress smiled. She began to understand. + +The robin burst into a stream of triumphant song. At which, old Mary +Antony, still kneeling, shook her uplifted fist. + +The Prioress raised and drew her to the seat. + +"Now sit thee here beside me," she said, "and make full confession. +Ease thine old heart by telling me the entire tale. Then I will pass +sentence on the robin if, true to his name, he turns out to be a thief." + +So there, in the Convent garden, while the robin sang overhead, the +Prioress listened to the quaint recital; the dread of making mistake in +the daily counting; the elaborate plan of dropping peas; the manner in +which the peas became identified with the personalities of the White +Ladies; the games in the cell; the taming of the robin; the habit of +sharing with the little bird, interests which might not be shared with +others, which had resulted that morning in the display of the peas, and +this undreamed of disaster--the abduction of the Reverend Mother. + +The Prioress listened with outward gravity, striving to conceal all +signs of the inward mirth which seized and shook her. But more than +once she had to turn her face from the peering eyes of Mary Antony, +striving anxiously to gather whether her chronicle of sins was placing +her outside the pale of possible forgiveness. + +The Prioress did not hasten the recital. She knew the importance, to +the mind with which she dealt, of even the most trivial detail. To be +checked or hurried, would leave Mary Antony with the sense of an +incomplete confession. + +Therefore, with infinite patience the Prioress listened, seated in the +sunlit garden, undisturbed, save for the silent passing, once or twice, +of a veiled figure through the cloisters, who, seeing the Reverend +Mother seated beneath the beech, did reverence and hastened on, looking +not again. + +When the garrulous old voice at last fell silent, the Prioress, with +kind hand, covered the restless fingers--clasping and unclasping in +anxious contortions--and firmly held them in folded stillness. + +Her first words were of a thing as yet unmentioned. + +"Dear Antony," she said, "is that thy posy lying at our feet?" + +"Ah, Reverend Mother," sighed the old lay-sister, "in this did I again +do wrong meaning to do right. Sister Mary Augustine, coming into the +kitchens with leave, from Mother Sub-Prioress, to make the pasties, and +desiring to be free to make them heavy--unhampered by my advice which, +of a surety, would have helped them to lightness--bade me go out and +weed the garden. + +"Weeding, I bethought me how much liefer I would be gathering a posy of +choicest flowers for our sweet Lady's shrine; and, thus thinking, I +began to do, not according to Sister Mary Augustine's hard task, but +according to mine own heart's promptings. Yet, when the posy was +finished, alack-a-day! it was a posy of weeds!" + +Tears filled the eyes of the Prioress; at first she could not trust her +voice to make reply. + +Then, stooping she picked up the nosegay. + +"Our Lady shall have it," she said. "I will place it before her +shrine, in mine own cell. She will understand--knowing how often, +though the hands perforce do weeding, yet, all the time, the heart is +gathering choicest flowers. + +"Aye, and sometimes when we bring to God offerings of fairest flowers, +He sees but worthless weeds. And, when we mourn, because we have but +weeds to offer, He sees them fragrant blossoms. Whatever, to the eye +of man, the hand may hold, God sees therein the bouquet of the heart's +intention." + +The Prioress paused, a look of great gladness on her face; then, as she +saw the old lay-sister still eyeing her posy with dissatisfaction: +"And, after all, dear Antony," she said, "who shall decide which +flowers shall be dubbed 'weeds'? No plant of His creation, however +humble, was called a 'weed' by the Creator. When, for man's sin, He +cursed the ground, He said: 'Thorns also and thistles shall it cause to +bud.' Well? Sharpest thorns are found around the rose; the thistle is +the royal bloom of Scotland; and, if our old white ass could speak her +mind, doubtless she would call it King of Flowers. + +"Nowhere in Holy Books, is any plant named a 'weed.' It is left to man +to proclaim that the flowers he wants not, are weeds. + +"Look at each one of these. Could you or I, labouring for years, with +all our skill, make anything so perfect as the meanest of these weeds? + +"Nay; they are weeds, because they grow, there where they should not +be. The gorgeous scarlet poppy is a weed amid the corn. If roses +overgrew the wheat, we should dub them weeds, and root them out. + +"And some of us have had, perforce, so to deal with the roses in our +lives; those sweet and fragrant things which overgrew our offering of +the wheat of service, our sacrifice of praise and prayer. + +"Perhaps, when our weeds are all torn out, and cast in a tangled heap +before His Feet, our Lord beholds in them a garland of choice blossoms. +The crown of thorns on earth, may prove, in Paradise, a diadem of +flowers." + +The Prioress laid the posy on the seat beside her. + +"Now, Antony, about thy games with peas. There is no wrong in keeping +count with peas of those who daily walk to and from Vespers; though, I +admit, it seems to me, it were easier to count one, two, three, with +folded hands, than to let fall the peas from one hand to the other, +beneath thy scapulary. Howbeit, a method which would be but a pitfall +to one, may prove a prop to another. So I give thee leave to continue +to count with thy peas. Also the games in thy cell are harmless, and +lead me to think, as already I have sometimes thought, that games with +balls or rings, something in which eye guides the hand, and mind the +eye, might be helpful for all, on summer evenings. + +"But I cannot have thee take upon thyself to decide the future state of +the White Ladies. Who art thou, to send me to Paradise with a fillip +of thine old finger-nail, yet to keep our excellent Sub-Prioress in +Purgatory? Shame upon thee, Mary Antony!" But the sternness of the +Reverend Mother's tone was belied by the merriment in her grey eyes. + +"So no more of that, my Antony; though, truth to tell, thy story gives +me relief, answering a question I was meaning to put to thee. I heard, +not an hour ago, that Sister Antony had boasted that with a turn of her +thumb and finger she could, any night, send Mother Sub-Prioress to +Purgatory." + +"Who said that of me?" stuttered Mary Antony. "Who said it, Reverend +Mother?" + +"A little bird," murmured the Prioress. "A little bird, dear Antony; +but not thy pretty robin. Also, the boast was taken to mean poison in +the broth of Mother Sub-Prioress. Hast thou ever put harmful things in +the broth of Mother Sub-Prioress?" + +Mary Antony slipped to her knees. + +"Only beans, Reverend Mother, castor beans; and, when her temper was +vilest, purging herbs. Nothing more, I swear it! Old Antony knows +naught of poisons; only of mixing balsams--ah, ha!--and soothing +ointments! Our blessed Lady knows the tale is false." + +Hastily the Prioress lifted the nosegay and buried her face in bindweed +and dandelions. + +"I believe thee," she said, in a voice not over steady. "Rise from thy +knees. But, remember, I forbid thee to put aught into Mother +Sub-Prioress's broth, save things that soothe and comfort. Give me +thy word for this, Antony." + +The old woman humbly lifted the hem of the Prioress's robe, and pressed +it to her lips. + +"I promise, Reverend Mother," she said, "and I do repent me of my sin." + +"Sit beside me," commanded the Prioress. "I have more to say to +thee. . . . Think not hard thoughts of the Sub-Prioress. She is +stern, and extreme to mark what is done amiss, but this she conceives +to be her duty. She is a most pious Lady. Her zeal is but a sign of +her piety." + +Mary Antony's keen eyes, meeting those of the Prioress, twinkled. + +Once again the Prioress took refuge in the posy. She was beginning to +have had enough of the scent of dandelions. + +"Mother Sub-Prioress is sick," she said. "The cold struck her last +evening, after sunset, in the orchard. I have bidden her to keep her +bed awhile. We must tend her kindly, Antony, and help her back to +health again. + +"Sister Mary Rebecca is also sick, with pains in her bones and slight +fever. She too keeps her bed to-day. Strive to feel kindly toward +her, Antony. I know she oft thinks evil where none was meant, telling +tales of wrong which are mostly of her own imagining. But, in so +doing, she harms herself more than she can harm others. + +"By stirring up the mud in a dark pool, you dim the reflection of the +star which, before, shone bright within it. But you do not dim the +star, shining on high. + +"So is it with the slanderous thoughts of evil minds. They stir up +their own murkiness; but they fail to dim the stars. + +"We must bear with Sister Mary Rebecca." + +"Go not nigh them, Reverend Mother," begged old Antony. "I will tend +them with due care and patience. These pains in bones, and general +shiverings, are given quickly from one to another. I pray you, go not +near. Remember--_you_ were taken--alas! alas!--and _they_ were left!" + +At this the Prioress laughed, gaily. + +"But I was not taken decently, with pains in my bones and a-bed, dear +Antony. I was carried off by a bold, bad man--thy Knight of the Bloody +Vest." + +"Oh, pray!" cried the old lay-sister. "I fear me it is an omen. The +angel Gabriel, Reverend Mother, sent to bear you from earth to heaven. +'The one shall be taken, and the other left.' Ah, if he had but flown +off with Mother Sub-Prioress!" + +The Prioress laughed again. "Dear Antony, thy little bird took the +first pea he saw. Had there but been a crumb, or a morsel of cheese, +he would have left thee thy white pea. . . Hark how he sings his +little song of praise! . . . Is it not wonderful to call to mind how, +centuries ago, when white-robed Druids cut mistletoe from British oaks, +the robin redbreast hopped around, and sang; when, earlier still, men +were wild and savage, dwelling in holes and caves and huts of mud, when +churches and cloisters were unknown in this land and the one true God +undreamed of, robins mated and made their nests, the speckled thrushes +sang, 'Do it now--Do it now,' as they sought food for their young, the +blackbirds whistled, and the swallows flashed by on joyous wing. Aye, +and when Eve and Adam walked in Eden, amid strange beasts and gaily +plumaged birds, here--in these Isles--the robin redbreast sang, and all +our British birds busily built their nests and reared their young; +living their little joyous lives, as He Who made them taught them how +to do. + +"And, in the centuries to come, when all things may be changed in this +our land, when we shall long have gone to dust, when our loved +cloisters may have crumbled into ruin; still the hills of Malvern will +stand, and the silvery Severn flow along the valley; while here, in +this very garden--if it be a garden still--the robin will build his +nest, and carol his happy song. + +"Mark you this, dear Mary Antony: all things made by man hold within +them the elements of change and of decay. But nature is at one with +God, and therefore immutable. Earthly kingdoms may rise and wane; +mighty cities may spring up, then fall into ruin. Nations may conquer +and, in their turn, be conquered. Man may slay man and, in his turn, +be slain. But, through it all, the mountains stand, the rivers flow, +the forests wave, and the redbreast builds his nest in the hawthorn, +and warbles a love-song to his mate." + +The Prioress rose and stretched wide her arms to the sunlit garden, to +the bough where the robin sang. + +"Oh, to be one with God and with Nature!" she cried. "Oh, to know the +essential mysteries of Life and Light and Love! This is Life Eternal!" + +She had forgotten the old lay-sister; aye, for the moment she had +forgotten the Convent and the cloister, the mile-long walk in darkness, +the chant of the unseen monks. She trod again the springy heather of +her youth; she heard the rush of the mountain stream; the sigh of the +great forest; the rustle of the sunlit glades, alive with, life. These +all were in the robin's song. Then---- + +Within the Convent, the Refectory bell clanged loudly. + +The Prioress let fall her arms. + +She picked up the nosegay of weeds. + +"Come, Antony," she said, "let us go and discover whether Sister Mary +Augustine hath contrived to make the pasties light and savoury, even +without the aid of the advice she might have had from thee." + +Old Mary Antony, gleeful and marvelling, followed the stately figure of +the Prioress. Never was shriven soul more blissfully at peace. She +had kept back nothing; yet the Reverend Mother had imposed no +punishment, had merely asked a promise which, in the fulness of her +gratitude, Mary Antony had found it easy to give. + +Truly the broth of Mother Sub-Prioress should, for the future, contain +naught but what was grateful and soothing. + +But, as she entered the Refectory behind the Reverend Mother and saw +all the waiting nuns arise, old Mary Antony laid her finger to her nose. + +"That 'little bird' shall have the castor beans," she said, "That +'little bird' shall have them. Not my pretty robin, but the other!" + +And, sad to say, poor Sister Seraphine was sorely griped that night, +and suffered many pangs. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +THE MADONNA IN THE CLOISTER + +The Prioress knelt, in prayer and meditation, before the figure of the +Virgin Mother holding upon her knees the holy Babe. + +Moonlight flooded the cell with a pure radiance. + +Mary Antony's posy of weeds, offered, according to promise, at the +Virgin's shrine, took on, in that silver splendour, the semblance of +lilies and roses. + +The Prioress knelt long, with clasped hands and bowed head, as white +and as motionless as the marble before her. But at length she lifted +her face, and broke into low pleading. + +"Mother of God," she said, "help this poor aching heart; still the wild +hunger at my breast. Make me content to be at one with the Divine, and +to let Nature go. . . . Thou knowest it is not the _man_ I want. In +all the long years since he played traitor to his troth to me, I have +not wanted the man. The woman he wed may have him, unbegrudged by me. +I do not envy her the encircling of his arms, though time was when I +felt them strong and tender. I do not want the man, but--O, sweet +Mother of God--I want the man's little child! I envy her the +motherhood which, but for her, would have been mine. . . . I want the +soft dark head against my breast. . . . I want sweet baby lips drawing +fresh life from mine. . . . I want the little feet, resting together +in my hand. . . . All Nature sings of life, and the power to bestow +life. Yet mine arms are empty, and my strength does but carry mine own +self to and fro. . . . Oh, give me grace to turn my thoughts from Life +to Sacrifice." + +The Prioress rose, crossed the floor, and knelt long in prayer and +contemplation before the crucifix. + +The moonlight fell upon the dying face of the suffering Saviour, upon +the crown of thorns, the helpless arms out-stretched, the bleeding feet. + +O, Infinite Redeemer! O, mighty Sacrifice! O, Love of God, made +manifest! + + +The Prioress knelt long in adoring contemplation. At intervals she +prostrated herself, pressing her forehead against the base of the cross. + + +At length she rose and moved toward the inner room, where stood her +couch. + +But even as she reached the threshold she turned quickly back, and +kneeling before the Virgin and Child clasped the little marble foot of +the Babe, covered it with kisses, and pressed it to her breast. + +Then, lifting despairing eyes to the tender face of the Madonna: "O, +Mother of God," she cried, "grant unto me to love the pierced feet of +thy dear Son crucified, more than I love the little, baby feet of the +Infant Jesus on thy knees." + +A great calm fell upon her after this final prayer. It seemed, of a +sudden, more efficacious than all the long hours of vigil. She felt +persuaded that it would be granted. + +She rose to her feet, almost too much dazed and too weary to cross to +the inner cell. + +A breath of exquisite fragrance filled the air. + +At the feet of the Madonna stood a wondrous bouquet of lilies of the +valley and white roses. + +Pale but radiant, the Prioress passed into her sleeping-chamber. The +loving heart of old Mary Antony had been full of lilies and roses. It +was not her fault that her old hands had been filled with weeds. +Divine Love, understanding, had wrought this gracious miracle. + +As the Prioress stretched herself upon her couch, she murmured softly: +"The Lord seeth not as man seeth: for man looketh on the outward +appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart. + +"And, after all, this miracle of the Divine perception doth take place +daily. + +"Alas, when our vaunted roses and lilies appear, in His sight, as mere +worthless weeds. + +"The Lord looketh on the heart." + + * * * * * * + +When the Prioress awoke, the sunlight filled her chamber. + +She hastened to the archway between the cells, and looked. + +The dandelions seemed more gaily golden, in the morning light. The +bindweed had faded. + +The Prioress was disappointed. She had counted upon sending early for +old Mary Antony. She had pictured her bewildered joy. Yet now the +nosegay was as before. + +Morning light is ever a test for transformations. Things are apt to +look again as they were. + +But a fragrance of roses and lilies still lingered in the chamber. + +The blessed Virgin smiled upon the Babe. + +And there was peace in the heart of the Prioress. Her long vigil, her +hours of prayer, had won for her the sense of a calm certainty of +coming victory. + +Strong in that certainty, she bent, and gently kissed the little feet +of the holy Babe. + + +Then, as was her wont, she sounded the bell which called the entire +community to arise, and to begin a new day. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +ON THE WINGS OF THE STORM + +In the afternoon of that day, Mary Antony awaited, in the cloisters, +the return of the White Ladies from Vespers. Twenty only, had gone; +and, fearful lest she should make mistake with the unusual number, the +old lay-sister spent the time of waiting in counting the twenty peas +afresh, passing them back and forth from one hand to the other. + +Mother Sub-Prioress was still unable to leave her bed. + +Sister Mary Augustine stayed to tend her. + +Sister Teresa was in less pain, but fevered still, and strangely weak. +The Reverend Mother forbade her to rise. + +Shortly before the bell rang calling the nuns to form procession in the +cloisters, Sister Seraphine declared herself unable for the walk, and +begged to be allowed to remain behind. The Prioress found herself +misdoubting this sudden indisposition of Sister Seraphine who, though +flushed and excited, shewed none of the usual signs of sickness. + +Not wishing, however, to risk having a third patient upon her hands, +the Reverend Mother gave leave for her to stay, but also elected to +remain behind, herself; letting Sister Mary Rebecca, who had recovered +from her indisposition, lead the procession. + +Thus the Reverend Mother contrived to keep Sister Seraphine with her +during the absence of the other nuns, giving her translations from the +Sacramentaries to copy upon strips of vellum, until shortly before the +hour when the White Ladies would return from Vespers, when she sent her +to her cell for the time of prayer and meditation. + +Left alone, the Prioress examined the copies, fairly legible, but sadly +unlike her own beautiful work. She sighed and, putting them away, rose +and paced the room, questioning how best to deal with the pretty but +wayward young nun. + +Two definite causes led the Prioress to mistrust Sister Seraphine: one, +that she had called upon "Wilfred" to come and save her, and had +admitted having expected him to appear and carry her off before she +made her final profession; the other, that she had tried to start an +evil report concerning the old lay-sister, Mary Antony. The Prioress +pondered what means to take in order to bring Sister Seraphine to a +better mind. + +As the Prioress walked to and fro, unconsciously missing the daily +exercise of the passage to the Cathedral, she noted a sudden darkening +of her chamber. Going to the window, she saw the sky grown black with +thunder clouds. So quickly the storm gathered, that the bright summer +world without seemed suddenly hung over with a deep purple pall. + +Birds screamed and darted by, on hurried wing; then, reaching home, +fell silent. All nature seemed to hold its breath, awaiting the first +flash, and the first roll of thunder. + +Still standing at her window, the Prioress questioned whether the nuns +were returned, and safely in their cells. While underground they would +know nothing of it; but they loved not passing along the cloisters in a +storm. + +The Prioress wondered why she had not heard the bell announcing their +return, and calling to the hour of prayer and silence. Also why Mary +Antony had not brought in the key and her report. + +Thinking to inquire into this, she turned from the window, just as a +darting snake of fire cleft the sky. A crash of thunder followed; and, +at that moment, the door of the chamber bursting open, old Mary Antony, +breathless, stumbled in, forgetting to knock, omitting to kneel, not +waiting leave to speak, both hands outstretched, one tightly clenched, +the other holding the great key: "Oh, Reverend Mother!" she gasped. +Then the stern displeasure on that loved face silenced her. She +dropped upon her knees, ashen and trembling. + +Now the Prioress held personal fear in high scorn; and if, after ninety +years' experience of lightning and thunder, Mary Antony was not better +proof against their terrors, the Prioress felt scant patience with her. +She spoke sternly. + +"How now, Mary Antony! Why this unseemly haste? Why this rush into my +presence; no knock; no pause until I bid thee enter? Is the +storm-fiend at thy heels? Now shame upon thee!" + +For only answer, Mary Antony opened her clenched hand: whereupon twenty +peas fell pattering to the floor, chasing one another across the +Reverend Mother's cell. + +The Prioress frowned, growing suddenly weary of these games with peas. + +"Have the Ladies returned?" she asked. + +Mary Antony grovelled nearer, let fall the key, and seized the robe of +the Prioress with both hands, not to carry it to her lips, but to cling +to it as if for protection. + +With the clang of the key on the flags, a twisted blade of fire rent +the sky. + +As the roar which followed rolled away, echoed and re-echoed by distant +hills, the old lay-sister lifted her face. + +Her lips moved, her gums rattled; the terror in her eyes pleaded for +help. + +This was the moment when it dawned on the Prioress that there was more +here than fear of a storm. + +Stooping she laid her hands firmly, yet with kindness in their +strength, on the shaking shoulders. + +"What is it, dear Antony?" she said. + +"Twenty White Ladies went," whispered the old lay-sister. "I counted +them. Twenty White Ladies went; but----" + +"Well?" + +"_Twenty-one_ returned," chattered Mary Antony, and hid her face in the +Reverend Mother's robe. + +Two flashes, with their accompanying peals of thunder passed, before +the Prioress moved or spoke. Then raising Mary Antony she placed her +in a chair, disengaged her robe from the shaking hands, passed out into +the cell passage, and herself sounded the call to silence and prayer. + +Returning to her cell she shut the door, poured out a cordial and put +it to the trembling lips of Mary Antony. Then taking a seat just +opposite, she looked with calm eyes at the lay-sister. + +"What means this story?" said the Prioress. + +"Reverend Mother, twenty holy Ladies went----" + +"I know. And twenty returned." + +"Aye," said the old woman more firmly, nettled out of her +speechlessness; "twenty returned; and twenty peas I dropped from hand +to hand. Then--when no pea remained--yet another White Lady glided by; +and with her went an icy wind, and around her came the blackness of the +storm. + +"Down the steps I fled, locked the door, and took the key. How I +mounted again, I know not. As I drew level with the cloisters, I saw +that twenty-first White Lady, for whom--Saint Peter knows--I held no +pea, passing from the cloisters into the cell passage. As I hastened +on, fain to see whither she went, a blinding flash, like an evil +twisting snake, shot betwixt her and me. When I could see again, she +was gone. I fled to the Reverend Mother, and ran in on the roar of the +thunder." + +"Saw you her face, Mary Antony?" + +"Nay, Reverend Mother. But, of late, the holy Ladies mostly walk by +with their faces shrouded." + +"I know. Now, see here, dear Antony. Two peas dropped together, the +while you counted one." + +"Nay, Reverend Mother. Twenty peas dropped one by one; also I counted +twenty White Ladies. And, after I had counted twenty, yet another +passed." + +"But how could that be?" objected the Prioress. "If twenty went, but +twenty could return. Who should be the twenty-first?" + +Then old Mary Antony leaned forward, crossing herself. + +"Sister Agatha," she whispered, tremulously. "Poor Sister Agatha +returned to us again." + +But, even as she said it, swift came a name to the mind of the +Prioress, answering her own question, and filling her with +consternation and a great anger. "Wilfred! Wilfred, are you come to +save me?" foolish little Seraphine had said. Was such sacrilege +possible? Could one from the outside world have dared to intrude into +their holy Sanctuary? + +Yet old Antony's tale carried conviction. Her abject fear was now +explained. + +That the Dead should come again, and walk and move among the haunts of +men, seeking out the surroundings they have loved and left, seems +always to hold terror for the untutored mind, which knows not that the +Dead are more alive than the living; and that there is no death, saving +the death of sin. + +But to the Reverend Mother, guarding her flock from sin or shame, a +visitor from the Unseen World held less of horror than a possible +intruder from the Seen. + +A rapid glance as she sounded the bell, had shown her that the passage +was empty. + +Which cell now sheltered two, where there should be but one? + +The Prioress walked across to a recess near the south window, touched a +spring, and slid back a portion of the oak panelling. Passing her hand +into a secret hiding place in the wall, she drew forth a beautifully +fashioned dagger, with carved ivory handle, crossed metal thumb-guard, +blade of bevelled steel, polished and narrowing to a sharp needle +point. She tested the point, then slipped the weapon into her belt, +beneath her scapulary. As she closed the panel, and turned back into +the chamber, a light of high resolve was in her eyes. Her whole +bearing betokened so fine a fearlessness, such noble fixity of purpose +that, looking on her, Mary Antony felt her own fears vanishing. + +"Now listen, dear Antony," said the Prioress, holding the old woman +with her look. "I must make sure that this twenty-first White Lady of +thine is but a trick played on thee by thy peas. Should she be +anywhere in the Convent I shall most certainly have speech with her. + +"Meanwhile, go thou to thy kitchens, and give thy mind to the preparing +of the evening meal. But ring not the Refectory bell until I bid thee. +Nay, I myself will sound it this evening. It may suit me to keep the +nuns somewhat longer at their devotions. + +"Should I sound the alarm bell, let all thy helpers run up here; but go +thou to the cell of Mother Sub-Prioress and persuade her not to rise. +If needful say that it is my command that she keep her bed. . . . +Great heavens! What a crash! May our Lady defend us! The lightning +inclines to strike. I shall pass to each cell and make sure that none +are too greatly alarmed." + +"Now, haste thee, Antony; and not a word concerning thy fears must pass +thy lips to any; no mention of a twenty-first White Lady nor"--the +Prioress crossed herself--"of Sister Agatha, to whom may our Lord grant +everlasting rest." + +Mary Antony, kneeling, kissed the hem of the Prioress's robe. Then, +rising, she said--with unwonted solemnity and restraint: "The Lord +defend you, Reverend Mother, from foes, seen and unseen," and, followed +by another blinding flash of lightning, she left the cell. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +THE PRIORESS SHUTS THE DOOR + +The Prioress waited until the old lay-sister's shuffling footsteps died +away. + +Then she passed out into the long, stone passage, leaving her own door +open wide. + +Into each cell the Prioress went. + +In each she found a kneeling nun, absorbed in her devotions. In no +cell were there two white figures. So simple were the fittings of +these cells, that no place of concealment was possible. One look, from +the doorway, sufficed. + +Outside the cell of Sister Seraphine the Prioress paused, hearing words +within; then entered swiftly. But Sister Seraphine was alone, reciting +aloud, for love of hearing her own voice. + +The Prioress now moved toward the heavy door in the archway leading +into the cloisters. It opened inwards, and had been left standing +wide, by Mary Antony. Indeed, in summer it stood open day and night, +for coolness. + +As the Prioress walked along the dimly lighted passage, she could see, +through the open door, sheets of rain driving through the cloisters. +The storm-clouds had burst, at last, and were descending in floods. + +The Prioress stood in the shelter of the doorway, looking out into the +cloisters. The only places she could not view, were the entrance to +the subterranean way, and the flight of steps leading thereto. She +would have wished to examine these; but it seemed scarcely worth +passing into the driving rain, now sweeping through the cloister +arches. After all, whatever possible danger lurked down those steps, +the safety of the Convent would be assured if she closed this door, +between the passage and the cloisters, and locked it. + +Stepping back into the passage, she seized the heavy door and swung it +to, noting as she did so, how far too heavy it was for the feeble arms +of old Mary Antony, and deciding for the future to allot the task of +closing it to a young lay-sister, leaving to Mary Antony merely the +responsibility of turning the key in the lock. + +This the Prioress was herself proceeding to do, when something impelled +her to turn her eyes to the angle of wall laid bare by the closing of +the door. + +In that dark corner, motionless, with shrouded face, stood a tall +figure, garbed in the dress of the nuns of the Order of the White +Ladies of Worcester. + + +Perhaps the habit of silence is never of greater value than in moments +of sudden shock and horror. + +One cry from the Prioress would have meant the instant opening of many +doors, and the arrival, on flying feet, of a score of frightened nuns. + +Instead of screaming, the Prioress stood silent and perfectly still; +while every pulse in her body ceased beating, during one moment of +uncontrollable, cold horror. Then, with a leap, her heart went on; +pounding so loudly, that she could hear it in the silence. Yet she +kept command of every impulse which drove to sound or motion. + +Before long her pulses quieted; her heart, beating steadily, was once +again the well-managed steed upon which her high courage could ride to +victory. + +And, all the while, her eyes never left the white figure; knowing it +knew itself discovered and observed. + +Her hand was still upon the key. + +She turned it, and withdrew it from the lock. + +A deafening crash of thunder shook the walls. A swirl of wind and rain +beat on the door. + +When the last echo of the thunder had died away, the Prioress spoke; +and that calm voice, sounding amid the storm, fell on the only ears +that heard it, like the Voice of Power on Galilee, which bid the +tempest cease, and the wild waves be still. + + +"Who art thou, and what doest thou here?" + +The figure answered not. + +"Art thou a ghostly visitor come back amongst us, from the Realm of the +Unseen?" + +The figure made no sign. "Art thou then flesh and blood, and mortal as +ourselves?" + +Slowly the figure bowed its head. + +"Now I adjure thee by our blessed Lady to tell me truly. Art thou, in +very deed a holy nun, a member of our sacred Order? Answer me, yea or +nay?" + +The figure shook its head. + +The Prioress advanced a step, passed the key into her left hand and, +slipping her right beneath her scapulary, took firm grip of the dagger +at her girdle. + +"Then, masquerader in our sacred dress," she said, "to me you have to +answer for double sacrilege: the wearing of these robes, and your +presence here, unbidden. I warn you that your life has never hung by +frailer thread than now it hangs. Your only hope of safety lies in +doing as I bid you. Pass before me along this passage until you reach +a chamber on the right, of which the door stands open. Enter, and +place yourself against the wall on the side farthest from the door. +There I will speak with you." + +With the shuffling steps of a woman, and the bent shoulders of the very +old, the figure moved slowly forward, stepped upon the front of the +white robe, stumbled, but recovered. + +The Prioress watching, laughed--a short scornful laugh, holding more of +anger than of merriment. + +With an abrupt movement the figure straightened, stood at its full +height, and strode forward. The Prioress marked the squaring of the +broad shoulders; the height, greater than her own, though she was more +than common tall; the stride, beneath the folds of the long robe; and +she knit her level brows, for well she knew with whom she had to deal. +She was called to face a desperate danger. Single-handed, she had to +meet a subtle foe. She asked no help from others, but she took no +needless risks. + +As she passed the cell of Mary Seraphine, using her master-key, she +locked that lady in! + + + + +CHAPTER X + +"I KNOW YOU FOR A MAN" + +Entering her cell, the Prioress saw at once that her orders had been +obeyed. + +The hooded figure stood on the far side of the chamber, leaning broad +shoulders against the wall. Under the cape, the arms were folded; she +could see that the feet were crossed beneath the robe. The dress was +indeed the dress of a White Lady, but the form within it was so +obviously that of a man--a big man, at bay, and inclined to be +defiant--that, despite the strange situation, despite her anger, and +her fears, the contrast between the holy habit and its hidden wearer, +forced from the Prioress an unwilling smile. + +Closing the door, she drew forward a chair of dark Spanish wood, the +gift of the Lord Bishop; a chair which well betokened the dignity of +her high office. + +Seating herself, she laid her left hand lightly upon the mane of one of +the carved lions which formed, on either side, the arms of the chair; +but her right hand still gripped unseen the ivory hilt; while leaning +slightly forward, with feet firmly planted, she was ready at any moment +to spring erect. + +"I know you for a man," she said. + +The thunder rumbled far away in the distance. + +The rain still splashed against the casement, but the storm had spent +itself; the sky was brightening. A pale slant of sunshine broke +through the parting clouds and, entering the casement, gleamed on the +jewelled cross at the breast of the Prioress, and kindled into peculiar +radiance the searching light of her clear eyes. + +"I know you for a man," she said again. "You stand there, revealed; +and surely you stand there, shamed. By plotting and planning, by +assuming our dress, you have succeeded in forcing your undesired +presence into this sacred cloister, where dwells a little company of +women who have left the world, never to return to it again; who have +given up much in order to devote themselves to a life of continual +worship and adoration, gaining thereby a power in intercession which +brings down blessing upon those who still fight life's battles in the +world without. + +"But it has meant the breaking of many a tender tie. There are fathers +and brothers dear to them, whom the nuns would love to see again; but +they cannot do so, save, on rare occasions, in the guest-room at the +gate; and then, with the grille between. + +"Saving Bishop or Priest, no foot of man may tread our cloisters; no +voice of man may be heard in these cells. + +"Yet--by trick and subterfuge--you have intruded. Methinks I scarce +should let you leave this place alive, to boast what you have done." + +The Prioress paused. + +The figure stood, with folded arms, immovable, leaning against the +wall. There was a quality in this motionless silence such as the +Prioress had not connected with her idea of Mary Seraphine's "Cousin +Wilfred." + +This was not a man to threaten. Her threat came back to her, as if she +had flung it against a stone wall. She tried another line of reasoning. + +"I know you, Sir Wilfred," she said. "And I know why you are here. +You have come to tempt away, or mayhap, if possible, to force away one +of our number who but lately took her final vows. There was a time, +not long ago, when you might have thwarted her desire to seek and find +the best and highest. But now you come too late. No bride of Heaven +turns from her high estate. Her choice is made. She will abide by it; +and so, Sir Knight, must you." + +The rain had ceased. The storm was over. Sunshine flooded the cell. + +Once more the Prioress spoke, and her voice was gentle. + +"I know the disappointment to you must be grievous. You took great +risks; you adventured much. How long you have plotted this intrusion, +I know not. You have been thwarted in your evil purpose by the +faithfulness of one old woman, our aged lay-sister, Mary Antony, who +never fails to count the White Ladies as they go and as they return, +and who reported at once to me that one more had returned than went. + +"Do you not see in this the Hand of God? Will you not bow in penitence +before Him, confessing the sinfulness of the thing you had in mind to +do?" + +The shrouded head was lifted higher, as if with a proud gesture of +disavowal. At the same time, the hood slightly parting, the hand of a +man, lean and brown, gripped it close. + + +The Prioress looked long at that lean, brown hand. + + +Then she rose slowly to her feet. + + +"Shew me--thy--face," she said; and the tension of each word was like a +naked blade passing in and out of quivering flesh. + +At sound of it the figure stood erect, took one step forward, flung +back the hood, tore open the robe and scapulary, loosing his arms from +the wide sleeves. + +And--as the hood fell back--the Prioress found herself looking into a +face she had not thought to see again in life--the face of him who once +had been her lover. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +THE YEARS ROLL BACK + +"Hugh!" exclaimed the Prioress. + +And again, in utter bewilderment: "Hugh?" + +And yet a third time, in a low whisper of horror, passing her left hand +across her eyes, as if to clear from her outer vision some nightmare of +the inner mind: "Hugh!" + +The silent Knight still made no answer; but he flung aside the clinging +robes, stepped from out them, and strode forward, both arms +outstretched. + +"Back!" cried the Prioress. But her hand had left the hilt of the +dagger. "Come no nearer," she commanded. + +Then she sank into her chair, spreading her trembling hands upon the +carven manes of the lions. + +The Knight, still silent, folded his arms across his breast. + +Thus for a space they gazed on one another--these two, who had parted, +eight years before, with clinging lips and straining arms, a deep, pure +passion of love surging within them; a union of heart, made closer by +the wrench of outward separation. + +The Knight looked at the lips of the noble woman before him; and as he +looked those firm lips quivered, trembled, parted---- + +Then--the years rolled back---- + + * * * * * * + +It was moonlight on the battlements. The horses champed in the +courtyard below. They two had climbed to the topmost turret, that they +might part as near the stars as possible, and that, unseen by others, +she might watch him ride away. + +How radiant she looked, in her robe of sapphire velvet, jewels at her +breast and girdle, a mantle of ermine hanging from her shoulders. But +brighter than any jewels were the eyes full of love and tears; and +softer than softest velvet, the beautiful hair which, covered her, as +with a golden veil. Standing with his arms around her, it flowed over +his hands. Silent he stood, looking deep into her eyes. + +Below they could hear Martin Goodfellow calling to the men-at-arms. + +Her lips being free, she spoke. + +"Thou wilt come back to me, Hugh," she said. "The Saracens will not +slay thee, will not wound thee, will not touch thee. My love will ever +be around thee, as a silver shield." + +She flung her strong young arms about him, long and supple, enfolding +him closely, even as his enfolded her. + +He filled his hands with her soft hair, straining her closer. + +"I would I left thee wife, not maid. Could I have wed thee first, I +would go with a lighter heart." + +"Wife or maid," she answered, her face lifted to his, "I am all thine +own. Go with a light heart, dear man of mine, for it makes no +difference. Maid or wife, I am thine, and none other's, forever." + +"Let those be the last words I hear thee say," he murmured, as his lips +sought hers. + +So, a little later, standing above him on the turret steps, she bent +and clasped her hands about his head, pushing her fingers into the +thickness of his hair. Then: "Maid or wife," she said, and her voice +now steady, was deep and tender; "Maid or wife, God knows, I am all +thine own." Then she caught his face to her breast. "Thine and none +other's, forever," she said; and he felt her bosom heave with one deep +sob. + +Then turning quickly he ran down the winding stair, reached the +courtyard, mounted, and rode out through the gates of Castle Norelle, +and into the fir wood; and so down south to follow the King, who +already had started on the great Crusade. + +And, as he rode, in moonlight or in shadow, always he saw the sweet +lips that trembled, always he felt the soft heave of that sob, and the +low voice so tender, said: "Thine and none other's, forever." + + * * * * * * + +And now---- + +The Prioress sat in her chair of state. + +Each moment her face grew calmer and more stern. + +The Knight let his eyes dwell on the fingers which once crept so +tenderly into his hair. + +She hid them beneath her scapulary, as if his gaze scorched them. + +He looked at the bosom against which his head had been pressed. + +A jewelled cross gleamed, there where his face had laid hidden. + +Then the Knight lifted his eyes again to that stern, cold face. Yet +still he kept silence. + +At length the Prioress spoke. + +"So it is you," she said. + +"Yes," said the Knight, "it is I." + +Wroth with her own poor heart because it thrilled at his voice, the +Prioress spoke with anger. + +"How did you dare to force your way into this sacred cloister?" + +The Knight smiled. "I have yet to find the thing I dare not do." + +"Why are you not with your wife?" demanded the Prioress; and her tone +was terrible. + +"I am with my wife," replied the Knight. "The only wife I have ever +wanted, the only woman I shall ever wed, is here." + +"Coward!" cried the Prioress, white with anger. "Traitor!" She leaned +forward, clenching her hands upon the lions' heads. "Liar! You wedded +your cousin, Alfrida, less than one year after you went from me." + +"Cease to be angry," said the Knight. "Thine anger affrights me not, +yet it hurts thyself. Listen, mine own beloved, and I will tell thee +the cruel, and yet blessed, truth. + +"Seven months after I left thee, a messenger reached our camp, bearing +letters from England; no word for me from thee; but a long missive from +thy half-sister Eleanor, breaking to me the news that, being weary of +my absence, and somewhat over-persuaded, thou hadst wedded Humphry; +Earl of Carnforth. + +"It was no news to me, that Humphry sought to win thee; but, that thou +hadst let thyself be won away from thy vow to me, was hell's own +tidings. + +"In my first rage of grief I would have speech with none. But, +by-and-by, I sought the messenger, and asked him casually of things at +home. He told me he had seen thy splendid nuptials with the lord of +Carnforth, had been present at the marriage, and joined in the after +revels and festivities. He said thou didst make a lovely bride, but +somewhat sad, as if thy mind strayed elsewhere. The fellow was a kind +of lawyer's clerk, but lean, and out at elbow. + +"Then I sought 'Frida, my cousin. She too had had a letter, giving the +news. She told me she long had feared this thing for me, knowing the +heart of Humphry to be set on winning thee, and that Eleanor approved +his suit, and having already heard that of late thou hadst inclined to +smile on him. She begged me to do nothing rash or hasty. + +"'What good were it,' she said, 'to beg the King for leave to hasten +home? If you kill Humphry, Hugh, you do but make a widow of the woman +you have loved; nor could you wed the widow of a man yourself had +slain. If Humphry kills you--well, a valiant arm is lost to the Holy +Cause, and other hearts, more faithful than hers, may come nigh to +breaking. Stay here, and play the man.' + +"So, by the messenger, I sent thee back a letter, asking thee to write +me word how it was that thou, being my betrothed, hadst come to do this +thing; and whether Humphry was good to thee, and making thy life +pleasant. To Humphry I sent a letter saying that, thy love being round +him as a silver shield, I would not slay him, wound him, or touch him! +But--if he used thee ill, or gave thee any grief or sorrow, then would +I come, forthwith, and send him straight to hell. + +"These letters, with others from the camp, went back to England by that +clerkly messenger. No answers were returned to mine. + +"Meanwhile I went, with my despair, out to the battlefield. + +"No tender shield was round me any more. I fought, like a mad wild +beast. So often was I wounded, that they dubbed me 'The Knight of the +Bloody Vest.' + +"At last they brought me back to camp, delirious and dying. My cousin +'Frida, there biding her time, nursed me back to life, and sought to +win for herself (I shame to say it) the love which thou hadst flouted. +I need not tell thee, my cousin 'Frida failed. The Queen herself as +good as bid me wed her favourite Lady. The Queen herself had to +discover that she could command an English soldier's life, but not his +love. + +"Back in the field again, I found myself one day, cut off, surrounded, +hewn down, taken prisoner; but by a generous foe. + +"Thereafter followed years of much adventure; escapes, far distant +wanderings, strange company. Many months I spent in a mountain +fastness with a wise Hebrew Rabbi, who taught me his sacred Scriptures; +going back to the beginning of all things, before the world was; yet +shrewd in judgment of the present, and throwing a weird light forward +upon the future. A strange man; wise, as are all of that Chosen Race; +and a faithful friend. He did much to heal my hurt and woo me back to +sanity. + +"Later, more than a year with a band of holy monks in a desert +monastery, high among the rocks; good Fathers who believed in Greek and +Latin as surest of all balsams for a wounded spirit, and who made me to +become deeply learned in Apostolic writings, and in the teachings of +the Church. But, for all their best endeavours, I could not feel +called to the perpetual calm of the Cloister. We are a line of +fighters and hunters, men to whom pride of race and love of hearth and +home, are primal instincts. + +"Thus, after many further wanderings and much varying adventure, having +by a strange chance heard news of the death of my father, and that my +mother mourned. In solitude, the opening of this year found me landed +in England--I who, by most, had long been given up for dead; though +Martin Goodfellow, failing to find trace of me in Palestine, had gone +back to Cumberland, and staunchly maintained his belief that I lived, a +captive, and should some day make my escape, and return. + +"I passed with all speed to our Castle on the moors, knowing a mother's +heart waited here, for mothers never cease to watch and hope. And, +sure enough, as I rode up, the great doors flew wide; the house waited +its master; the mother was on the threshold to greet her son. Aye! It +was good to be at home once more--even in the land where _my_ woman was +bearing children to another man. + +"We spent a few happy days, I and my mother, together. Then--the joy +of hope fulfilled being sometimes a swifter harbinger to another world +than the heaviest load of sorrow--she passed, without pain or sickness, +smiling, in her sleep; she passed--leaving my home desolate indeed. + +"Not having known of my betrothal to thee, because of the old feud +between our families, and my reluctance to cross her wish that I should +wed Alfrida, thy name was not spoken between us; but I learned from her +that my cousin 'Frida lay dying at her manor, nigh to Chester, of some +lingering disease contracted in eastern lands." + + +"With the first stirrings of Spring in forest and pasture, I felt moved +to ride south to the Court, and report my return to the King; yet +waited, strangely loath to go abroad where any turn of the road might +bring me face to face with Humphry. I doubted, should we meet, if I +could pass, without slaying him, the man who had stolen my betrothed +from me. So I stayed in my own domain, bringing things into order, +working in the armoury, and striving by hard exercise to throttle the +grim demon of despair. + +"April brought a burst of early summer; and, on the first day of May, I +set off for Windsor. + +"Passing through Carnforth on my way, I found the town keeping high +holiday. I asked the reason, and was told of a Tourney now in progress +in the neighbourhood, to which the Earl had that morning ridden in +state, accompanied by his Countess, who indeed was chosen Queen of +Beauty, and was to sit enthroned, attended by her little daughter, two +tiny sons acting as pages. + +"A sudden mad desire came on me, to look upon thy face again; to see +thee with the man who stole thee from me; with the children, who should +have been mine own. + +"Ten minutes later, I rode on to the field. Pushing in amid the gay +crowd, I seemed almost at once to find myself right in front of the +throne. + +"I saw the Queen of Beauty, in cloth of gold. I saw the little maiden +and the pages in attendance. I saw Humphry, proud husband and father, +beside them. All this I saw, which I had come to see. But--the face +of Humphry's Countess was not thy face! In that moment I knew that, +for seven long years, I had been fooled! + +"I started on a frenzied quest after the truth, and news of thee. + +"Thy sister Eleanor had died the year before. To thy beautiful castle +and lands, so near mine own, Eleanor's son had succeeded, and ruled +there in thy stead. He being at Court just then, I saw him not, nor +could I hear direct news of thee, though rumour said a convent. + +"Then I remembered my cousin, Alfrida, lying sick at her manor in +Chester. To her I went; and, walking in unannounced--I, whom she had +long thought dead--I forced the truth from her. The whole plot stood +revealed. She and Eleanor had hatched it between them. Eleanor +desiring thy lands for herself and her boy, and knowing children of +thine would put hers out of succession; Alfrida--it shames me to say +it--desiring for herself, thy lover. + +"The messenger who brought the letters was bribed to give details of +thy supposed marriage. On his return to England, my letters to thee +and to Humphry he handed to Eleanor; also a lying letter from 'Frida, +telling of her marriage with me, with the Queen's consent and approval, +and asking Eleanor to break the news to thee. The messenger then +mingled with thy household, describing my nuptials in detail, as, when +abroad, he had done thine. Hearing of this, my poor Love did even as I +had done, sent for him, questioned him, heard the full tale he had to +tell, and saw, alas! no reason to misdoubt him. + +"By the way, my cousin 'Frida knew where to lay her hand upon that +clerkly fellow. Therefore we sent for him. He came in haste to see +the Lady Alfrida, from whom, during all the years, he had extorted +endless hush-money. + +"I and my men awaited him. + +"He had fattened on his hush-money! He was no longer lean and out at +elbow. + +"He screeched at sight of me, thinking me risen from the dead. + +"He screeched still louder when he saw the noose, flung over a strong +bough. + +"We left him hanging, when we rode away. That Judas kind will do the +darkest deeds for greed of gain. The first of the tribe himself shewed +the way by which it was most fitting to speed them from a world into +which it had been good for them never to have been born. + +"From Alfrida I learned that, as Eleanor had foreseen, thy grief at my +perfidy drove thee to the Cloister. Also that thy Convent was near +Worcester. + +"To Worcester I came, and made myself known to the Lord Bishop, with +whom I supped; and finding him most pleasant to talk with, and ready to +understand, deemed it best, in perfect frankness, to tell him the whole +matter; being careful not to mention thy name, nor to give any clue to +thy person. + +"Through chance remarks let fall by the Bishop while giving me the +history of the Order, I learned that already thou wert Prioress of the +White Ladies. 'The youngest Prioress in the kingdom,' said the Bishop, +'yet none could be wiser or better fitted to hold high authority.' +Little did he dream that any mention of thee was as water to the +parched desert; yet he talked on, for love of speaking of thee, while I +sat praying he might tell me more; yet barely answering yea or nay, +seeming to be absorbed in mine own melancholy thoughts. + +"From the Bishop I learned that the Order was a strictly close one, and +that no man could, on any pretext whatsoever, gain speech alone with +one of the White Ladies. + +"But I also heard of the underground way leading from the Cathedral to +the Convent, and of the daily walk to and from Vespers. + +"I went to the crypt, and saw the doorway through which the White +Ladies pass. Standing unseen amid the many pillars, I daily watched +the long line of silent figures, noted that they all walked veiled, +with faces hidden, keeping a measured distance apart. Also that +several were above usual height. Then I conceived the plan of wearing +the outer dress, and of stepping in amongst those veiled figures just +at the foot of the winding stair in the wall, leading down from the +clerestory to the crypt. I marked that the nun descending, could not +keep in view the nun in front who had just stepped forth into the +crypt; while she, moving forward, would not perceive it if, slipping +from behind a pillar, another white figure silently joined the +procession behind her. Once within the Convent, I trusted to our Lady +to help me to speech alone with thee; and our blessed Lady hath not +failed me. + +"Now I have told thee all." + +With that the Knight left speaking; and, after the long steady +recitation, the ceasing of his voice caused a silence which, seemed, to +hold the very air suspended. + +Not once had the Prioress made interruption. She had sat immovable, +her eyes upon his face, her hands gripping the arms of her chair. Long +before the tale was finished her sad eyes had overflowed, the tears +raining down her cheeks, and falling upon the cross at her breast. + +When he had told all, when the deep, manly voice--now resolute, now +eager, now vibrant with fierce indignation, yet tender always when +speaking of her--at last fell silent, the Prioress fought with her +emotion, and mastered it; then, so soon as she could safely trust her +voice, she spoke. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +ALAS, THE PITY OF IT! + +At length the Prioress spoke. + +"Alas," she said, "the pity of it! Ah, the cruel, _cruel_ pity of it!" + +Her voice, so sweet and tender, yet so hopeless in the unquestioning +finality of its regret, struck cold upon the heart of the Knight. + +"But, my beloved, I have found thee," he said, and dropping upon one +knee at her feet, he put out his hands to cover both hers. But the +Prioress was too quick for him. She hid her hands beneath her +scapulary. The Knight's brown fingers closed on the lions' heads. + +"Touch me not," said the Prioress. + +The Knight flushed, darkly. + +"You are mine," he said. "Mine to have and to keep. During these +wretched years we have schooled ourselves each to think of the other as +wedded. Now we know that neither has been faithless. I have found +thee, my beloved, and I will not let thee go." + +"Hugh," said the Prioress, "I _am_ wedded. You come too late. Saw you +not the sacred ring upon my hand? Know you not that every nun is the +bride of Christ?" + +"You are mine!" said the Knight, fiercely; and he laid his great hand +upon her knee. + +From beneath her scapulary, the Prioress drew the dagger. + +"Before I went to the cloister door," she said, "I took this from its +hiding-place, and put it in my girdle. I guessed I had a man to deal +with; though, Heaven knows, I dreamed not it was thou! But I tell +thee, Hugh, if thou, or any man, attempt to lay defiling touch upon any +nun in this Priory--myself, or another--I strike, and I strike home. +This blade will be driven up to the hilt in the offender's heart." + +The Knight rose to his feet, stepped to the window and leaned, with +folded arms, against the wall. + +"Put back thy weapon," he said, sternly, "into its hiding-place. No +other man is here; yet, should another come, my sword would well +suffice to guard thine honour, and the honour of thy nuns." + +She looked at his dark face, scornful in its pain; then went at once, +obedient, to the secret panel. + +"Yes, Hugh," she said. "That much of trust indeed I owe thy love." + +As she placed the dagger in the wall and closed the panel, something +fell from her, intangible, yet real. + +For so long, she had had to command. Bowing, kneeling, hurrying women +flew to do her behests. Each vied with the others to magnify her +Office. Often, she felt lonely by reason of her dignity. + +And now--a man's dark face frowned on her in scornful anger; a man's +stern voice flung back her elaborate threat with a short command, which +disarmed her, yet which she obeyed. Moreover, she found it strangely +sweet to obey. Behind the sternness, behind the scornful anger, there +throbbed a great love. In that love she trusted; but with that love +she had to deal, putting it from her with a finality which should be +beyond question. + +Yet the "Prioress" fell from her, as she closed the panel. It was the +Woman and the Saint who moved over to the window and stood beside the +Knight, in the radiance of a golden sunset after storm. + +There was about her, as she spoke, a wistful humbleness; and a patient +sadness, infinitely touching. + +"Sir Hugh," she said, "my dear Knight, whom I ever found brave and +tender, and whom I now know to have been always loyal and true--there +is no need that I should add a word to your recital. The facts you +wrung from Alfrida--God grant forgiveness to that tormented heart--are +all true. Believing the messenger, not dreaming of doubting Eleanor, +my one thought was to hide from the world my broken heart, my shattered +pride. I hastened to offer to God the love and the life which had been +slighted by man. I confess this has since seemed to me but a poor +second-best to have brought to Him, Who indeed should have our very +best. But, daily kneeling at His Feet, I said: 'A broken and a +contrite heart, Lord, Thou wilt not despise.' My heart was 'broken,' +when I brought it here. It has been 'contrite' since. And well I +know, although so far from worthy, it has not been despised." + +She lifted her eyes to the golden glory behind the battlements of +purple cloud. + +"Our blessed Lady interceded," she said, simply; "she, who understands +a woman's heart." + +The Knight was breathing hard. The folded arms rose and fell, with the +heaving of his chest. But he kept his lips firm shut; though praying, +all the while, that our Lady might have, also, some understanding of +the heart of a man! + +"I think it right that you should know, dear Hugh," went on the sad +voice, gently; "that, at first, I suffered greatly. I spent long +agonizing nights, kneeling before our Lady's shrine, imploring strength +to conquer the love and the longing which had become sin." + +A stifled groan broke from the Knight. + +The golden light shone in her steadfast eyes, and played about her +noble brow. + +"And strength was given," she said, very low. + +"Mora!" cried the Knight--She started. It was so long since she had +heard her own name--"You prayed for strength to conquer, when you +thought it sin; just as I rode out to meet the foe, to fight and slay, +and afterward wrestled with unknown tongues, doing all those things +which were hardest, while striving to quench my love for you. But when +I knew that no other man had right to you or ever had had right, why +then I found that nothing had slain my love, nor ever could. And Mora, +now you know that I am free, is your love dead?" + +She clasped her hands over the cross at her breast. His voice held a +deep passion of appeal; yet he strove, loyally, to keep it calm. + +"Listen, Hugh," she said. "If, thinking me faithless, you had turned +for consolation to another; if, though you brought her but your second +best, you yet had won and wed her; now, finding after all that I had +not wedded Humphry, would you leave your bride, and try to wake again +your love for me?" + +"You seek to place me," he said, "in straits in which, by mine own act, +I shall never be. Loving you as I love you, I could wed no other while +you live." + +She paled, but persisted. + +"But, _if_, Hugh? _If_?" + +"Then, no," he said. "I should not leave one I had wed. But----" + +"Hugh," she said, "thinking you faithless, I took the holy vows which +wedded me to Heaven. How can I leave my heavenly Bridegroom, for love +of any man upon this earth?" + +"Not 'any man,'" he answered; "but your betrothed, returned to claim +you; the man to whom you said as parting words: 'Maid or wife, I am all +thine own; thine and none other's forever.' Ah, that brings the warm +blood to thy cheek! Oh, my Heart's Life, if it was true then, it is +true still! God is not a man that he should lie, or rob another of his +bride. If I had wed another woman, I should have done that thing, +honestly believing thee the wife of another man. But, all these years, +while thou and I were both deceived, He, Who knoweth all, has known the +truth. He knew thee betrothed to me. He heard thee say, upon the +battlements, when last we stood together: 'God knows, I am all thine +own.' He knew how, when I thought I had lost thee, I yet lived +faithful to the pure memory of our love. The day thy vows were made, +He knew that I was free, and thou, therefore, still pledged to me. +Shall a man rob God? Ay, he may. But shall God rob a man? Nay, then, +never!" + +She trembled, wavered; then fled to the shrine of the Virgin, kneeling +with hands outstretched. + +"Holy Mother of God," she sobbed, "teach him that I dare not do this +thing! Shew him that I cannot break my vows. Help him to understand +that I would not, if I could." + +He followed, and kneeled beside her; his proud head bent; his voice +breaking with emotion. + +"Blessed Virgin," he said. "Thou who didst dwell in the earthly home +at Nazareth, help this woman of mine to understand, that if she break +her troth to me, holding herself from me, now when I am come to claim +her, she sends me forth to an empty life, to a hearth beside which no +woman will sit, to a home forever desolate." + +Together they knelt, before the tender image of Mother and Child; +together, yet apart; he, loyally mindful not so much as to brush +against a fold of her veil. + +The dark face, and the fair, were lifted, side by side, as they knelt +before the Madonna. For a while so motionless they kneeled, they might +have been finely-modelled figures; he, bronze; she, marble. + +Then, with a sudden movement, she put out her right hand, and caught +his left. + +Firmly his fingers closed over hers; but he drew no nearer. + +Yet as they knelt thus with clasped hands, his pulsing life seemed to +flow through her, undoing, in one wild, sweet moment, the work of years +of fast and vigil. + +"Ah, Hugh," she cried, suddenly, "spare me! Spare me! Tempt me not!" + +Loosing her hand from his, she clasped both upon her breast. + +The Knight rose, and stood beside her. + +"Mora," he said, and his voice held a new tone, a tone of sadness and +solemnity; "far be it from me to tempt you. I will plead with you but +once again, in presence of our Lady and of the Holy Child; and, having +so done, I will say no more. + +"I ask you to leave this place, which you would never have entered had +you known your lover was yours, and needing you. I ask you to keep +your plighted word to me, and to become my wife. If you refuse, I go, +returning not again. I leave you here, to kneel in peace, by night or +day, before the shrine of the Madonna. But--I bid you to remember, day +and night, that because of this which you have done, there can be no +Madonna in my home. No woman will ever sit beside my hearth, holding a +little child upon her knees. + +"You leave to me the crucifix--heart broken, love betrayed; feet and +hands nailed to the wood of cruel circumstance; side pierced by spear +of treachery--lonely, forsaken. But you take from me all the best, +both in life and in religion; all that tells of love, of joy, of hope +for the years to come. + +"Oh, my beloved, weigh it well! There are so many, with a true +vocation, serving Heaven in Convent and in Cloister. There is but one +woman in the whole world for me. In the sight of Heaven, nothing +divides us. Convent walls now stand between--but they were built by +man, not God. Vows of celibacy were not meant to sunder loving hearts. +Mora? . . . Come!" + + +The Prioress rose and faced him. + +"I cannot come," she said. "That which I have taught to others, I must +myself perform. Hugh, I am dead to the world; and if I be dead to the +world, how can I live to you? Had I, in very deed, died and been +entombed, you would not have gone down into the vaults and forced my +resting-place, that you might look upon my face, clasp my cold hand, +and pour into deaf ears a tale of love. Yet that is what, by trick and +artifice, you now have done. You come to a dead woman, saying; 'Love +me, and be my wife.' She must, perforce, make answer: 'How shall I, +who am dead to the world, live any longer therein?' Take a wife from +among the Living, Hugh. Come not to seek a bride among the Dead." + +"Mother of God!" exclaimed the Knight, "is this religion?" + +He turned to the window, then to the door. "How can I go from here?" + +The stifled horror in his voice chilled the very soul of the woman to +whom he spoke. She had, indeed at last made him to understand. + +"I must get you hence unseen," she said. "I dare not pass you out by +the Convent gate. I fear me, you must go back the way you came; nor +can you go alone. We hold the key to unlock the door leading from our +passage into the Cathedral crypt. I will now send all the nuns to the +Refectory. Then I myself must take you to the crypt." + +"Can I not walk alone," asked the Knight, brusquely; "returning you the +key by messenger?" + +"Nay," said the Prioress, "I dare run no risks. So quickly rumours are +afloat. To-morrow, this strange hour must be a dream; and you and I +alone, the dreamers. Now, while I go and make safe the way, put you on +again the robe and hood. When I return and beckon, follow silently." + +The Prioress passed out, closing the door behind her. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +"SEND HER TO ME!" + +The Prioress stood for a moment outside the closed door. The peaceful +silence of the passage helped her to the outward calm which must be +hers before she could bring herself to face her nuns. + +Moving slowly to the farther end, she unlocked the cell of Sister Mary +Seraphine, feeling a shamed humility that she should have made so sure +she had to deal with "Wilfred," and have thought such scorn of him and +Seraphine. Alas! The wrong deeds of those they love, oft humble the +purest, noblest spirits into the soiling dust. + +Next, the Prioress herself rang the Refectory bell. + +The hour for the evening meal was long passed; the nuns hastened out, +readily. + +As they trooped toward the stairs leading down to the Refectory, they +saw their Prioress, very pale, very erect, standing with her back to +the door of her chamber. + +Each nun made a genuflexion as she passed; and to each, the Prioress +slightly inclined her head. + +To Sister Mary Rebecca, who kneeled at once, she spoke: "I come not to +the meal this evening. In the absence of Mother Sub-Prioress, you will +take my place." + +"Yes, Reverend Mother," said Sister Mary Rebecca, meekly, and kissed +the hem of the robe of the Prioress; then rising, hastened on, charmed +to have a position of authority, however temporary. + +When all had passed, the Prioress went into the cloisters, walked round +them; looked over into the garden, observing every possible place from +which prying eyes might have sight of the way from the passage to the +crypt entrance. But the garden, already full of purple shadows, was +left to the circling swifts. The robin sang an evening song from the +bough, of the pieman's tree. + +The Prioress returned along the passage, looking into every cell. Each +door stood open wide; each cell was empty. The sick nuns were on a +further passage, round the corner, beyond the Refectory stairs. Yet +she passed along this also, making sure that the door of each occupied +cell was shut. + +Standing motionless at the top of the Refectory steps, she could hear +the distant clatter of platters, the shuffling feet of the lay-sisters +as they carried the dishes to and from the kitchens; and, above it all, +the monotonous voice of Sister Mary Rebecca reading aloud to the nuns +while they supped. + +Then the Prioress took down one of the crypt lanterns and lighted it. + + * * * * * * + +Meanwhile the Knight, left alone, stood for a few moments, as if +stunned. + +He had played for a big stake and lost; yet he felt more unnerved by +the unexpected finality of his own acquiescence in defeat, than by the +firm refusal which had brought that defeat about. + +It seemed to him, as he now stood alone, that suddenly he had realised +the extraordinary detachment wrought by years of cloistered life. +Aflame with love and longing he had come, seeking the Living among the +Dead. It would have been less bitter to have knelt beside her tomb, +knowing the heart forever still had, to the last, beat true with love +for him; knowing the dead arms, lying cold and stiff, had he come +sooner, would have been flung around him; knowing the lips, now silent +in death, living, would have called to him in tenderest greeting. + +But this cold travesty of the radiant woman he had left, said: "Touch +me not," and bade him seek a wife elsewhere; he, who had remained +faithful to her, even when he had thought her faithless. + +And yet, cold though she was, in her saintly aloofness, she was still +the woman he loved. Moreover she still had the noble carriage, the +rich womanly beauty, the look of vital, physical vigour, which marked +her out as meant by Nature to be the mother of brave sons and fair +daughters. Yet he must leave her--to this! + +He looked round the room, noted the low archway leading to the sleeping +chamber, took a step toward it, then fell back as from a sanctuary; +marked the great table, covered with missals, parchments, and vellum. +It might well have been the cell of a learned monk, rather than the +chamber of the woman he loved. His eye, travelling round, fell upon +the Madonna and Child. + +In the pure evening light there was a strangely arresting quality about +the marble group; something infinitely human in the brooding tenderness +of the Mother, as she bent over the smiling Babe. It spoke of home, +rather than of the cloister. It struck a chord in the heart of the +Knight, a chord which rang clear and true, above the jangle of +disputation and bitterness. + +He put out his hand and touched the little foot of the Holy Babe. + +"Mother of God," he said aloud, "send her to me! Take pity on a hungry +heart, a lonely home, a desolate hearth. Send her to me!" + +Then he lifted from the floor the white robe and hood, and drew them on. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +FAREWELL--HERE, AND NOW + +When the Prioress, a lighted lantern in her hand, opened the door of +her chamber, a tall figure in the dress of the White Ladies of +Worcester stood motionless against the wall, facing the door. + +"Come!" she whispered, beckoning; and, noiselessly, it stood beside +her. Then she closed the door and, using her master-key, locked it +behind her. + +Silently the two white figures passed along the passage, through the +cloister, and down the flight of steps into the Convent crypt. The +Prioress unlocked the door and stooping they passed under the arch, and +entered the subterranean way. + +Placing the lantern on the ground, the Prioress drew out the key, +closed the door, and locked it on the inside. + +She turned, and lifting the lantern, saw that the Knight had rid +himself of his disguise, and now stood before her, very straight and +tall, just within the circle of light cast by her lantern. + +With the closing and locking of the door a strange sense came over +them, as of standing together in a third world--neither his nor +hers--tomblike in its complete isolation and darkness; heavy with a +smell of earth and damp stones; the slightest sound reverberating in +hollow exaggeration; yet, in itself, silent as the grave. + +This tomblike quality in their surroundings seemed to make their own +vitality stronger and more palpitating. + +The seconds of silence, after the grating of the key in the lock +ceased, seemed hours. + +Then the Knight spoke. + +"Give me the lantern," he said. + +She met his eyes. Again the dignity of her Office slipped from her. +Again it was sweet to obey. + +He held the lantern so that its light illumined her face and his. + +"Mora," he said, "it is long since thou and I last walked together over +the sunny fields, amid buttercups and cowslips, and the sweet-smelling +clover. To-night we walk beneath the fields instead of through them. +We are under the grass, my sweet. I seem to stand beside thee in the +grave. And truly my hopes lie slain; the promise of our love is dead, +and shall soon be buried. Yet thou and I still live, and now must walk +together side by side, the sad ghosts of our former selves. + +"So now I ask thee, Mora, for the sake of those past walks among the +flowers, to lay thy hand within my arm and walk with me in gentle +fellowship, here in this place of gloom and darkness, as, long ago, we +walked among the flowers." + +His dark eyes searched her face. An almost youthful eagerness vibrated +in his voice. + +She hesitated, lifting her eyes to his. Then slowly moved toward him +and laid her hand within his arm. + +Then, side by side, they paced on through the darkness; he, in his +right hand, holding the lantern, swinging low, to light their feet; +she, leaning on his left arm, keeping slow pace with him. + +Over their heads, in the meadows, walked lovers, arm in arm; young men +and maidens out in the gathering twilight. All nature, refreshed, +poured forth a fragrant sweetness. But the rose, with its dewy petals, +seemed to the youth less sweet than the lips of the maid. This, he +shyly ventured to tell her; whereupon, as she bent to its fragrance, +her cheeks reflected the crimson of those delicate folds. + +So walked and talked young lovers in the Worcester meadows; little +dreaming that, beneath their happy feet, the Knight and the Prioress +paced slowly, side by side, through the darkness. + +No word passed between them. With, her hand upon his arm, her face so +near his shoulder, his arm pressing her hand closer and closer against +his heart, silence said more than speech. And in silence they walked. + +They passed beneath the city wall, under the Foregate. + +The Sheriff rode home to supper, well pleased with a stroke of business +accomplished in a house in which he had chanced to shelter during the +storm. + +The good people of Worcester bought and sold in the market. Men whose +day's work was over, hastened to reach the rest and comfort of wife and +home. Crowds jostled gaily through the streets, little dreaming that +beneath their hurrying, busy feet, the Knight and the Prioress paced +slowly, side by side, through the darkness. + +Had the Knight spoken, her mind would have been up in arms to resist +him. But, because he walked in silence, her heart had leisure to +remember; and, remembering, it grew sorely tender. + +At length they reached the doorway leading into the Cathedral crypt. + +The Prioress carried the key in her left hand. Freeing her right from +the grip of his arm, she slipped the key noiselessly into the lock; +but, leaving it there unturned, she paused, and faced the Knight. + +"Hugh," she said, "I beg you, for my sake and for the sake of all whose +fair fame is under my care, to pass through quickly into the crypt, and +to go from thence, if possible, unseen, or in such manner as shall +prevent any suspicion that you come from out this hidden way. Tales of +wrong are told so readily, and so quickly grow." + +"I will observe the utmost caution," said the Knight. + +"Hugh," she said, "I grieve to have had, perforce, to disappoint you." +The brave voice shook. "This is our final farewell. Do you forgive +me, Hugh? Will you think kindly, if you ever think on me?" + +The Knight held the lantern so that its rays illumined both her face +and his. + +"Mora," he said, "I cannot as yet take thine answer as final. I will +return no more, nor try to speak with thee again. But five days +longer, I shall wait. I shall have plans made with the utmost care, to +bear thee, in safety and unseen, from the Cathedral. I know the doors +are watched, and that all who pass in and out are noted and observed. +But, if thou wilt but come to me, beloved, trust me to know how to +guard mine own. . . . Nay, speak not! Hear me out. + +"Daily, after Vespers, I shall stand hidden among the pillars, close to +the winding stair. One step aside--only one step--and my arm will be +around thee. A new life of love and home will lie before us. I shall +take thee, safely concealed, to the hostel where I and my men now +lodge. There, horses will stand ready, and we shall ride at once to +Warwick. At Warwick we shall find a priest--one in high favour, both +in Church and State--who knows all, and is prepared to wed us without +delay. After which, by easy stages, my wife, I shall take thee home." + +He swung the lantern high. She saw the lovelight and the triumph, in +his eyes. "I shall take thee home!" he said. + +She stepped back a pace, lifting both hands toward him, palms outward, +and stood thus gazing, with eyes full of sorrow. + +"My poor Hugh," she whispered; "it is useless to wait. I shall not +come." + +"Yet five days," said the Knight, "I shall tarry in Worcester. Each +day, after Vespers, I shall be here." + +"Go to-day, dear Hugh. Ride to Warwick and tell thy priest, that which +indeed he should know without the telling: that a nun does not break +her vows. This is our final farewell, Hugh. Thou hadst best believe +it, and go." + +"Our last farewell?" he said. + +"Our last." + +"Here and now?" + +"Here and now, dear Hugh." + +Looking into that calm face, so lovely in its sadness, he saw that she +meant it. + +Of a sudden he knew he had lost her; he knew life's way stretched +lonely before him, evermore. + +"Yes," he said, "yes. It is indeed farewell--here and now--forever." + +The dull despair in the voice which, but a few moments before, had +vibrated with love and hope, wrung her heart. + +She still held her hands before her, as if to ward him off. + +"Ah, Hugh," she cried, sharply, "be merciful, and go! Spare me, and go +quickly." + +The Knight heard in her voice a tone it had not hitherto held. But he +loved her loyally; therefore he kept his own anguish under strong +control. + +Placing the lantern on the ground, he knelt on one knee before her. + +"Farewell, my Love," he said. "Our Lady comfort thee; and may Heaven +forgive me, for that I have disturbed thy peace." + +With which he lifted the hem of her robe, and pressed his lips upon it. + +Thus he knelt, for a space, his dark head bent. + +Slowly, slowly, the Prioress let drop her hands until, lightly as the +fall of autumn leaves,--sad autumn leaves--they rested upon his head, +in blessing and farewell. + +But feeling his hair beneath her hands, she could not keep from softly +smoothing it, nor from passing her fingers gently in and out of its +crisp thickness. + +Then her heart stood still, for of a sudden, in the silence, she heard +a shuddering sob. + +With a cry, she bent and gathered him to her, holding his head first +against her knees, then stooping lower to clasp it to her breast; then +as his strong arms were flung around her, she loosed his head, and, as +he rose to his feet, slipped her arms about his neck, and surrendered +to his embrace. + +His lips sought hers, and at once she yielded them. His strong hands +held her, and she, feeling the force of their constraint, did but clasp +him closer. + +Long they stood thus. In that embrace a life-time of pain passed from +them, a life-time of bliss was born, and came with a rush to maturity, +bringing with it a sense of utter completeness. A world of sweetest +trust and certainty filled them; a joy so perfect, that the lonely +vista of future years seemed, in that moment, to matter not at all. + +All about them was darkness, silence as of the tomb; the heavy smell of +earth; the dank chill of the grave. + +Yet theirs was life more abundant; theirs, joy undreamed of; theirs, +love beyond all imagining, while those moments lasted. + +Then---- + +The hands about his neck loosened, unclasped, fell gently away. + +He set free her lips, and they took their liberty. + +He unlocked his arms, and stepping back she stood erect, like a fair +white lily, needing no prop nor stay. + +So they stood for a space, looking upon one another in silence. This +thing which had happened, was too wonderful for speech. + +Then the Prioress turned the key in the lock. + +The heavy door swung open. + +A dim, grey light, like a pearly dawn at sea, came downwards from the +crypt. + +Without a word the Knight, bending his head, passed under the archway, +mounted the steps, and was lost to view among the many pillars. + +She closed the door, locked it, and withdrawing the key, stood alone +where they had stood together. + +Then, sinking to the ground, she laid her face in the dust, there where +his feet had been. + + +It was farewell, here and now; farewell forever. + + * * * * * * + +After a while the Prioress rose, took up the lantern, and started upon +her lonely journey, back to the cloister door. + + + + +CHAPTER XV + +"SHARPEN THE WITS OF MARY ANTONY" + +When the Prioress started upon her pilgrimage to the Cathedral with the +Knight, she locked the door of her chamber, knowing that thus her +absence would remain undiscovered; for if any, knocking on the door, +received no answer, or trying it, found it fast, they would hasten away +without question; concluding that some special hour of devotion or time +of study demanded that the Reverend Mother should be free from +intrusion. + +The atmosphere of the empty cell, charged during the past hour with +such unaccustomed forces of conflict and of passion, settled into the +quietude of an unbroken stillness. + +The Madonna smiled serenely upon the Holy Babe. The dead Christ, with +bowed head, hung forlorn upon the wooden cross. The ponderous volumes +in black and silver bindings, lay undisturbed upon the table; and the +Bishop's chair stood empty, with that obtrusive emptiness which, in an +empty seat, seems to suggest an unseen presence filling it. The +silence was complete. + +But presently a queer shuffling sound began in the inner cell, as of +something stiff and torpid compelling itself to action. + +Then a weird figure, the wizen face distorted by grief and terror, +appeared in the doorway--old Mary Antony, holding a meat chopper in her +shaking hands, and staring, with chattering gums, into the empty cell. + +That faithful soul, although dismissed, had resolved that the adored +Reverend Mother should not go forth to meet dangers--ghostly or +corporeal--alone and unprotected. + +Hastening to the kitchens, she had given instructions that the evening +meal was not to be served until the Reverend Mother herself should +sound the bell. + +Then, catching up a meat chopper, as being the most murderous-looking +weapon at hand, and the most likely to strike terror into the ghostly +heart of Sister Agatha, old Antony had hastened back to the passage. + +Creeping up the stairs, hugging the wall, she had reached the top just +in time to see, in the dim distance, the two tall white figures +confronting one another. + +Clinging to her chopper, motionless with horror, she had watched them, +until they began, to come toward her, moving in the direction of the +Reverend Mother's cell. They were still thirty yards away, at the +cloister end of the passage. Old Antony was close to the open door. + +Through it she had scurried, unheard, unseen, a terrified black shadow; +yet brave withal; for with her went the meat chopper. Also she might +have turned and fled back down the stairs, rather than into the very +place whither she knew the Reverend Mother was conducting this tall +spectre of the long dead Sister Agatha, grown to most alarming +proportions during her fifty years' entombment! But being brave and +faithful old Antony had sped into the inner cell, and crouched there in +a corner; ready to call for help or strike with her chopper, should +need arise. + +Thus it came to pass that this old weaver of romances had perforce +become a listener to a true romance so thrilling, so soul-stirring, +that she had had to thrust the end of the wooden handle of the chopper +into her mouth, lest she should applaud the noble Knight, cry counsel +in his extremities, or invoke blessings on his enterprise. At each +mention of the Ladies Eleanor and Alfrida, she shook her fist, and made +signs with her old fingers, as of throttling, in the air. And when the +clerkly messenger, arriving to speak with the Lady Alfrida--who, Saint +Luke be praised, was by that time dying--found the Knight awaiting him +with a noose flung over a strong bough, old Antony had laid down the +chopper that she might the better hug herself with silent glee; and +when the Knight rode away and left him hanging, she had whispered +"Pieman! Pieman!" then clapped her hands over her mouth, rocking to +and fro with merriment. When the Knight made mention that they called +him "Knight of the Bloody Vest," old Antony had started; then had +shaken her finger toward the entrance, as she was used to shake it at +the robin, and had opened her wallet to search for crumbs of cheese. +But soon again the story held her and, oblivious of the present, she +had been back in the realms of romance. + +Not until the Knight ceased speaking and the Reverend Mother's sad +voice fell upon her ear, had old Antony realised the true bearing of +the tale. Thereafter her heart had been torn by grief and terror. +When they kneeled together, before the Madonna, with uplifted faces, +Mary Antony had crawled forward and peeped. She had seen them +kneeling--a noble pair--had seen the Prioress catch at his hand and +clasp it; then, crawling back had fallen prostrate, overwhelmed, a +huddled heap upon the floor. + +The ringing of the Refectory bell had roused her from her stupor in +time to hear the impassioned appeal of the Knight, as he kneeled alone +before the Virgin's shrine. + +Then, the Knight and the Prioress both being gone, Mary Antony had +arisen, lifted her chopper with hands that trembled, and now stood with +distraught mien, surveying the empty cell. + +At length it dawned upon her that she and her weapon were locked into +the Reverend Mother's cell; she, who had been most explicitly bidden to +go to the kitchens and to remain there. It had been a sense of the +enormity of her offence in having disobeyed the Reverend Mother's +orders which, unconsciously, had caused her to stifle all ejaculations +and move without noise, lest she should be discovered. + +Yet now her first care was not for her own predicament, but for the two +noble hearts, of whose tragic grief she had secretly been a witness. + +Her eye fell on the Madonna, calmly smiling. + +She tottered forward, kneeling where the Prioress had knelt. + +"Holy Mother of God," she whispered, "teach him that she cannot do this +thing!" + +Then, moving along on her knees to where the Knight had kneeled: +"Blessed Virgin!" she cried, "shew her that she cannot leave him +desolate!" + +Then shuffling back to the centre, and kneeling between the two places: +"Sweetest Lady," she said, "be pleased to sharpen the old wits of Mary +Antony." + +Looking furtively at the Madonna, she saw that our Lady smiled. The +blessed Infant, also, looked merry. Mary Antony chuckled, and took +heart. When the Reverend Mother smiled, she always knew herself +forgiven. + +Moreover, without delay, her request was granted; for scarcely had she +arisen from her knees, when she remembered the place where the Reverend +Mother kept the key of her cell; and she, having locked the door, on +leaving, with her own master-key, the other was quickly in old Antony's +hand, and she out once more in the passage, locking the door behind +her; sure of being able to restore the key to its place, before it +should be missed by the Reverend Mother. + + +Sister Mary Antony slipped unseen past the Refectory and into the +kitchens. Once there, she fussed and scolded and made her presence +felt, implying that she had been waiting, a good hour gone, for the +thing for which she had but that moment asked. + +The younger lay-sisters might make no retort; but Sister Mary Martha +presently asked: "What have you been doing since Vespers, Sister +Antony?" + +By aid of the wits our Lady had sharpened, old Antony, at that moment, +realised that sometimes, when you needs must deceive, there is nothing +so deceptive as the actual truth. + +"Listening to a wondrous romantic tale," she made answer, "told by the +Knight of the Bloody Vest." + +"You verily are foolish about that robin, Sister Antony," remarked Mary +Martha; "and you will take your death of cold, sitting out in the +garden in the damp, after sunset." + +"Well--so long as I take only that which is mine own, others have no +cause to grumble," snapped Mary Antony, and turned her mind upon the +making of a savoury broth, favoured by the Reverend Mother. + +And all the while the Devil was whispering in the old woman's ear: "She +will not return. . . . Make thy broth, fool; but she will not be here +to drink it. . . . The World and the Flesh have called; the Reverend +Mother will not come back. . . . Stir the broth well, but flavour it +to thine own taste. Thou wilt sup on it thyself this night. When the +World and the Flesh call loudly enough, the best of women go to the +Devil." + +"Liar!" said Mary Antony, brandishing her wooden spoon. "Get thee +behind me--nay, rather, get thee in front of me! I have had thee +skulking behind me long enough. Also in front of me, just now, being +into the fire, thou wilt feel at home, Master Devil! Only, put not thy +tail into the Reverend Mother's broth." + + +When the White Ladies passed up from the Refectory, Mary Antony chanced +to be polishing the panelling around the picture of Saint Mary +Magdalen, beside the door of the Reverend Mother's cell. + +Presently Sister Mary Rebecca, arriving, lifted her hand to knock. + +"Stay!" whispered Mary Antony. "The Reverend Mother may not be +disturbed." + +Sister Mary Rebecca veiled her scowl with a smile. + +"And wherefore not, good Sister Antony?" + +"'Wherefore not' is not my business," retorted old Antony, as rudely as +she knew how. "It may be for special study; it may be for an hour of +extra devotion; it may be only the very natural desire for a little +respite from the sight of two such ugly faces as yours and mine. But, +be the reason what it may, Reverend Mother has locked her door, and +sees nobody this even." After which old Antony proceeded to polish the +outside of the Reverend Mother's door panels. + +Sister Mary Rebecca lifted her knuckles to rap; but old Antony's not +over clean clout was pushed each time between Sister Mary Rebecca's +tap, and the woodwork. + +Muttering concerning the report she would make to the Prioress in the +morning, Sister Mary Rebecca went to her cell. + +When all was quiet, when every door was closed, the old lay-sister +crept into the cloisters and, crouching in an archway just beyond the +flight of steps leading to the underground way, watched and waited. + +Storm clouds were gathering again, black on a purple sky. The +after-glow in the west had faded. It was dark in the cloisters. +Thunder growled in the distance; an owl hooted in the Pieman's tree. + +Mary Antony's old bones ached sorely, and her heart failed her. She +had sat so long in cramped positions, and she had not tasted food since +the mid-day meal. + +The Devil drew near, as he is wont to do, when those who have fasted +long, seek to keep vigil. + +"The Reverend Mother will not return," he whispered. "What wait you +for?" + +"Be off!" said Mary Antony. "I am too old to be keeping company, even +with thee. Also Sister Mary Rebecca awaits thee in her cell." + +"The Reverend Mother ever walked with her head among the stars," +sneered the Devil. "Why do the highest fall the lowest, when +temptation comes?" + +"Ask that of Mother Sub-Prioress," said Mary Antony, "next time she +bids thee to supper." + +Then she clasped her old hands upon her breast; for, very softly, in +the lock below, a key turned. + +Steps, felt rather than heard, passed up into the cloister. + +Then, in the dim light, the tall figure of the Prioress moved +noiselessly over the flagstones, passed through the open door and up +the deserted passage. + +Peering eagerly forward, the old lay-sister saw the Prioress pause +outside the door of her chamber, lift her master-key, unlock the door, +and pass within. + +As the faint sound of the closing of the door reached her straining +ears, old Mary Antony began to sob, helplessly. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +THE ECHO OF WILD VOICES + +When the Prioress entered her cell, she stood for a moment bewildered +by the rapid walk in the darkness. She could hardly realise that the +long strain was over; that she had safely regained her chamber. + +All was as she had left it. Apparently she had not been missed, and +had returned unobserved. Hugh was by now safely in the hostel at +Worcester. None need ever know that he had been here. + +None need ever know--Yet, alas, it was that knowledge which held the +Prioress rooted to the spot on which she stood, gazing round her cell. + +Hugh had been here; and when he was here, her one desire had been to +get him speedily away. + +But now? + +Dumb with the pain of a great yearning, she looked about her. + +Yes; just there he had stood; here he had knelt, and there he had stood +again. + +This calm monastic air had vibrated to the fervour of his voice. + +It had grown calm again. + +Would her poor heart in time also grow calm? Would her lips stop +trembling, and cease to feel the fire of his? + +Yet for one moment, only, her mind dwelt upon herself. Then all +thought of self was merged in the realisation of his loneliness, his +suffering, his bitter disillusion. To have found her dead, would have +been hard; to have lost her living, was almost past bearing. Would it +cost him his faith in God, in truth, in purity, in honour? + +The Prioress felt the insistent need of prayer. But passing the +gracious image of the Virgin and Child, she cast herself down at the +foot of the crucifix. + +She had seen a strong man in agony, nailed, by the cruel iron of +circumstance, to the cross-beams of sacrifice and surrender. To the +suffering Saviour she turned, instinctively, for help and consolation. + +Thus speedily had her prayer of the previous night been granted. The +pierced feet of our dear Lord, crucified, had become more to her than +the baby feet of the Infant Jesus, on His Mother's knee. + +Yet, even as she knelt--supplicating, interceding, adoring--there +echoed in her memory the wicked shriek of Mary Seraphine: "A dead God +cannot help me! I want life, not death!" followed almost instantly by +Hugh's stern question: "Is this religion?" + +Truly, of late, wild voices had taken liberty of speech in the cell of +the Prioress, and had left their impious utterances echoing behind them. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +THE DIMNESS OF MARY ANTONY + +The Prioress had been back in her cell for nearly an hour, when a +gentle tap came on the door. + +"Enter," commanded the Prioress, and Mary Antony appeared, bearing +broth and bread, fruit and a cup of wine. + +The Prioress sat at her table, parchment and an open missal before her. +Her face was very white; also there were dark shadows beneath her eyes. +She did not smile at sight of old Antony, thus laden. + +"How now, Antony?" she said, almost sternly. "I did not bid thee to +bring me food." + +"Reverend Mother," said the old lay-sister, in a voice which strove to +be steady, yet quavered; "for long hours you have studied, not heeding +that the evening meal was over. Chide not old Antony for bringing you +some of that broth, which you like the best. You will not sleep unless +you eat." + +The Prioress looked at her uncomprehendingly; as if, for the moment, +words conveyed no meaning to her mind. Then she saw those old hands +trembling, and a sudden flood of colour flushed the pallor of her face. + +This sweet stirring of fresh life within her own heart gave her to see, +in the old woman's untiring devotion, a human element hitherto +unperceived. It brought a rush of comfort, in her sadness. + +She closed the volume, and pushed aside the parchment. "How kind of +thee, dear Antony, to take so much thought for me. Place the bowls on +the table. . . . Now draw up that stool, and stay near me while I sup. +I am weary this night, and shall like thy company." + +Had the golden gates of heaven opened before her, and Saint Peter +himself invited her to enter, Sister Mary Antony would not have been +more astonished and certainly could hardly have been more gratified. +It was a thing undreamed of, that she should be bidden to sit with the +Reverend Mother in her cell. + +Drawing the carven stool two feet from the wall, Mary Antony took her +seat upon it. + +"Nearer, Antony, nearer," said the Prioress. "Place the stool here, +close beside the corner of my table. I have much to say to thee, and +would wish to speak low." + +Truly Sister Antony found herself in the seventh heaven! + +Yet, quietly observing, the Prioress could not fail to note the drawn +weariness on the old face, the yellow pallor of the wizen skin, which +usually wore the bright tint of a russet apple. + +The Prioress took a portion of the broth; then pushed the bowl from +her, and turned to the fruit. + +"There, Antony," she said. "The broth is excellent; but I have enough. +Finish it thyself. It will pleasure me to see thee enjoy it." + +Faint and thankful, old Antony seized the bowl. And as she drank the +broth, her shrewd eyes twinkled. For had not the Devil said she would +sup on it herself; knowing that much, yet not knowing that she would +receive it from the hand of the Reverend Mother? + +It has been ever so, from Eden onwards, when the Devil tries his hand +at prophecy. + +For a while the Prioress talked lightly, of flowers and birds; of the +garden and the orchard; of the gift of three fine salmon, sent to them +by the good monks of the Priory at Worcester. + +But, presently, when the broth was finished and a faint colour tinted +the old cheeks, she passed on to the storm and the sunset, the rolling +thunder and the torrents of rain. Then of a sudden she said: + +"By the way, Antony, hast thou made mention, to any, of thy fearsome +tale of the walking through the cloisters, in line with the White +Ladies, of the Spectre of the saintly Sister Agatha?" + +"Nay, Reverend Mother," said Mary Antony. "Did not you forbid me to +speak of it?" + +"True," said the Prioress. "Well, Antony, I went in the storm, to look +for her; but--I found not Sister Agatha." + +"That I already knew," said Mary Antony, nodding her head sagaciously. + +The Prioress cast upon her a quick, anxious look. + +"What mean you, Antony?" + +Then old Mary Antony fell upon her knees, and kissed the hem of the +Prioress's robe. "Oh, Reverend Mother," she stammered, "I have a +confession to make!" + +"Make it," said the Prioress, with white lips. + +"Reverend Mother, when you sent me from you, after making my report, I +went first, as commanded, to the kitchens. But afterward, in my cell, +I found these." + +Mary Antony opened her wallet and drew out the linen bag in which she +kept her peas. Shaking its contents into the palm of her hand, she +held out six peas to view. + +"Reverend Mother," she said, "there were twenty-five in the bag. I +thought I had counted twenty out into my hand; so when all the peas had +dropped and yet another holy Lady passed, I thought that made +twenty-one. But when I found six peas in my bag, I became aware of my +folly. I had but counted nineteen, and had no pea to let fall for the +twentieth holy Lady. Yet I ran in haste with my false report, when, +had I but thought to look in my wallet, all would have been made clear. +Will the Reverend Mother forgive old Mary Antony?" + +She shot a quick glance at the Prioress; and, at sight of the immense +relief on that loved face, felt ready for any punishment with which it +might please Heaven to visit her deceit. + +"Dear Antony," began the Reverend Mother, smiling. + +"Dear Antony--" she said, and laughed aloud. + +Then she placed her hand beneath the old woman's arm, and gently raised +her. "Mistakes arise so easily," she said. "With the best of +intentions, we all sometimes make mistakes. There is nothing to +forgive, my Antony." + +"I am old, and dim, and stupid," said the lay-sister, humbly; "but I +have begged of our sweet Lady to sharpen the old wits of Mary Antony." + +After which statement, made in a voice of humble penitence, Mary +Antony, unseen by the thankful Prioress, did give a knowing wink with +the eye next to the Madonna. Our blessed Lady smiled. The sweet Babe +looked merry. The Prioress rose, a great light of relief illumining +her weary face. + +"Let us to bed, dear Antony; then, with the dawn of a new day we shall +all arise with hearts refreshed and wits more keen. So now--God rest +thee." + + +Left alone, the Prioress knelt long in prayer before the shrine of the +Madonna. Once, she reached out her right hand to the empty space where +Hugh had knelt, striving to feel remembrance of his strong clasp. + +At length she sought her couch. But sleep refused to come, and +presently she crept back in the white moonlight, and kneeling pressed +her lips to the stone on which Hugh had kneeled; then fled, in shame +that our Lady should see such weakness; and dared not glance toward the +shadowy form of the dead Christ, crucified. For with the coming of +Love to seek her, Life had come; and where Life enters, Death is put to +flight; even as before the triumphant march of the rising sun, darkness +and shadows flee away. + + +Yet, even then, our Lady gently smiled, and the Babe on her knees +looked merry. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +IN THE CATHEDRAL CRYPT + +On the day following, in the afternoon, shortly before the hour of +Vespers, a stretcher was carried through the streets of Worcester, by +four men-at-arms wearing the livery of Sir Hugh d'Argent. + +Beside it walked the Knight, with bent head, his eyes upon the ground. + +The body of the man upon the stretcher was covered by a fine linen +sheet, over which lay a blue cloak, richly embroidered with silver. +His head was swathed in a bandage of many folds, partially concealing +the face. + +The little procession passed through the Precincts; then entered the +Cathedral by the great door leading into the nave. + +Here a monk stood, taking careful note of all who passed in or out of +the building. As the stretcher approached, he stepped forward with +hand upraised. + +There was a pause in the measured tramp of the bearers' feet. + +The Knight lifted his eyes, and seeing the monk barring the way, he +drew forth a parchment and tendered it. + +"I have the leave of the Lord Bishop, good father," he said, "to carry +this man upon the stretcher daily into the crypt, and there to let him +lie before the shrine of Saint Oswald, during the hour of Vespers; from +which daily pilgrimage and prayer, we hope a great recovery and +restoration." + +At sight of the Lord Bishop's signature and seal, the monk made deep +obeisance, and hastened to call the Sacristan, bidding him attend the +Knight on his passage to the crypt and give him every facility in +placing the sick man there where he might most conveniently lie before +the holy altar of the blessed Saint Oswald. + +So presently, the stretcher being safely deposited, the men-at-arms +stood each against a pillar, and the Knight folded back the coverings, +in order that the man who lay beneath, might have sight of the altar +and the shrine. + +As the Knight stood gazing through the vista of many columns, he found +the old Sacristan standing at his elbow. + +"Most worshipful Knight," said the old man, with deference, "our Lord +Bishop's mandate supersedes all rules. Were it not so, it would be my +duty to clear the crypt before Vespers. See you that stairway yonder, +beneath the arch? Not many minutes hence, up those steps will pass the +holy nuns from the Convent of the White Ladies at Whytstone--noble +ladies all, and of great repute for saintliness. Daily they come to +Vespers by a secret way; entering the crypt, they pass across to a +winding stair in the wall, and so arrive at a gallery above the choir, +from which they can, unseen, hear the chanting of the monks. I must to +my duties above. Will you undertake, Sir Knight, that your men go not +nigh where the White Ladies pass, nor in any way molest them?" + +"None shall stir hand or foot, as they pass, nor in any way molest +them," said the Knight. + + +Hugh d'Argent was kneeling before the altar, his folded hands resting +upon the cross on the hilt of his sword, when the faint sound of a key +turning in a distant lock, caught his ear. + +Then up the steps and across the crypt passed, in silent procession, +the White Ladies of Worcester. + +There was something ghostly and awe-inspiring about those veiled +figures, moving noiselessly among the pillars in the dimly-lighted +crypt; then vanishing, one by one, up the winding stairway in the wall. + +The Knight did not stir. He stayed upon his knees, his hands clasped +upon his sword-hilt; but he followed each silent figure with his eyes. + +The last had barely disappeared from view when, from above, came the +solemn chanting of monks and choristers. + +This harmony, descending from above, seemed to uplift the soul all the +more readily, because the sacred words and noble sounds reached the +listener, unhampered by association with the personalities, either +youthful or ponderous, of the singers. All that was of the earth +remained unseen; while that which was so near akin to heaven, entered +the listening ear. + +Kneeling in lowly reverence with bowed head, the Knight found himself +wondering whether the ascending sounds reached that distant gallery in +the clerestory where the White Ladies knelt, as greatly softened, +sweetened, and enriched, as they now came stealing down into the crypt. +Were the hearts of those veiled worshippers also lifted heavenward; +or--being already above the music--did the ascending voices rather tend +to draw them down to earth? + +Upon which the Knight fell to meditating as to whether that which is +higher always uplifts; whereas that which is lower tends to debase. +Certainly the upward look betokens hope and joy; while the downward +casting of the eye, is sign of sorrow and despondency. + + +"_Levavi oculos meos in montes_"--chanted the monks, in the choir above. + + +He certainly looked high when he lifted the eyes of his insistent +desire to the Prioress of the White Ladies. So high did he lift them, +and so unattainable was she, that most men would say he might as well +ask the silvery moon, sailing across the firmament, to come down and be +his bride! + +He had held her high, in her maiden loveliness and purity. But now +that he had found her, a noble woman, matured, ripened by sorrow rather +than hardened, yet firm in her determination to die to the world, to +deny self, crucify the flesh, and resist the Devil--he felt indeed that +she walked among the stars. + +Yet he could not bring himself to regard her as unattainable. It had +ever been his firm belief that a man could win any woman upon whom he +wholly set his heart--always supposing that no other man had already +won her. And this woman had been his own betrothed, when treachery +intervened and sundered them. Yet that did not now count for much. + +He had left a girl; he had come back to find a woman. That woman had +infinitely more to give; but it would be infinitely more difficult to +persuade her to give it. + +At the close of their interview in her cell, the day before, all hope +had left him. But later, as they paced together in the darkness, hope +had revived. + +The strange isolation in which they then found themselves--between +locked doors a mile apart, earth above, earth beneath, earth all around +them, they two alone, entombed yet vividly conscious of glowing +life--had brought her nearer to him; and when at last the moment of +parting arrived and again he faced it as final, there had come--all +unheralded--the sudden wonder of her surrender. + +True, she had afterwards withdrawn herself; true, she had sent him from +her; true, he had gone, without a word. But that was because no +promise could have been so binding, as that silent embrace. + +He had gone from her on the impulse of the sweetness of obeying +instantly her slightest wish; buoyed up by the certainty that no +Convent walls could long divide lips which had met and clung with such +a passion of mutual need. + +That evening when, after much adventure, he at length gained the +streets of the city, he had trodden them with the mien of a victor. + +That night he had slept as he had not slept since the hour when his +whole life had been embittered by a lying letter and a traitorous +tongue. + +But morning, alas, had brought its doubts; noon, its dark +uncertainties; and as the hour of Vespers drew near, he had realised, +with the helpless misery of despair, that it was madness to expect the +Prioress of the White Ladies to break her vows, leave her Nunnery, and +fly with him to Warwick. + +Yet he carried out his plan, and kept to his undertaking, though here, +in the calm atmosphere of the crypt, holy chanting descending from +above, the remembrance still with him of the aloofness of those stately +white figures gliding between the pillars in the distance, he faced the +madness of his hopes, and the mournful prospect of a life of loneliness. + + +Presently he arose, crossed the crypt, and took up his position behind +a pillar to the right of the exit from the winding stair. + + +The chanting ceased. Vespers were over. + +He heard the sound of soft footsteps drawing nearer. + +The White Ladies were coming. + +They came. + +The Knight was not kept long in suspense. The Prioress walked first. +Her face was hidden, but her height and carriage revealed her to her +lover. She looked neither to right nor left but, turning away from the +pillar behind which the Knight stood concealed, crossed to the steps +leading down to the subterranean way, and so passed swiftly out of +sight. + +The Knight stood motionless until all had appeared, and had vanished +once more from view. + +One, tall but ungainly, crooked of body, and doubtless short of vision, +missed her way among the columns and passed perilously near to the +Knight. With his long arm, he could have clasped her. How old Antony +would have chuckled, could she but have known! "Sister Mary Rebecca +embraced by the Knight of the Bloody Vest? Nay then; the Saints +forbid!" + + +The stretcher, borne by four men-at-arms, passed out from the Cathedral. + +The Knight walked beside it, with bent head, and eyes upon the ground. + +As it passed through the Precincts, the Lord Bishop himself rode out on +his white palfrey, on his way to the Nunnery at Whytstone. + +The Knight, being downhearted, did not lift his eyes. + +The Bishop looked, kindly, upon the stretcher and upon the Knight's +dark face. + +The Bishop had known Hugh d'Argent as a boy. + +He grieved to see him thus in sorrow. + +Yet the Bishop smiled as he rode on. + +Perhaps he did not put much faith in the efficacy of relics, for so +heavily bandaged a broken head as that upon the stretcher. + +For there was a whimsical tenderness about the Bishop's smile. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +THE BISHOP PUTS ON HIS BIRETTA + +Symon, Lord Bishop of Worcester, having received a letter from the +Prioress of the White Ladies, praying him for an interview at his +leisure, sent back at once a most courtly and gracious answer, that he +would that same day give himself the pleasure of visiting the Reverend +Mother, at the Nunnery, an hour after Vespers. + +The great gates were thrown open, and the Bishop rode his palfrey into +the courtyard. + +The Prioress herself met him at the door and, kneeling, kissed his +ring; then led him through the lower hall, where the nuns knelt to +receive his blessing, and up the wide staircase, to the privacy of her +own cell. + +There she presently unfolded to him the history of her difficulties +with that wayward little nun, Sister Mary Seraphine. + +"But the point which I chiefly desire to lay before you, Reverend +Father," concluded the Prioress, "is this: If the neighing of a palfrey +calls more loudly to her than the voice of God; if her mind is still +set upon the things of the world; if she professed without a true +vocation, merely because she wished to be the central figure of a great +ceremony, yet was all the while expecting a man to intervene and carry +her off; if all this bespeaks her true state of heart, then to my mind +there comes the question: Is she doing good, either to herself or to +others, by belonging to our Order? Would she not be better away? + +"My lord, I fear I greatly shock you by naming such a possibility. But +truly I am pursued by the remembrance of that young thing, beating the +floor with her hands, and singing a mournful dirge about the crimson +trappings of her palfrey. And, alas! when I reasoned with her and +exhorted, she broke out, as I have told you, Reverend Father, into +grievous blasphemy--for which she was severely dealt with by Mother +Sub-Prioress, and has since been outwardly amenable to rules and +discipline. + +"But, though she may outwardly conform, how about her inward state? +Well I know that our vows are lifelong vows; all who belong to our +Order are wedded to Heaven; we are thankful to know that the calm of +the Cloister shall be exchanged only for the greater peace of Paradise. +But, supposing a young heart has mistaken its vocation; supposing the +voice of an earthly lover calls when it is too late; would it seem +right or possible to you, Reverend Father, to grant any sort of +absolution from the vows; tacitly to allow the opening of the cage +door, that the little foolish bird might, if it wished, escape into the +liberty for which it chafes and sighs?" + +The Bishop sat in the Spanish chair, drawn up near the oriel window, so +that he could either gaze at the glories of the distant sunset, or, by +slightly turning his head, look on the beautiful but grave face of the +Prioress, seated before him. + +While she was speaking he watched her keenly, with those bright +searching eyes, so much more youthful than aught else about him. But +now that he must make reply, he looked away to the sunset. + +The light shone on the plain gold cross at his breast, and on the +violet silk of his cassock. His face, against the background of the +black Spanish wood, looked strangely white and thin; strong in contour, +with a virile strength; in expression, sensitive as a woman's. He had +removed his biretta, and placed it upon the table. His silvery hair +rolled back from his forehead in silky waves. His was the look of the +saint and the scholar, almost of the mystic--save for the tender humour +in those keen blue eyes, gleaming like beacon lights from beneath the +level eyebrows; eyes which had won the confidence of many a man who +else had not dared unfold his very human story, to one of such saintly +aspect as Symon, Bishop of Worcester. They were turned toward the +sunset, as he made answer to the Prioress. + +"The little foolish bird," said the Bishop--and he spoke in that gently +musing tone, which conveys to the mind of the hearer a sense of +infinite leisure in which to weigh and consider the subject in +hand--"The little foolish bird might soon wish herself back in the +safety of the cage. On such as she, the cruel hawks of life do love to +prey. Absorbed in the contemplation of her own charms, she sees not, +until too late, the dangers which surround her. Such little foolish +birds, my daughter, are best in the safe shelter of the cloister. +Moreover, of what value are they in the world? None. If Popinjays wed +them, they do but hatch out broods of foolish little Popinjays. If +true men, caught by mere surface beauty, wed them, it can mean naught +save heartbreak and sorrow, and deterioration of the race. Women of +finer mould"--for an instant the Bishop's eyes strayed from the +sunset--"are needed, to be the mothers of the men who, in the years to +come, are to make England great. Nay, rather than let one escape, I +would shut up all the little foolish birds in a Nunnery, with our +excellent Sub-Prioress to administer necessary discipline." + +With his elbows resting upon the arms of the chair, the Bishop put his +fingers together, so that the tips met most precisely; then bent his +lips to them, and looked at the Prioress. + +She, troubled and sick at heart, lifting deep pools of silent misery, +met the merry twinkle in the Bishop's eyes, and sat astonished. What +was it like? Why it was like the song of a robin, perched on a frosty +bough, on Christmas morning! It was so young and gay; so jocund, and +so hopeful. + +Meeting it, the Prioress realised fully, what she had many times +half-divined, that the revered and reverend Prelate sitting opposite, +for all his robes and dignity, his panoply of Church and State, had the +heart of a merry schoolboy out on a holiday. + +For the moment she felt much older than the Bishop, infinitely sadder; +more travel-worn and worldly-wise. + +Then she looked at the silver hair; the firm mouth, with a shrewd curve +at either corner; the thoughtful brow. + +And then she looked at the Bishop's ring. + +The Bishop wore a remarkable ring; not a signet, but a large gem of +great value, beautifully cut in many facets, and clear set in massive +gold. This precious stone, said to be a chrysoprasus, had been given +to the Bishop by a Russian prince, in acknowledgment of a great service +rendered him when he came on pilgrimage to Rome. The rarity of these +gems arose partly from the fact that the sovereigns of Russia had +decreed that they should be held exclusively for royal ornament, +forbidding their use or purchase by people of lesser degree. + +But its beauty and its rarity were not the only qualities of the +precious stone in the Bishop's ring. The strangest thing about it was +that its colour varied, according to the Bishop's mood and surroundings. + +When the Prioress looked up and met the gay twinkle, the stone in the +Bishop's ring was a heavenly blue, the colour of forget-me-nots beside +a meadow brook, or the clear azure of the sky above a rosy sunset. But +presently he passed his hand over his eyes, as if to shut out some +bright vision, and to turn his mind to more sober thought; and, at that +moment, the stone in his ring gleamed a pale opal, threaded with +flashes of green. + +The Prioress returned to the subject, with studied seriousness. + +"I did not suppose, Reverend Father, that it was to be of any advantage +to the world, that Sister Seraphine should return to it. The advantage +was to be to her, and also to this whole Community, well rid of the +presence of one who finds our sacred exercises irksome; our beautiful +Nunnery, a prison; her cell, a living tomb. She cries out for life. +'I want to live,' she said, 'I am young, I am gay, I am beautiful! I +want life.'" + +"To such as Sister Seraphine," remarked the Bishop, gravely, "life is +but a mirror which reflects themselves. Other forms and faces may flit +by, in the background; dimly seen, scarcely noticed. There is but one +face and form occupying the entire foreground. Life is, to such, the +mirror which ministers to vanity. Should a husband appear in the +picture, he is soon relegated to the background, receiving only +occasional glances over the shoulder. If children dance into the field +of vision, they are petulantly driven elsewhere. Tell me? Did Sister +Seraphine's desire for life include any expression of the desire to +give life?" + +Involuntarily the Prioress glanced at the sweet Babe upon the Virgin's +knees. + +"No," she said, very low. + +"I thought not," said the Bishop. "Self-centred, shallow natures are +not capable of the sublime passion for motherhood; partly, no doubt, +because they themselves possess no life worth passing on." + +The Prioress rose quickly and, moving to the window, flung open a +second casement. It was imperative, at that moment, to hide her face; +for the uncontrollable flood of emotion at her heart, could scarce fail +to send a tell-tale wave to disturb the calm of her countenance. + +Whereupon the Bishop turned, to see at what the Prioress had glanced +before answering his question. + +"No," he mused, as she resumed her seat, his eyes upon the tree-tops +beyond the casement, "the Seraphines have not the instinct of +motherhood. And the future greatness of our race depends upon those +noble women who are able to pass on to their sons and daughters a life +which is true, and brave, and worthy; a life whose foundation is +self-sacrifice, whose cornerstone is loyalty, and from whose summit +waves the banner of unsullied love of hearth and home. + +"A woman with the true instinct of motherhood cannot see a little child +without yearning to clasp it to her bosom. When she finds her mate, +she thinks more of being the mother of his children than the object of +his devotion, because the Self in her is subservient to the maternal +instinct for self-sacrifice. These women are pure as snow, and they +hold their men to the highest and the best. Such women are needed in +the world. Our Lady knoweth, I speak not lightly, unadvisedly nor +wantonly; but were Seraphine such an one as this, I should say; 'Leave +the door on the latch. Without permission, yet without reproach--let +her go.'" + +"Were Seraphine such an one as that, my lord," said the Prioress, +firmly, "then would there be no question of her going. If the +cornerstone of character be loyalty, the very essential of loyalty is +the keeping of vows." + +"Quite so," murmured the Bishop; "undoubtedly, my daughter. Unless, by +some strange fatality, those vows were made under a total +misapprehension. You tell me Sister Seraphine expected a man to +intervene?" + +The Bishop sat up, of a sudden keenly alert. His eyes, no longer +humorous and tender, became searching and bright--young still, but with +the fire of youth, rather than its merriment. As he leaned forward in +his chair, his hands gripped his knees. Looking at his ring the +Prioress saw the stone the colour of red wine. + +"What if, after all, I can help you in this," he said. "What if I can +throw light upon the whole situation, and find a cause for the little +foolish bird's restless condition, proving to you that she may have +heard something more than the mere neighing of a palfrey! Listen! + +"A Knight arrived in this city, rather more than a month ago; a very +noble Knight, splendid to look upon; one of our bravest Crusaders. He +arrived here in sore anguish of heart. His betrothed had been taken +from him during his absence from England, waging war against the Turks +in Palestine--taken from him by a most dastardly and heartless plot. +He made many inquiries concerning this Nunnery and Order, rode north +again on urgent business, but returned, with a large retinue, five days +since." + +The Prioress did not stir. She maintained her quiet posture as an +attentive listener. But her face grew as white as her wimple, and she +folded her hands to steady their trembling. + +But the Bishop, now eagerly launched, had no interest in pallor, or +possible palsy. His vigorous words cut the calm atmosphere. The gem +on his finger sparkled like red wine in a goblet. + +"I knew him of old," he said; "knew him as a high-spirited lad, yet +loving, and much beloved. He came to me, in his grief, distraught with +anguish of heart, and told me this tale of treachery and wrong. Never +did I hear of such a network of evil device, such a tragedy of loving +hearts sundered. And when at last he returned to this land, he found +that the girl whom he had thought false, thinking him so, had entered a +Nunnery. Also he seemed convinced that she was to be found among our +White Ladies of Worcester. Now tell me, dear Prioress, think you she +could be Seraphine?" + +The Prioress smiled; and truly it was a very creditable smile for a +face which might have been carved in marble. + +"From my knowledge of Sister Mary Seraphine," she said, "it seems +unlikely that for loss of her, so noble a Knight as you describe would +be distraught with anguish of heart." + +"Nay, there I do not agree," said the Bishop. "It is ever opposites +which attract. The tall wed the short; the stout, the lean; the dark, +the fair; the grave, the gay. Wherefore my stern Crusader may be +breaking his heart for your foolish little bird." + +"I do not think so," said the Prioress, shortly; then hastened to add: +"Not that I would presume to differ from you, Reverend Father. +Doubtless you are better versed in such matters than I. But--if it be +as you suppose--what measures do you suggest? How am I to deal with +Sister Mary Seraphine?" + +The Bishop leaned forward and whispered, though not another soul was +within hearing; but at this juncture in the conversation, a whisper was +both dramatic and effective. Also, when he leaned forward, he could +almost hear the angry beating of the heart of the Prioress. + +The Bishop held the Prioress in high regard, and loved not to distress +her. But he did not think it right that a woman should have such +complete mastery over herself, and therefore over others. A fine +quality in a man, may be a blemish in a woman. For which reason the +Bishop leaned forward and whispered. + +"Let her fly, my daughter; let her fly. If his arms await her, she +will not have far to go, nor many dangers to face. Her lover will know +how to guard his own." + +"My lord," said the Prioress, now flushed with anger, "you amaze me! +Am I to understand that you would have me open the Convent door, so +that a renegade nun may escape to her lover? Or perhaps, my lord, it +would better meet your ideas if I bid the porteress stand wide the +great gates, so that this high-spirited Knight may ride in and carry +off the nun he desires, in sight of all! My Lord Bishop! You rule in +Worcester and in the cities of the diocese. But _I_ rule in this +Nunnery; and while I rule here, such a thing as this shall never be." + +The Prioress flashed and quivered; rose to her feet and towered; flung +her arms wide, and paced the floor. + +"The Knight has bewitched you, my lord," she said. "You forget the +rules of our holy Church. You fail in your trust toward the women who +look to you as their spiritual Father and guide." + +The Prioress walked up and down the cell, and each time she passed her +chair she wheeled, and gripping the back with her strong fingers, shook +it. Not being able to shake the Bishop, she needs must shake something. + +"You amaze me!" she said. "Truly, my lord, you amaze me!" + +The Bishop put on his biretta. + +Only once before, in his eventful life, had he made a woman as angry as +this. Very young he was, then; and the angry woman had seized him by +his hair. + +The Bishop did not really think the Prioress would do this; but it +amused him to fancy he was afraid, and to put on his biretta. + +Then, as he leaned back in his chair, and his finger tips met, the +stone in his ring was blue again, and his eyes were more than ever the +eyes of a merry schoolboy out on a holiday. + +Yet, presently, he sought to calm the tempest he had raised. + +"My daughter," he said, "I did but agree to that which you yourself +suggested. Did you not ask whether it would seem to me right or +possible to grant absolution from her vows, tacitly to allow the +opening of the cage door, that the little foolish bird might, if she +wished it, escape? Why this exceeding indignation, when I do but yield +to your arguments and fall in with your suggestions?" + +"I did not suggest that a lover's arms were awaiting one of my nuns," +said the angry Prioress. + +"You did not mention arms," replied the Bishop, gently; "but you most +explicitly mentioned a voice. 'Supposing the voice of an earthly lover +calls,' you said. And--having admitted that I am better versed in such +matters than you--you must forgive me, dear Prioress, if I amaze you +further by acquainting you with the undoubted fact, recognised, in the +outer world, as beyond dispute, that when a lover's _voice_ calls, a +lover's _arms_ are likely to be waiting. Earthly lovers, my daughter, +by no means resemble those charming cherubs which you may have observed +on the carved woodwork in our Cathedral. Otherwise you might have just +a voice, flanked by seraphic wings. Some such fanciful creation must +have been in your mind for Sister Mary Seraphine; for, until I made +mention of the noble Knight who had arrived in Worcester distraught +with anguish of heart by reason of his loss, you had decided leanings +toward tacitly allowing flight. Therefore it was not the fact of the +broken vows, but the idea of Seraphine wedded to the brave Crusader, +which so greatly roused your ire." + +The Prioress stood silent. Her hot anger cooled, enveloped in the +chill mantle of self-revelation and self-scorn. + +It seemed to her that the gentle words of the Bishop indeed expressed +the truth far more correctly than he knew. + +The thought of Hugh, consoling himself with some foolish, vain, +unworthy, little Seraphine, had stung with intolerable pain. + +Yet, how should she, the cause of his despair, begrudge him any comfort +he might find in the love of another? + +Then, suddenly, the Prioress knelt at the feet of the Bishop. + +"Forgive me, most Reverend Father," she said. "I did wrong to be +angry." + +Symon of Worcester extended his hand, and the Prioress kissed the ring. +As she withdrew her lips from the precious stone, she saw it blood-red +and sparkling, as the juice of purple grapes in a goblet. + +The Bishop laid his biretta once more upon the table, and smiled very +tenderly on the Prioress, as he motioned her to rise from her knees and +to resume her seat. + +"You did right to be angry, my daughter," he said. "You were not angry +with me, nor with the brave Crusader, nor with the foolish Seraphine. +Your anger, all unconsciously, was aroused by a system, a method of +life which is contrary to Nature, and therefore surely at variance with +the will of God. I have long had my doubts concerning these vows of +perpetual celibacy for women. For men, it is different. The creative +powers in a man, if denied their natural functions, stir him to great +enterprise, move him to beget fine phantasies, creations of his brain, +children of his intellect. If he stamp not his image on brave sons and +fair daughters, he leaves his mark on life in many other ways, both +brave and fair. But it is not so with woman; in the very nature of +things it cannot be. Methinks these Nunneries would serve a better +purpose were they schools from which to send women forth into the world +to be good wives and mothers, rather than store-houses filled with sad +samples of Nature's great purposes deliberately unfulfilled." + +The merry schoolboy look had vanished. The Bishop's eyes were stern +and searching; yet he looked not on the Prioress as he spoke. + +Amazement was writ larger than ever, on her face; but she held herself +well under control. + +"Such views, my lord, if freely expressed and adopted, would change the +entire monastic system." + +"I know it," said the Bishop. "And I would not express them, saving to +you and to one other, to whom I also talk freely. But the older I +grow, the more clearly do I see that systems are man-made, and +therefore often mistaken, injurious, pernicious. But Nature is Divine. +Those who live in close touch with Nature, who rule their lives by +Nature's rules, do not stray far from the Divine plan of the Creator. +But when man takes upon himself to say 'Thou shalt,' or 'Thou shalt +not,' quickly confusion enters. A false premise becomes the +starting-point; and the goal, if it stop short of perdition, is, at +best, folly and failure." + +The Bishop paused. + +The eyes of the woman before him were dark with sorrow, regret, and the +dawning of a great fear. Presently she spoke. + +"To say these things here, my lord, is to say them too late." + +"It is never too late," replied Symon of Worcester. "'Too late' tolls +the knell of the coward heart. If we find out a mistake while we yet +walk the earth where we made it, it is not too late to amend it." + +"Think you so, Reverend Father? Then what do you counsel me to +do--with Seraphine?" + +"Speak to her gently, and with great care and prudence. Say to her +much of that which you have said to me, and a little of that which I +have said to you, but expressed in such manner as will be suited to a +foolish mind. You and I can hurl bricks at one another, my dear +Prioress, and be the better for the exercise. But we must not fling at +little Seraphine aught harder than a pillow of down. Empty heads, like +empty eggshells, are soon broken. Tell her you have consulted me +concerning her desire to return to the world; and that I, being +lenient, and holding somewhat wider views on this subject than the +majority of prelates, also being well acquainted with the mind of His +Holiness the Pope concerning those who embrace the religious life for +reasons other than a true vocation, have promised to arrange the matter +of a dispensation. But add that there must be no possibility of any +scandal connected with the Nunnery. Since the Lady Wulgeova, mother of +Bishop Wulstan, of blessed memory, took the veil here a century and a +half ago, this house has ever been above reproach. You will tacitly +allow her to slip away; and, once away, I will set matters right for +her. But nothing must transpire which could stumble or scandalise the +other members of the Community. The peculiar circumstances which the +Knight made known to me--always, of course, without making any mention +of the name of Seraphine--can hardly have occurred in any other case. +It is not likely, for instance, that our worthy Sub-Prioress was torn +by treachery from the arms of a despairing lover; and she would +undoubtedly share your very limiting ideas of a lover's physical +qualities and requirements; possibly not even allowing him a voice. + +"Now I happen to know that the Knight daily spends the hour of Vespers +in the Cathedral crypt, kneeling before the shrine of Saint Oswald +beside a stretcher whereon lies one of his men, much bandaged about the +head, swathed in linen, and covered with a cloak. The Knight has my +leave to lay the sick man before the holy relics, daily, for five days. +I asked of him what he expected would result from so doing. He made +answer: 'A great recovery and restoration.'" + +The Bishop paused, as if meditating upon the words. Then he slowly +repeated them, taking evident pleasure in each syllable. + +"A great recovery and restoration," said the Bishop, and smiled. + +"Well? The blessed relics can do much. They may avail to mend a +broken head. Could they mend a broken heart? I know not. That were, +of the two, the greater miracle." + +The Bishop glanced at the Prioress. + +Her face was averted. + +"Well, my daughter, matters being as they are, you may inform Sister +Mary Seraphine that, should she chance to lose her way among the +hundred and forty-two columns, when passing through the crypt after +Vespers, she will find a Knight, who will doubtless know what to do +next. If he can contrive to take her safely from the Cathedral and out +of the Precincts, she will have to ride with him to Warwick, where a +priest will be in readiness to wed them. But it would be well that +Sister Mary Seraphine should have some practice in mounting and riding, +before she goes on so adventurous a journey. She may remember the +crimson trappings of her palfrey, and yet have forgotten how to sit +him. It is for us to make sure that the Knight's brave plans for the +safe capture of his lady, do not fail for lack of any help which we may +lawfully give." + +The Bishop stretched out his hand and took up his biretta. + +"When did the nuns last have a Play Day?" he asked. + +"Not a month ago," replied the Prioress. "They made the hay in the +river meadow, and carried it themselves. They thought it rare sport." + +The Bishop put on his biretta. + +"Give them a Play Day, dear Prioress, in honour of my visit. Tell them +I asked that they should have it the day after to-morrow. I will then +send you my white palfrey, suitably caparisoned. Brother Philip, who +attends me when I ride, and who has the palfrey well controlled, shall +lead him in. The nuns can then ride in turns, in the river meadow; and +our little foolish bird can try her wings, before she attempts the long +flight from Worcester to Warwick." + +The Bishop rose, crossed the cell, and knelt long, in prayer, before +the crucifix. + +When he turned toward the door, the Prioress said: "I pray you, give me +your blessing, Reverend Father, before you go." + +She knelt, and the Bishop extended his hand over her bowed head. + +Expecting a Latin formula, she was almost startled when tender words, +in the English tongue, fell softly from the Bishop's lips. + +"The Lord bless thee, and keep thee; and grant unto thee grace and +strength to choose and to do the harder part, when the harder part is +His will for thee." + +After which: "_Benedictio Domini sit vobiscum_," said the Bishop; and +made the sign of the cross over the bowed head of the Prioress. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + +HOLLY AND MISTLETOE + +Symon, Bishop of Worcester, had bidden Sir Hugh d'Argent to sup with +him at the Palace. + +It was upon the second day after the Bishop's conversation with the +Prioress in the Convent at Whytstone; the evening of the Nun's Play +Day, granted in honour of his visit. + +The Bishop and the Knight supped together, with much stately ceremony, +in the great banqueting hall. + +Knowing the Bishop's love of the beautiful, and his habit of being +punctilious in matters of array and deportment, acquired no doubt +during his lengthy sojourns in France and Italy, the Knight had donned +his finest court suit--white satin, embroidered with silver; jewelled +collar, belt, and shoes; a small-sword of exquisite workmanship at his +side. A white cloak, also richly embroidered with silver, hung from +his shoulders; white silk hose set off the shapely length of his limbs. +The blood-red gleam of the magnificent rubies on his breast, +sword-belt, and shoe-buckles, were the only points of colour in his +attire. + +The Bishop's keen eyes noted with quiet pleasure how greatly this +somewhat fantastically beautiful dress enhanced the dark splendour of +the Knight's noble countenance, displayed his superb carriage, and +shewed off the supple grace of his limbs, which, in his ordinary garb, +rather gave the idea of massive strength alone. + +The Bishop himself wore crimson and gold; and, just as the dark beauty +of the Knight was enhanced by the fair white and silver of his dress, +so did these gorgeous Italian robes set off the frail whiteness of the +Bishop's delicate face, the silvery softness of his abundant hair. And +just as the collar of rubies gleamed like fiery eyes upon the Knight's +white satin doublet, so from out the pallor of the Prelate's +countenance the eyes shone forth, bright with the fires of eternal, +youth, the gay joy of life, the twinkling humour of a shrewd yet kindly +wit. + +They supped at a round table of small size, in the very centre of the +huge apartment. It formed a point of light and brightness from which +all else merged into shadow, and yet deeper shadow, until the eye +reached the dark panelling of the walls. + +The light seemed to centre in the Knight--white and silver; the colour, +in the figure of the Bishop--crimson and gold. + +In and out of the shadows, swift and silent, on sandalled feet, moved +the lay-brothers serving the feast; watchful of each detail; quickly +supplying every need. + +At length they loaded the table with fruit; put upon it fresh flagons +of wine, and finally withdrew; each black-robed figure merging into the +black shadows, and vanishing in silence. + +The Bishop's Chaplain appeared in a distant doorway. + +"_Benedicite_," said Symon of Worcester, looking up. + +"_Deus_," replied the Chaplain, making a profound obeisance. + +Then he stood erect--a grim, austere figure, hard features, hollow +eyes, half-shrouded within his cowl. + +He looked with sinister disapproval at the distant table, laden with +fruit and flagons; at the Bishop and the Knight, now sitting nigh to +one another; the Bishop in his chair of state facing the door, the +Knight, on a high-backed seat at the Bishop's right hand, half-way +round the table. + +"Holly and Mistletoe," muttered the Chaplain, as he closed the great +door. + +"Yea, verily! Mistletoe and Holly," he repeated, as he strode to his +cell. "The Reverend Father sups with the World, and indulges the +Flesh. Methinks the Devil cannot be far off." + +Nor was he. + +He was very near. + +He had looked over the Chaplain's shoulder as he made his false +obeisance in the doorway. + +But he liked not the pure white of the Knight's dress, and he feared +the clear light in the Prelate's eyes. So, when the Chaplain closed +the door, the Devil stayed on the outside, and now walked beside the +Chaplain along the passage leading to his cell. + +There is no surer way of securing the company of the Devil, than to +make sure he is at that moment busy with another--particularly if that +other chance to be the most saintly man you know, and merely +displeasing to you, at the moment, because he hath not bidden you to +sup with him. The Devil and the Chaplain made a night of it. + + +The Bishop's gentle "_Benedicite_" spread white wings and flew, like an +affrighted dove, over the head of the bowing Chaplain, into the chill +passage beyond. + +But, just as the great door was closing, it darted in again, circled +round the banqueting hall, and came back to rest in the safe nest of +the kindly heart which had sent it forth. + +No blessing, truly vitalised, ever ceases to live. If the blessed be +unworthy, it returns on swift wing to the blesser. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +SO MUCH FOR SERAPHINE! + +A sense of peace fell upon the banqueting hall, with the closing of the +door. All unrest and suspicion seemed to have departed. An atmosphere +of confidence and serenity pervaded the great chamber. It was in the +Bishop's smile, as he turned to the Knight. + +"At length the time has come when we may talk freely; and truly, my +son, we have much to say." + +The Knight glanced round the spacious hall, and his look implied that +he would prefer to talk in a smaller chamber. + +"Nay, then," said the Bishop. "No situation can be better for a +private conversation than the very centre of a very large room. Have +you not heard it said that walls have ears? Well, in a small room, +they may use them to some purpose. But here, we sit so far removed +from the walls that, strain their ears as they may, they will hear +nothing; even the very key-hole, opening wide its naughty eye, will see +naught, neither will the adjacent ear hear anything. We may speak +freely." + +The Bishop, signing to the Knight to help himself to fruit, moved the +wine toward him. At his own right hand stood a Venetian flagon and +goblet of ruby glass, ornamented with vine leaves and clusters of +grapes. The Bishop drank only from this flagon, pouring its contents +himself into the goblet which he held to the light before he drank from +it, enjoying the rich glow of colour, and the beauty of the engraving. +His guests sometimes wondered what specially choice kind of wine the +Bishop kept for his own, exclusive use. If they asked, he told them. + +"The kind used at the marriage feast at Cana in Galilee, when the +supply of an inferior quality had failed. This, my friends, is pure +water, wholesome, refreshing, and not costly. I drink it from glass +which gives to it the colour of the juice of the grape, partly in order +that my guests may not feel chilled in their own enjoyment of more gay +and luscious beverage; partly because I enjoy the emblem. + +"The gifts of circumstance, life, and nature, vary, not so much in +themselves, as in the human vessels which contain them. If the heart +be a ruby goblet, the humblest form of pure love filling it, will +assume the rich tint and fervour of romance. If the mind be, in +itself, a thing of vivid tints and glowing colours, the dullest thought +within it will take on a lustre, a sparkle, a glow of brilliancy. +Thus, whensoever men or matters seem to me dull or wearisome, to myself +I say: 'Symon! Thou art this day, thyself, a pewter pot.'" + +Then the Bishop would fill up his goblet and hold it to the light. + +"Aye, the best wine!" he would say. "'Thou hast kept the best wine +until now.' The water of earth--drawn by faithful servants, acting in +unquestioning obedience to the commands of the blessed Mother of our +Lord--transmuted by the word and power of the Divine Son; outpoured for +others, in loving service; this is ever 'the best wine.'" + + +The Knight filled his goblet and took some fruit. Then, leaving both +untouched, turned his chair sidewise, that he might the better face the +Bishop, crossed his knees, leaned his right elbow on the table and his +head upon his hand, pushing his fingers into his hair. + +Thus, for a while, they sat in silence; the Knight's eyes searching the +Bishop's face; the Bishop, intent upon the colour of his ruby goblet. + +At length Hugh d'Argent spoke. + +"I have been through deep waters, Reverend Father, since last I supped +with you." + +The Bishop put down the goblet. + +"So I supposed, my son. Now tell me what you will, neither more nor +less. I will then give you what counsel I can. On the one point +concerning which you must not tell me more than I may rightly know, I +will question you. Have you contrived to see the woman you loved, and +lost, and are now seeking to regain? Tell me not how, nor when, nor +where; but have you had speech with her? Have you made clear to her +the treachery which sundered you? Have you pleaded with her to +remember her early betrothal, to renounce these later vows, and to fly +with you?" + +The Knight looked straight into the Bishop's keen eyes. + +At first he could not bring himself to answer. + +This princely figure, with his crimson robes and golden cross, so +visibly represented the power and authority of the Church. + +His own intrusion into the Nunnery, his attempt to win away a holy nun, +suddenly appeared to him, as the most appalling sacrilege. + +With awe and consternation in his own, he met the Bishop's eyes. + +At first they were merely clear and searching, and the Knight sat +tongue-tied. But presently there flicked into them a look so human, so +tender, so completely understanding, that straightway the tongue of the +Knight was loosed. + +"My lord, I have," he said. "All those things have I done. I have +been in heaven, Reverend Father, and I have been in hell----" + +"Sh, my son," murmured the Bishop. "Methinks you have been in a place +which is neither heaven nor hell; though it may, on occasion, +approximate somewhat nearly to both. How you got there, is a marvel to +me; and how you escaped, without creating a scandal, an even greater +wonder. Yet I think it wise, for the present, not to know too much. I +merely required to be certain that you had actually found your lost +betrothed, made her aware of your proximity, your discovery, and your +desires. I gathered that you had succeeded in so doing; for, two days +ago, the Prioress herself sent to beg a private interview with me, in +order to ask whether, under certain circumstances, I could approve the +return of a nun to the world, and obtain absolution from her vows." + +The rubies on the Knight's breast suddenly glittered, as if a bound of +his heart had caused them all to leap together. But, except for that +quick sparkle, he sat immovable, and made no sign. + +The Bishop had marked the gleam of the rubies. + +He lifted his Venetian goblet to the light and observed it carefully, +as he continued: "The Prioress--a most wise and noble lady, of whom I +told you on the day when you first questioned me concerning the +Nunnery--has been having trouble with a nun, by name Sister Mary +Seraphine. This young and lovely lady has, just lately, heard the +world loudly calling--on her own shewing, through the neighing of a +palfrey bringing to mind past scenes of gaiety. But--the Prioress +suspicioned the voice of an earthly lover; and I, knowing how reckless +and resolute an earthly lover was attempting to invade the Nunnery, we +both--the Prioress and I--drew our own conclusions, and proceeded to +face the problem with which we found ourselves confronted, +namely:--whether to allow or to thwart the flight of Seraphine." + +The Knight, toying with walnuts, held at the moment four in the palm of +his right hand. They broke with a four-fold crack, which sounded but +as one mighty crunch. Then, all unconscious of what he did, the Knight +opened his great hand and let fall upon the table, a little heap of +crushed nuts, shells and white flesh inextricably mixed. + +The Bishop glanced at the small heap. The veiled twinkle in his eyes +seemed to say; "So much for Seraphine!" + +"I know not any lady of that name," said the Knight. + +"Not by that name, my son. The nuns are not known in the Convent by +the names they bore before they left the world. I happen to know that +the Prioress, before she professed, was Mora, Countess of Norelle. I +know this because, years ago, I saw her at the Court, when she was a +maid of honour to the Queen; very young and lovely; yet, even then +remarkable for wisdom, piety, and a certain sweet dignity of +deportment. Sometimes now, when she receives me in the severe habit of +her Order, I find myself remembering the flow of beautiful hair, soft +as spun silk, bound by a circlet of gold round the regal head; the +velvet and ermine; the jewels at her breast. Yet do I chide myself for +recalling things which these holy women have renounced, and doubtless +would fain forget." + +The Bishop struck a silver gong with his left hand. + +At once a distant door opened in the dark panelling and two black-robed +figures glided in. + +"Kindle a fire on the hearth," commanded the Bishop; adding to his +guest: "The evening air strikes chilly. Also I greatly love the smell +of burning wood. It is pungent to the nostrils, and refreshing to the +brain." + +The monks hastened to kindle the wood and to fan it into a flame. + +Presently, the fire blazing brightly, the Bishop rose, and signed to +the monks to place the chairs near the great fireplace. This they did; +and, making profound obeisance, withdrew. + +Thus the Bishop and the Knight, alone once more, were seated in the +firelight. As it illumined the white and silver doublet, and glowed in +the rubies, the Bishop conceived the whimsical fancy that the Knight +might well be some splendid archangel, come down to force the Convent +gates and carry off a nun to heaven. And the Knight, watching the +leaping flame flicker on the Bishop's crimson robes and silvery hair, +saw the lenient smile upon the saintly face and took courage as he +realised how kindly was the heart, filled with most human sympathy, +which beat beneath the cross of gold upon the Prelate's breast. + +Leaning forward, the Bishop lifted the faggot-fork and moved one of the +burning logs so that a jet of blue smoke, instead of mounting the +chimney, came out toward them on the hearth. + +Symon of Worcester sat back and inhaled it with enjoyment. + +"This is refreshing," he said. "This soothes and yet braces the mind. +And now, my son, let us return to the question of your own private +concerns. First, let me ask--Hugh, dear lad, as friend and counsellor +I ask it--are you able now to tell me the name of the woman you desire +to wed?" + +"Nay, my dear lord," replied the Knight, "that I cannot do. I guard +her name, as I would guard mine honour. If--as may our Lady be pleased +to grant--she consent to fly with me, her name will still be mine to +guard; yet then all men may know it, so they speak it with due respect +and reverence. But if--as may our blessed Lady forbid--she withhold +herself from me, so that three days hence I ride away alone; then must +I ride away leaving no shadow of reproach on her fair fame. Her name +will be forever in my heart; but no word of mine shall have left it, in +the mind of any man, linked with broken vows, or a forsaken lover." + +The Bishop looked long and earnestly at the Knight. + +"That being so, my son," he said at length, "for want of any better +name, I needs must call her by the name she bears in the Nunnery, and +now speak with you of Sister Mary Seraphine." + +Hugh d'Argent frowned. + +"I care not to hear of this Seraphine," he said. + +"Yet I fear me you must summon patience to hear of Seraphine for a few +moments," said the Bishop, quietly; "seeing that I have here a letter +from the Prioress herself, in which she sends you a message. . . . Ah! +I marvel not that you are taken by surprise, my dear Knight; but keep +your seat, and let not your hand fly so readily to your sword. To +transfix the Reverend Mother's gracious epistle on your blade's keen +point, would not tend to elucidate her meaning; nor could it alter the +fact that she sends you important counsel concerning Sister Mary +Seraphine." + +The Bishop lighted a wax taper standing at his elbow, drew a letter +from the folds of his sash, slowly unfolded and held it to the light. + +The Knight sat silent, his face in shadow. The leaping flame of the +fire played on his sword hilt and on the rubies across his breast. + +As the parchment crackled between the Bishop's fingers, the Knight kept +himself well in hand; but he prayed he might not have need to speak, +nor to meet the Bishop's eyes. These--the saints be praised--were now +intent upon the closely written page. + +The light of the taper illumined the almost waxen whiteness of the +gentle face, and gleamed upon the Bishop's ring. The Knight, fixing +his eyes upon the stone, saw it the colour of red wine. + +At last the Bishop began to speak with careful deliberation, his eyes +upon the letter, yet telling, instead of reading; a method ofttimes +maddening to an anxious listener, eager to snatch the parchment and +master its contents for himself; yet who must perforce wait to receive +them, with due patience, from another. + +"The Prioress relates to me first of all a conversation she had, by my +suggestion, with Sister Mary Serephine, in which she told that lady +much of what passed between herself and me when she consulted me upon +the apparent desire of this nun to escape from the Convent, renounce +her vows, and return to her lover and the world--her lover who had come +to save her." + +The Bishop paused. + +The Knight stirred uneasily in his seat. A net seemed to be closing +around him. Almost he saw himself compelled to ride to Warwick in +company with this most undesired and undesirable nun, Mary Seraphine. + +The Bishop raised his eyes from the letter and looked pensively into +the fire. + +"A most piteous scene took place," he said, "on the day when Sister +Seraphine first heard again the call of the outer world. Most moving +it was, as told me by the Prioress. The distraught nun lay upon the +floor of her cell in an abandonment of frantic weeping. She imitated +the galloping of a horse with her hands and feet, a ride of some sort +evidently being in her mind. At length she lifted a swollen +countenance, crying that her lover had come to save her." + +The Knight clenched his teeth, in despair. Almost, he and this +fearsome nun had arrived at Warwick, and she was lifting a swollen +countenance to him that he might embrace it. + +Yet Mora well knew that he had not come for any Seraphine! Mora might +deny herself to him; but she would not foist another upon him. Only, +alas! this grave and Reverend Prioress of whom the Bishop spoke, hardly +seemed one with the woman of his desire; she who, but three evenings +before, had yielded her lips to his, clasping her arms around him; +loving, even while she denied him. + +The Bishop's eyes were again upon the letter. + +"The Prioress," he said, "with her usual instinctive sense of the +helpfulness of outward surroundings, and desiring, with a fine justice, +to give Seraphine--and her lover--every possible advantage, arranged +that the conversation should take place in the Nunnery garden, in a +secluded spot where they could not be overheard, yet where the sunshine +glinted, through overhanging branches, flecking, in golden patches, the +soft turf; where birds carolled, and spread swift wings; where white +clouds chased one another across the blue sky; in fact, my son," said +the Bishop, suddenly looking up, "where all Nature sang aloud of +liberty and nonrestraint." + +The Knight's eyes, frowning from beneath a shading hand, were gloomy +and full of sombre fury. + +It mattered not to him in what surroundings this preposterous offer, +that she should leave the Convent and fly with him to Warwick, had been +made to Seraphine. Her swollen countenance would be equally +unattractive, whether lifted in cell or cloister, or where white clouds +chased one another across the blue sky! + +The Knight felt as if he were being chased, and by something more to be +feared than a white cloud. Grim Nemesis pursued him. This reverend +prelate, whom he had deemed so wise, was well-nigh witless. Yet Mora +knew the truth. Would her kind hands deal him so base a blow? + +The Bishop saw the brooding rage in the Knight's eyes, and he lowered +his own to the letter, in time to hide their twinkling. + +Even the best and bravest of Knights, for having forced his way into a +Nunnery, pressed a suit upon a nun, and escaped unscathed, deserved +some punishment at the hands of the Church! + +"Which was generous in the Reverend Mother," said the Bishop, "since +she was inclined, upon the whole, to disapprove this offering of +liberty to the restless nun. You can well understand that, the +responsibility for the good conduct of that entire Community resting +upon the Prioress, she is bound to regard with disfavour any innovation +which might tend to provoke a scandal." + +The Bishop did not look up, or he would have seen dull despair +displacing the Knight's anger. + +"However she appears faithfully to have laid before Sister Mary +Seraphine, my view of the matter, giving her to understand that I am +inclined to be lenient concerning vows made under misapprehension; also +that, when there is not a true vocation, and a worldly spirit chafes +against the cloistered life, I regard its presence within the Community +as more likely to be harmful to the common weal, than the short-lived +scandal which might arise if those in power should connive at an +escape." + +The Knight moved impatiently in his seat. + +"Could we arrive, my lord," he said, "at the Lady Prioress's message, +of which you spoke?" + +"We are tending thither, my son," replied the Bishop, unruffled. "Curb +your impatience. We of the Cloister are wont to move slowly, with +measured tread--each step a careful following up of the step which went +before--not with the leaps and bounds and capers of the laity. In due +time we shall reach the message. + +"Well, in this conversation the Prioress appears to have complied with +my suggestions, excepting in the matter of one most important detail, +concerning which she used her own discretion. I distinctly advised her +to tell Seraphine that we were aware of your arrival, and that to my +certain knowledge you were in the crypt each afternoon at the hour when +the White Ladies pass to and from Vespers. In fact, my dear Knight, I +even went so far as to suggest to the Reverend Mother to give Sister +Mary Seraphine to understand that if she stepped aside, losing her way +among the many pillars, you would probably know what to do next. + +"But the Reverend Mother writes"--at last the Bishop began to read: "'I +felt so sure from your description of the noble Knight who came to you +in his trouble, that he cannot be the lover of this shallow-hearted +little Seraphine, that I deemed it wise not to tell her of his arrival, +nor to mention your idea, that the woman he seeks is to be found in +this Nunnery.'" + +The smothered sound which broke from the Knight was a mixture of +triumph, relief, and most bitter laughter. + +"Now that is like the Prioress," said the Bishop; "thus to use her own +judgment, setting at naught my superior knowledge of the facts, and +flouting my authority! A noble nature, Hugh, and most lovable; yet an +imperious will, and a strength of character and purpose unusual in a +woman. Had she remained in the world and married, her husband would +have found it somewhat difficult wholly to mould her to his will. Yet +to possess such a woman would have been worth adventuring much. But I +must not fret you, dear lad, by talking of the Prioress, when your mind +is intent upon arriving at the decision of Seraphine. + +"Well, I fear me, I have but sorry news for you. The Reverend Mother +writes: 'Sister Mary Seraphine expressed herself as completely +satisfied with the cloistered life. She declared that her desire to +return to the world had been but a passing phase, of which she was +completely purged by the timely discipline of Mother Sub-Prioress, and +by the fact that she has been appointed, with Sister Mary Gabriel, to +embroider the new altar-cloth for the Chapel. She talked more eagerly +about a stitch she is learning from Mary Gabriel, than about any of +those by-gone memories, which certainly had seemed most poignantly +revived in her; and I had no small difficulty in turning her mind from +the all-absorbing question as to how to obtain the right tint for the +pomegranates. My lord, to a mind thus intent upon needle-work for the +Altar of God, I could scarce have brought myself to mention the call of +an earthly lover, even had I believed your Knight to be seeking +Seraphine. Her heart is now wedded to the Cloister.'" + +The Bishop looked up. + +"Therefore, my son, we must conclude that your secret interview, +whenever or wherever it took place, had no effect--will bear no lasting +fruit." The Bishop could not resist this allusion to the pomegranates +of Seraphine. + +But Hugh d'Argent, face to face with the suspended portcullis of his +fate, trampled all such gossamer beneath impatient feet. + +He moistened his dry lips. + +"The message," he said. + +The Bishop lifted the letter. + +"'But,'" he read, "'if you still believe your noble Knight to be the +lover of Seraphine, then I pray you to tell him this from me. No nun +worthy of a brave man's love, would consent to break her vows. A nun +who could renounce her vows to go to him, would wrong herself and him, +bringing no blessing to his home. Better an empty hearth, than a +hearth where broods a curse. I ask you, my lord, to give this as a +message to that noble Knight from me--the Prioress of this House--and +to bid him go in peace, praying for a heart submissive to the will of +God.'" + +The Bishop's voice fell silent. He had maintained its quiet tones, yet +perforce had had to rise to something of the dignity of this final +pronouncement of the Prioress, and he spoke the last words with deep +emotion. + +Hugh d'Argent leaned forward, his elbows on his knees; then dropped his +head upon his hands, and so stayed motionless. + +The portcullis had fallen. Its iron spikes transfixed his very soul. + +She was his, yet lost to him. + +This final word of her authority, this speaking, through the Bishop's +mouth, yet with the dignity of her own high office, all seemed of set +intent, to beat out the last ray of hope within him. + +As he sat silent, with bowed head, wild thoughts chased through his +brain. He was back with her in the subterranean way. He knelt at her +feet in the yellow circle of the lantern's light. Her tender hands, +her woman's hands, her firm yet gentle hands, fell on his head; the +fingers moved, with soothing touch, in and out of his hair. Then--when +his love and longing broke through his control--came her surrender. + +Ah, when she was in his arms, why did he loose her? Or, when she had +unlocked the door, and the dim, grey light, like a pearly dawn at sea, +stole downward from the crypt, why, like a fool, did he mount the steps +alone, and leave her standing there? Why did he not fling his cloak +about her, and carry her up, whether she would or no? "Why?" cried the +demon of despair in his soul. "Ah, why!" + +But, even then, his own true heart made answer. He had loosed her +because he loved her too well to hold her to him when she had seemed to +wish to stand free. And he had gone alone, because never would he +force a woman to come with him against her will. His very strength was +safeguard to her weakness. + +Presently Hugh heard the Bishop folding the Prioress's letter. He +lifted his head and held out his hand. + +The Bishop was slipping the letter into his sash. + +He paused. Those eyes implored. That outstretched hand demanded. + +"Nay, dear lad," said the Bishop. "I may not give it you, because it +mentions the White Ladies by name, the Order, and poor little shallow, +changeful Seraphine herself, But this much I will do: as _you_ may not +have it, none other shall." With which the Bishop, unfolding the +Prioress's letter, flung it upon the burning logs. + +Together they watched it curl and blacken; uncurl again, and slowly +flake away. Long after the rest had fallen to ashes, this sentence +remained clear: "Better an empty hearth; than a hearth where broods a +curse." The flames played about it, but still it remained legible; +white letters, upon a black ground; then, letters of fire upon grey +ashes. + +Of a sudden the Knight, seizing the faggot-fork, dashed out the words +with a stroke. + +"I would risk the curse," he cried, with passion. "By Pilate's water, +I would risk the curse!" + +"I know you would, my son," said the Bishop, "and, by our Lady's crown, +I would have let you risk it, believing, as I do, that it would end in +blessing. But--listen, Hugh. In asking what you asked, you scarce +know what you did. You need not say 'yea,' nor 'nay,' but I incline to +think with the Reverend Mother, that the woman you sought was not +foolish little Seraphine, turned one way by the neighing of a palfrey, +another by the embroidering of a pomegranate. There are women of finer +mould in that Nunnery, any one of whom may be your lost betrothed. But +of this we may be sure: whosoever she be, the Prioress knows her, and +knew of whom she wrote when she sent you that message. She has the +entire confidence of all in the Nunnery. I verily believe she knows +them better than does their confessor--a saintly old man, but dim. + +"Now, listen to me. I said you knew not what you asked. Hugh, my lad, +if you had won your betrothed away, you would have had much to learn +and much to unlearn. Believe me, I know women, as only a priest of +many years' standing can know them. Women are either bad or good. The +bad are bad below man's understanding, because their badness is not +leavened by one grain of honour; a fact the worst of men will ever fail +to grasp. The good are good above man's comprehension, because their +perfect purity of heart causeth the spirit ever to triumph over the +flesh; and their love-instinct is the instinct of self-sacrifice. +Every true woman is a Madonna in the home, or fain would be, if her man +would let her. To such a woman, each promise of a child is an +Annunciation; our Lady's awe and wonder, whisper again in the temple of +her inner being; for her love has deified the man she loves; and, it +seems to her, a child of his and hers must be a holy babe, born into +the world to help redeem it. And so it would be, could she but have +her way. But too often the man fails to understand, and so spoils the +perfect plan. And she to whom love means self-sacrifice, sacrifices +all--even her noblest ideals--sooner than fail a call upon her love. +Yet I say again, could the Madonna instinct have had full sway, the +world would have been redeemed ere now to holiness, to happiness, to +health. + +"You looked high, my son, by your own shewing. You loved high. Your +love was worthy, for you remained faithful, when you believed you had +been betrayed. Let your consolation now be the knowledge that she also +was faithful, and that it is a double faithfulness which keeps her from +responding to the call of your love. Seek union with her on the +spiritual plane, and some day--in the Realm where all noble things +shall attain unto full perfection--you may yet give thanks that your +love was not allowed to pass through the perilous pitfalls of an +earthly union." + +The Knight looked at the delicate face of the Bishop, with its wistful +smile, its charm of extreme refinement. + +Yes! Here spoke the Prelate, the Idealist, the Mystic. + +But the Knight was a man and a lover. + +His dark face flushed, and his eyes grew bright with inward fires such +as the Bishop could hardly be expected to understand. + +"I want not spiritual planes," he said, "nor realms of perfection. I +want my own wife, in my own home; and, could I have won her there, I +have not much doubt but that I could have lifted her over any perilous +pitfalls that came in her way." + +"True, my son," said the Bishop, at once gently acquiescent; for Symon +of Worcester invariably yielded a point which had been misunderstood. +For over-rating a mind with which he conversed, this was ever his +self-imposed penance. "Your great strength would be fully equal to +lifting ladies over pitfalls. Which recalls to my mind a scene in this +day's events, which I would fain describe to you before we part." + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +WHAT BROTHER PHILIP HAD TO TELL + +The Bishop sat back in his chair, smiling, as at a mental picture which +gave him pleasure, coupled with some amusement. + +Ignoring the Knight's sullen silence, he began his story in the +cheerful voice which takes for granted a willing and an interested +listener. + +"When the Prioress and myself were discussing your hopes, my son, and I +was urging, in your interests, liberty of flight for Sister Mary +Seraphine, I informed the Reverend Mother that the carrying out of your +plans, carefully laid in order to keep any scandal concerning the White +Ladies from reaching the city, would involve for Seraphine a ride of +many hours to Warwick, almost immediately upon safely reaching the Star +hostel. This seemed as nothing to the lover who, by his own shewing, +had ofttimes seen her 'ride like a bird, all day, on the moors.' But +to us who know the effect of monastic life and how quickly such matters +as these become lost arts through disuse, this romantic ride in the +late afternoon and on into the summer night, loomed large as a possible +obstacle to the successful flight of Seraphine. + +"Therefore, in order that our little bird might try her wings, regain +her seat and mastery of a horse, and rid herself of a first painful +stiffness, I persuaded the Reverend Mother to grant the nuns a Play +Day, in honour of my visit, promising to send them my white palfrey, +suitably caparisoned, in safe charge of a good lay-brother, so that all +nuns who pleased, might ride in the river meadow. You would not think +it," said the Bishop, with a smile, "but the White Ladies dearly love +such sport, when it is lawful. They have an aged ass which they +gleefully mount in turns, on Play Days, in the courtyard and in the +meadow. Therefore riding is not altogether strange to them, although +my palfrey, Iconoklastes, is somewhat of an advance upon their mild +ass, Sheba." + +The Knight's sad face had brightened at mention of the beasts. + +"Wherefore 'Iconoklastes'?" he asked, with interest. It struck him as +a curious name for a palfrey. + +"Because," replied the Bishop, "soon after I had bought him he trampled +to ruin, in a fit of misplaced merriment, some flower beds on which I +had spent much precious time and care, and of which I was inordinately +fond." + +"Brute," said the Knight, puzzled, but unwilling to admit it. +"Methinks I should have named him 'Devil,' for the doing of such +diabolic mischief." + +"Nay," said the Bishop, gently. "The Devil would have spared my flower +beds. They were a snare unto me." + +"And wherefore 'Sheba'?" queried the Knight. + +"I named her so, when I gave her to the Prioress," said the Bishop, "in +reply to a question put to me by the Reverend Mother. The ass was +elderly and mild, even then, but a handsome creature, of good breed. +The Prioress asked me whether she still had too much spirit to be +easily managed by the lay-sisters. I answered that her name was +'Sheba.'" + +The Bishop paused and rubbed his hands softly over each other, in +gleeful enjoyment of the recollection. + +But the Knight again looked blank. + +"Did that content the Prioress?" he asked; but chiefly for love of +mentioning her name. + +"Perfectly," replied the Bishop. "She smiled and said: 'That is well.' +And the name stuck to the ass, though the Reverend Mother and I alone +understood its meaning." + +"About the Play Day?" suggested the Knight, growing restive. + +"Ah, yes! About the Play Day. The time chosen was after noon on this +day, in order that the Prioress might first accomplish her talk with +Seraphine, thus clearing the way for our experiment. Although written +last evening, I had not received the Reverend Mother's decisive letter, +when Iconoklastes set forth; and, I confess, I looked forward with keen +interest, to questioning the lay-brother on his return. As I have told +you, I had doubts concerning Seraphine; but I knew the Prioress would +see to it that my meaning and intention reached the member of the +Community actually concerned, were she Seraphine or another; and I +should have light, both on the identity of the lady and on her probable +course of action, when report reached me as to which of the nuns had +taken the riding seriously. Therefore, with no little interest, I +awaited the return of Iconoklastes, in charge of Brother Philip." + +The Bishop lifted the faggot-fork and, bending over the hearth, began +to build the logs, quickening the dying flame. + +"Well?" cried the Knight, chafing like a charger on the curb. "Well, +my lord? And then?" + +The Bishop stood the faggot-fork in its corner. + +"I paused, my son, that you might say: 'Wherefore "Philip"?'" + +"The names of men interest me not," said the Knight, with impatience. +"I care but to know the reason for the names of beasts." + +"Quite right," said the Bishop. "Adam named the beasts; Eve named the +men. Yet, I would like you to ask 'Wherefore "Philip,"' because the +Prioress at once put that question, when she heard me call Brother Mark +by his new name." + +"Wherefore 'Philip'?" asked the Knight, with averted eyes. + +"Because 'Philip' signifies 'a lover of horses.' I named the good +brother so, when he developed a great affection for all the steeds in +my stables. + +"Well, at length Brother Philip returned, leading the palfrey. I had +been riding upon the heights above the town, on my comely black mare, +Shulamite." + +Again the Bishop paused, and shot a merry challenge at Hugh d'Argent; +but realising at once that the Knight could brook no more delay, he +hastened on. + +"Riding into the courtyard, just as Philip led in the palfrey, I bade +him first to see to Icon's comfort; then come to my chamber and report. +Before long the lay-brother appeared. + +"Now Brother Philip is an excellent teller of stories. He does not +need to mar them by additions, because his quickness of observation +takes in every detail, and his excellent memory lets nothing slip. He +has a faculty for recalling past scenes in pictures, and tells a story +as if describing a thing just happening before his mental vision: the +sole draw-back to so vivid a memory being, that if the picture grows +too mirth provoking, Brother Philip is seized with spasms of the +diaphragm, and further description becomes impossible. On this +occasion, I saw at once that the good brother's inner vision teemed +with pictures. I settled myself to listen. + +"Aye, it had been a wonderful scene, and more merriment, so the +lay-sisters afterwards told Brother Philip, than ever known before at +any Play Day. + +"Icon was led in state from the courtyard, down into the river meadow. + +"At first the great delight was to crowd round him, pat him, stroke his +mane, finger his trappings; cry out words of ecstatic praise and +admiration, and attempt to feed him with all manner of unsuitable food. + +"Icon, I gather, behaved much as most males behave on finding +themselves the centre of a crowd of admiring women. He pawed the +ground, and swished his tail; arched his neck, and looked from side to +side; munched cakes he did not want, winking a large and roguish eye at +Brother Philip; and finally, ignoring all the rest, fixed a languorous +gaze upon the Prioress, she being the only lady present who stood +apart, regarding the scene, but taking no share in the general +adulation. + +"At length the riding began; Brother Philip keeping firm hold on Icon, +while the entire party of nuns undertook to mount the nun who had +elected to ride. Each time Brother Philip attempted a description of +this part of the proceedings he was at once seized with such spasms in +the region of his girdle, that speech became an impossibility; he could +but hold himself helplessly, looking at me from out streaming eyes, +until a fresh peep at his mental picture again bent him double. + +"Much as I prefer a story complete, from start to finish, I was +constrained to command Brother Philip to pass on to scenes which would +allow him some possibility of articulate speech. + +"The sternness of my tones gave to the good brother the necessary +assistance. In a voice still weak and faltering, but gaining firmness +as it proceeded, he described the riding. + +"Most of the nuns rode but a few yards, held in place by so many +willing hands that, from a distance, only the noble head of Icon could +be seen above the moving crowd, surmounted by the terrified face of the +riding nun; who, hastening to exclaim that her own delight must not +cause her to keep others from participation, would promptly fall off +into the waiting arms held out to catch her; at once becoming, when +safely on her feet, the boldest encourager of the next aspirant to a +seat upon the back of Icon. + +"Sister Mary Seraphine proved a disappointment. She had been wont to +boast so much of her own palfrey, her riding, and her hunting, that the +other nuns had counted upon seeing her gallop gaily over the field. + +"The humble and short-lived attempts were all made first. Then Sister +Mary Seraphine, bidding the others stand aside, was swung by one tall +sister, acting according to her instructions, neatly into the saddle. + +"She gathered up the reins, as to the manner born," and bade Brother +Philip loose the bridle. But the palfrey, finding himself no longer +hemmed in by a heated, pressing crowd, gave, for very gladness of +heart, a gay little gambol. + +"Whereupon, Sister Mary Seraphine, almost unseated, shrieked to Brother +Philip to hold the bridle, rating him soundly for having let go. + +"He then led Icon about the meadow, the nuns following in procession; +Sister Seraphine all the while complaining; first of the saddle, which +gripped her where it should not, leaving an empty space there where +support was needed; then of the palfrey's paces; then of a twist in her +garments--twice the procession stopped to adjust them; then of the ears +of the horse which twitched for no reason, and presently pointed at +nothing--a sure sign of frenzy; and next of his eye, which rolled round +and was vicious. + +"At this, Mother Sub-Prioress, long weary of promenading, yet +determined not to be left behind while others followed on, exclaimed +that if the eye of the creature were vicious, then must Sister Mary +Seraphine straightway dismount, and the brute be led back to the seat +where the Prioress sat watching. + +"To this Seraphine gladly agreed, and a greatly sobered procession +returned to the top of the field. + +"But gaiety was quickly restored by the old lay-sister, Mary Antony, +who, armed with the Reverend Mother's permission, insisted on mounting. + +"Willing hands, miscalculating the exceeding lightness of her aged +body, lifted her higher than need be, above the back of the palfrey. +Whereupon Mary Antony, parting her feet, came down straddling! + +"Firm as a limpet, she sat thus upon Icon. No efforts of the nuns +could induce her to shift her position. Commanding Brother Philip, +seeing 'the Lord Bishop' was now safely mounted, to lead on and not +keep him standing, old Antony rode off in triumph, blessing the nuns +right and left, as she passed. + +"Never were heard such shrieks of merriment! Even Mother Sub-Prioress +sank upon a seat to laugh with less fatigue. Sister Seraphine's +fretful complaints were forgotten. + +"Twice round the field went old Antony, with fingers uplifted. Icon +stepped carefully, arching his neck and walking as if he well knew that +he bore on his back, ninety odd years of brave gaiety. + +"Well, that made of the Play Day a success. But--the best of all was +yet to come." + +The Bishop took up the faggot-fork, and again tended the fire. He +seemed to find it difficult to tell that which must next be told. + +The Knight was breathing quickly. He sat immovable; yet the rubies on +his breast glittered continuously, like so many eager, fiery eyes. + +The Bishop went on, speaking rapidly, the faggot-fork still in his +hand, his face turned to the fire. + +"They had lifted Mary Antony down, and were crowding round Icon, +patting and praising him, when a message came from the Reverend Mother, +bidding Brother Philip to bring the palfrey into the courtyard; the +nuns to remain in the field. + +"They watched the beautiful creature pace through the archway and +disappear, and none knew quite what would happen next. Philip heard +them discussing it later. + +"Some thought the Bishop had sent for his palfrey. Others, that the +Reverend Mother had feared for the safety of the old lay-sister; or, +lest her brave example should fire the rest to be too venturesome. Yet +all eyes were turned toward the archway, vaguely expectant. + +"And then---- + +"They heard the hoofs of Icon ring on the flagstones of the courtyard. + +"They heard the calm voice of the Prioress. Could it be she who was +coming? + +"Out from the archway, into the sunshine, alone and fearless; the +Prioress rode upon Icon. On her face was the light of a purposeful +radiance. The palfrey stepped as if proud of the burden he carried. + +"She smiled and would have cried out gaily to the groups as she passed. +But, with one accord, the nuns dropped to their knees, with clasped +hands, and faces uplifted, adoring. Always they loved her, revered +her, and thought her beautiful. But this vision of the Prioress, whom +none had ever seen mounted, riding forth into the sunshine on the +snow-white palfrey, filled their hearts with praise and with wonder. + +"Brother Philip leaned against the archway, watching. He knew his hand +upon the bridle was no longer needed, from the moment when he saw the +Reverend Mother gather up the reins in her left hand, lay her right +gently on the neck of Icon, and, bending, speak low in his ear. + +"She sat a horse--said Philip--as only they can sit, who have ridden +from childhood. + +"She walked him round the meadow once, then gently shook the reins, and +he broke into a trot. + +"The watching nuns, now on their feet again, shrieked aloud, with +fright and glee. + +"At the extreme end of the meadow, wheeling sharply, she let him out +into a canter. + +"The nuns at this were petrified into dumbness. One and all held their +breath; while Mother Sub-Prioress--nobody quite knew why--turned upon +Sister Mary Seraphine, and shook her. + +"And the next moment the Prioress was among them, walking the palfrey +slowly, settling her veil, which had streamed behind her as she +cantered, bending to speak to one and another, as she passed. + +"And the light of new life was in her eyes. Her cheeks glowed, she +seemed a girl again. + +"Reining in Iconoklastes, she paused beside Mother Sub-Prioress and +said----" + +The Bishop broke off, while he carefully stood the faggot-fork up in +its corner. + +"She paused and said: 'None need remain here longer than they will. +But, being up and mounted, and our Lord Bishop in no haste for the +return of his palfrey, it is my intention to ride for an hour.'" + +Symon of Worcester turned and looked full at the Knight. + +"And the Prioress rode for an hour," he said. "For a full hour, in the +sunshine, on the soft turf of the river meadow, THE PRIORESS TRIED HER +WINGS." + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +THE MIDNIGHT ARRIVAL + +Hugh d'Argent sat speechless, returning the Bishop's steady gaze. + +No fear was in his face; only a great surprise. + +Presently into the eyes of both there crept a look which was +half-smile, half-wistful sorrow, but wholly trustful; a look to which, +as yet, the Bishop alone held the key. + +"So you know, my lord," said Hugh d'Argent. + +"Yes, my son; I know." + +"Since this morning?" + +"Nay, then! Since the first day you arrived with your story; asking +such careful questions, carelessly. But be not wroth with yourself, +Hugh. Faithful to the hilt, have you been. Only--no true lover was +ever a diplomat! Matters which mean more than life, cannot be +dissembled by true hearts from keen eyes." + +"Then why all the talk concerning Seraphine?" demanded the Knight. + +"Seraphine, my son, has served a useful purpose in various +conversations. Never before, in the whole of her little shallow, +selfish life has Seraphine been so disinterestedly helpful. That you +sat here just now, thinking me witless beyond belief, just when I most +desired not to appear to know too much, I owe to the swollen +countenance of Seraphine." + +"My lord," exclaimed the Knight, overcome with shame. "My lord! How +knew you----" + +"Peace, lad! Fash not thyself over it. Is it not a part of my sacred +office to follow in the footsteps of my Master and to be a discerner of +the thoughts and intents of the heart? Also, respecting, yea, +approving your reasons for reticence, I would have let you depart not +suspecting my knowledge of that which you wished to conceal, were it +not that we must now face this fact together:--Since penning that +message of apparent finality, the Prioress has tried her wings." + +A rush of bewildered joy flooded the face of the Knight. + +"Reverend Father!" he said, "think you that means hope for me?" + +Symon of Worcester considered this question carefully, sitting in his +favourite attitude, his lips compressed against his finger-tips. + +At length; "I think it means just this," he said. "A conflict, in her, +between the mental and the physical; between reason and instinct; +thought and feeling. The calm, collected mind sent you that reasoned +message of final refusal. The sentient body, vibrant with bounding +life, instinctively prepares itself for the possibility of the ride +with you to Warwick. This gives equal balance to the scale. But a +third factor will be called in, finally to decide the matter. By that +she will abide; and neither you nor I, neither earth nor hell, neither +things past, things present, nor things to come, could avail to move +her." + +"And that third factor?" questioned the Knight. + +"Is the Spiritual," replied the Bishop, solemnly, with uplifted face. + +"With that, there came over the Knight a sudden sense of compunction. +He began for the first time to see the matter as it must appear to the +Bishop and the nun. His own obstinate and determined self-seeking +shamed him. + +"You have been very good to me, my lord," he said humbly. "You have +been most kind and most generous, when indeed you had just cause to be +angry." + +The Bishop lowered his eyes from the rafters, and bent them in +questioning gaze upon Hugh d'Argent. + +"Angry, my son? And wherefore should I be angry?" + +"That I should have sought, and should still be seeking, to tempt the +Prioress to wrong-doing." + +The Bishop's questioning gaze took on a brightness which almost became +the light of sublime contempt. + +"_You_--tempt _her_?" he said. "Tempt her to wrong-doing! The man +lives not, who could succeed in that! She will not come to you unless +she knows it to be right to come, and believes it to be wrong to stay. +If I thought you were tempting her, think you I would stand aside and +watch the conflict? Nay! But I stand aside and wait while she--of +purer, clearer vision, and walking nearer Heaven than you or +I--discerns the right, and, choosing it, rejects the wrong. Should she +be satisfied that life with you is indeed God's will for her--and I +tell you honestly, it will take a miracle to bring this about--she will +come to you. But she will not come to you unless, in so doing, she is +choosing what to her is the harder part." + +"The harder part!" exclaimed the Knight. "You forget, my lord, she +loves me." + +"Do I forget?" replied the Bishop. "Have you found me given to +forgetting? The very fact that she loves you, is the heaviest factor +against you--just now. To such women there comes ever the instinctive +feeling, that that which would be sweet must be wrong, and the hard +path of renunciation the only right one. They climb not Zion's mount +to reach the crown. They turn and wend their way through Gethsemane to +Calvary, sure that thus alone can they at last inherit. And what can +we say? Are they not following in the footsteps of the Son of God? I +fear my nature turns another way. I incline to follow King David, or +Solomon in all his glory, chanting glad Songs of Ascent, from the +Palace on Mount Zion to the Temple on Mount Moriah. All things +harmonious, in sound, form, or colour, seem to me good and, therefore, +right. But long years in Italy have soaked me in the worship of the +beautiful, inextricably intermingled with the adoration of the Divine. +I mistrust mine own judgment, and I fear me"--said the Prelate, whose +gentle charity had won so many to religion--"I greatly fear me, I am +far from being Christlike. But I recognise the spirit of +self-crucifixion, when I see it. And the warning that I give you, is +not because I forget, but because I remember." + +As the last words fell in solemn utterance from the Bishop's lips, the +silence without was broken by the loud clanging of the outer bell; +followed by hurrying feet in the courtyard below, the flare of torches +shining up upon the casements, and the unbarring of the gate. + +"It must be close on midnight," said Hugh d'Argent; "a strange hour for +an arrival." + +The banqueting hall, on the upper floor of the Palace, had casements at +the extreme end, facing the door, which gave upon the courtyard. + +The Knight walked over to one of these casements standing open, kneeled +upon the high window-seat, and looked down. + +"A horseman has ridden in," he said, "and ridden fast. His steed is +flecked with foam, and stands with spreading nostrils, panting. . . . +The rider has passed within. . . . Your men, my lord, are leading away +the steed." The Knight returned to his place. "Brave beast! Methinks +they would do well to mix his warm mash with ale." + +Symon of Worcester made no reply. + +He sat erect, with folded hands, a slight flush upon his cheeks, +listening for footsteps which must be drawing near. + +They came. + +The door, at the far end of the hall, opened. + +The gaunt Chaplain stood in the archway, making obeisance. + +"Well?" said the Bishop, dispensing with the usual formalities. + +"My lord, your messenger has returned, and requests an audience without +delay." + +"Bid him enter," said the Bishop, gripping the arms of the chair, and +leaning forward. + +The Chaplain, half-turning, beckoned with uplifted hand; then stood +aside, as rapid feet approached. + +A young man, clad in a brown riding-suit, dusty and travel-stained, +appeared in the doorway. Not pausing for any monkish salutations or +genuflections, he strode some half-dozen paces up the hall; then swung +off his hat, stopped short with his spurs together, and bowed in +soldierly fashion toward the great fireplace. + +Thrusting his hand into his breast, he drew out a packet, heavily +sealed. + +"I bring from Rome," he said--and his voice rang through the +chamber--"for my Lord Bishop of Worcester, a letter from His Holiness +the Pope." + +The Knight sprang to his feet. The Bishop rose, a noble figure in +crimson and gold, and the dignity of his high office straightway +enveloped him. + +In complete silence, he stretched out his right hand for the letter. + +The dusty traveller came forward quickly, knelt at the Bishop's feet, +and placed the missive in his hands. + +As the Bishop lifted the Pope's letter and, stooping his head, kissed +the papal seal, the Knight kneeled on one knee, his hand upon his +sword-hilt, his eyes bent on the ground. + +So for a moment there was silence. The sovereignty of Rome, stretching +a mighty arm across the seas, asserted its power in the English hall. + +Then the Bishop placed the letter upon a small table at his right hand, +seated himself, and signed to both men to rise. + +"How has it fared with you, Roger?" he asked, kindly. + +"Am I in time, Reverend Father?" exclaimed the youth, eagerly. "I +acted on your orders. No expense was spared. I chartered the best +vessel I could find, and had set sail within an hour of galloping into +the port. We made a good passage, and being fortunate in securing +relays of horses along the route, I was in Rome twenty-four hours +sooner than we had reckoned. I rode in at sunset; and, your name and +seal passing me on everywhere, your letter, my lord, was in the Holy +Father's hands ere the glow had faded from the distant hills. + +"I was right royally entertained by Cardinal Ferrari; and, truth to +tell, a soft couch and silken quilts were welcome, after many nights of +rough lodging, in the wayside inns of Normandy and Italy. Moreover, +having galloped ahead of time, I felt free to take a long night's +repose. + +"But next morning, soon after the pigeons began to coo and circle, I +was called and bid to hasten. Then, while I broke my fast with many +strange and tasty dishes, seated in a marble court, with fountains +playing and vines o'erhanging, the Cardinal returned, he having been +summoned already to the bedchamber of the Pope, where the reply of His +Holiness lay, ready sealed. + +"Whereupon, my lord, I lost no time in setting forth, picking up on my +return journey each mount there where I had left it, until I galloped +into the port where our vessel waited. + +"Then, alas, came delay, and glad indeed was I, that I had not been +tempted to linger in Rome; for the winds were contrary; some days +passed before we could set sail; and when at last I prevailed upon the +mariners to venture, a great storm caught us in mid-channel, +threatening to rend the sails to ribbons and, lifting us high, hurl us +all to perdition. Helpless and desperate, for the sailors had lost all +control, I vowed that if the storm might abate and we come safe to +harbour I would--when I succeed to my father's lands in +Gloucestershire--give to the worthy Abbot of an Abbey adjoining our +estate, a meadow, concerning which he and his monks have long broken +the tenth commandment and other commands as well, a trout stream +running through it, and the dearest delight of the Abbot being fat +trout for supper; and of the monks, to lie on their bellies tickling +the trout as they hide in the cool holes under the banks of the stream. +But when my father finds the monks thus poaching, he comes up behind +them, and up they get quickly--or try to! So, in mid-channel, +remembering my sins, I remembered running to tell my father that if he +came quickly he would find the good Brothers flat on their bellies, +sleeves rolled back, heads hanging over the water, toes well tucked +into the turf, deeply intent upon tickling. Then I would run by a +short cut, hide in the hazels, and watch while my father stalked up +through the meadow, caught and belaboured the poachers. My derisive +young laughter seemed now to howl and shriek through the rigging. So I +vowed that if the storm abated and we came safe to port, the monks +should be given that meadow. Upon which the storm did abate, and to +port we came--and what my father will say, I know not! Fearing +vexation to you, my lord, from this untoward delay, on landing I rode +as fast as mine own good horse could carry me. Am I in time?" + +The Bishop smiled as he looked into the blue eyes and open countenance +of young Roger de Berchelai, a youth wholly devoted to his service. +Here was another who remembered in pictures, and Symon of Worcester +loved the gallop, and rush, and breeze of the sea, which had swept +through the chamber, in the eager young voice of his envoy. + +"Yes, my son," said the Bishop. "You have returned, not merely in +time, but with two days to spare. Was there ever fleeter messenger! +Indeed my choice was well made and my trust well placed. Now you must +sup and then take a much-needed rest, dear lad; and to-morrow tell me +if you had need to spend more than I gave you." + +Raising his voice, the Bishop called his Chaplain; whereupon that +sinister figure at once appeared in the doorway. + +The Bishop gave orders concerning the entertaining of the young Esquire +of Berchelai; then added; "And let the chapel be lighted, Father +Benedict. So soon as the aurora appears in the east, I shall celebrate +mass, in thanksgiving for the blessing of a letter from the Holy +Father, and for the safe return of my messenger. I shall not need your +presence nor that of any of the brethren, save those whose watch it +chances to be. . . . _Benedicite_." + +"_Deus_," responded Father Benedict, bowing low. + +Young Roger, gay and glad, knelt and kissed the Bishop's ring; then, +rising, flung back a strand of fair hair which fell over his forehead, +and said: "A bath, my lord, would be even more welcome than supper and +bed. It shames me to have come in such travel-stained plight into your +presence, and that of this noble knight," with a bow to Hugh d'Argent. + +"Nay," said Hugh, smiling in friendly response. "Travel-stains gained +in such fashion, are more to be desired than silks and fine linen. I +would I could go to rest this night knowing I had accomplished as much." + +"Go and have thy bath, boy," said the Bishop. "This will give my monks +time to tickle, catch, and cook, trout for thy supper! Ah, thou young +rascal! But that field is _Corban_, remember. Sup well, rest well, +and the blessing of the Lord be with thee." + +The brown riding-suit vanished through the archway. + +Father Benedict's lean hand pulled the door to. + +The Bishop and the Knight were once more alone. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +THE POPE'S MANDATE + +The Bishop and Hugh d'Argent were once more alone. It was +characteristic of both that they sat for some minutes in unbroken +silence. + +Then the Bishop put out his hand, took up the packet from Rome, and +looked at the Knight. + +Hugh d'Argent rose, walked over to the casement, and leaned out into +the still, summer night. + +He could hear the Bishop breaking the seals of the Pope's letter. + +Below in the courtyard, all was quiet. The great gates were barred. +He wondered whether the steaming horse had been well rubbed down, +clothed, and given a warm mash mixed with ale. + +He could hear the Bishop unfolding the parchment, which crackled. + +The moon, in her first quarter, rode high in the heavens. The towers +of St. Mary's church looked black against the sky. + +The Palace stood on the same side of the Cathedral as the main street +of the city, in the direct route to the Foregate, the Tithing, and the +White Ladies' Nunnery at Whytstone. How strange to remember, that +beneath him lay that mile-long walk in darkness; that just under the +Palace, so near the Cathedral, she and he, pacing together, had known +the end of their strange pilgrimage to be at hand. Yet then---- + +He could hear the Bishop turning the parchment. + +How freely the silvery moon sailed in this stormy sky, like a noble +face looking calmly out, and ever out again, from amid perplexities and +doubts. + +In two nights' time, the moon would be well-nigh full. Would he be +riding to Warwick alone, or would she be beside him? + +As the Bishop had said, he had described her as riding all day, like a +bird, on the moors. Yet now he loved best to picture her riding forth +upon Icon into the river meadow, her veil streaming behind her; "on her +face the light of a purposeful radiance." + +Ah, would she come? Would she come, or would she stay? Would she +stay, or would she come? + +The moon was now hidden by a cloud; but he could see the edge of the +cloud silvering. + +If the moon sailed forth free, before he had counted to twelve, she +would come. + +He began to count, slowly. + +At nine, the moon was still hidden; and the Knight's heart failed him. + +But at ten, the Bishop called: "Hugh!" and turning from the casement +the Knight answered to the call. + +The Bishop held in his hands the Pope's letter, and also a +legal-looking document, from which seals depended. + +"This doth closely concern you, my son," said the Bishop, with some +emotion, and placed the parchment in the Knight's hands. + +Hugh d'Argent could have mastered its contents by the light of the wax +taper burning beside the Bishop's chair. But some instinct he could +not have explained, caused him to carry it over to the table in the +centre of the hall, whereon four wax candles still burned. He stood to +read the document, with his back to the Bishop, his head bent close to +the flame of the candles. + +Once, twice, thrice, the Knight read it, before his bewildered brain +took in its full import. Yet it was clear and unmistakable--a +dispensation, signed and sealed by the Pope, releasing Mora, Countess +of Norelle, from all vows and promises taken and made when she entered +the Nunnery of the White Ladies of Worcester, at Whytstone, in the +parish of dairies, and later on when she became Prioress of that same +Nunnery; and furthermore stating that this full absolution was granted +because it had been brought to the knowledge of His Holiness that this +noble lady had entered the cloistered life owing to a wicked and +malicious plot designed to wrest her castle and estates from her, and +also to part her from a valiant Knight, at that time fighting in the +Holy Wars, to whom she was betrothed. + +Furthermore the deed empowered Symon, Bishop of Worcester or any priest +he might appoint, to unite in marriage the Knight Crusader, Hugh +d'Argent, and Mora de Norelle, sometime Prioress of the White Ladies of +Worcester. + + +The Knight walked back to the hearth and stood before the Bishop, the +parchment in his hand. + +"My Lord Bishop," he said, "do I dream?" + +Symon of Worcester smiled. "Nay, my son. Surely no dream of thine was +ever signed by His Holiness, nor bore suspended from it the great seal +of the Vatican! The document you hold will be sufficient answer to all +questions, and will ensure your wife's position at Court and her +standing in the outer world--should she elect to re-enter it. + +"But whether she shall do this, or no, is not a matter upon which the +Church would give a decisive or even an authoritative pronouncement; +and the Holy Father adds, in, his letter to me, further important +instructions. + +"Firstly: that it must be the Prioress's own wish and decision, apart +from any undue pressure from without, to resign her office and to +accept this dispensation, freeing her from her vows. + +"Secondly; that she must leave the Nunnery and the neighbourhood, +secretly; if it be possible, appearing in her new position, as your +wife, without much question being raised as to whence she came. + +"Thirdly: that when her absence becomes known in the Nunnery, I am +authorized solemnly to announce that she has been moved on by me, +secretly, with the knowledge and approval of the Holy Father, to a +place where she was required for higher service." + +The Bishop smiled as he pronounced the final words. There was triumph +in his eye. + +The Knight still looked as if he felt himself to be dreaming; yet on +his face was a great gladness of expectation. + +"And, my lord," he exclaimed joyously, "what news for her! Shall you +send it, in the morn, or yourself take it to her?" + +The Bishop's lips were pressed against his finger-tips. + +"I know not," he answered, slowly; "I know not that I shall either take +or send it." + +"But, my lord, surely! It will settle all doubts, solve all questions, +remove all difficulties----" + +"Tut! Tut! Tut!" exclaimed the Bishop. "Good heavens, man! Dare I +wed you to a woman you know so little? Not for one instant, into her +consideration of the matter, will have entered any question as to what +Church or State might say or do. For her the question stands upon +simpler, truer, lines, not involved by rule or dogma: 'Is it right for +me, or wrong for me? Is it the will of God that I should do this +thing?'" + +"But if you tell her, my lord, of the Holy Father's dispensation and +permission; what will she then say?" + +"What will she then say?" Symon of Worcester softly laughed, as at +something which stirred an exceeding tender memory. "She will probably +say: 'You amaze me, my lord! Indeed, my lord, you amaze me! His +Holiness the Pope may rule at Rome; _you_, my Lord Bishop, rule in the +cities of this diocese; but _I_ rule in this Nunnery, and while I rule +here, such a thing as this shall never be!'" + +The Bishop gently passed his hands the one over the other, as was his +habit when a recollection gave him keen mental pleasure. + +"That is what the Prioress would probably say, my dear Knight, were I +so foolish as to flaunt before her this most priceless parchment. And +yet--I know not. It may be wise to send it, or to show it without much +comment, simply in order that she may see the effect upon the mind of +the Holy Father himself, of a full knowledge of the complete facts of +the case." + +"My lord," said the Knight, with much earnestness, "how came that full +knowledge to His Holiness in Rome?" + +"When first you came to me," replied the Bishop, "with this grievous +tale of wrong and treachery, I knew that if you won your way with Mora, +we must be armed with highest authority for the marriage and for her +return to the world, or sorrow and much trial for her might follow, +with, perhaps, danger for you. Therefore I resolved forthwith to lay +the whole matter, without loss of time, before the Pope himself. I +know the Holy Father well; his openness of mind, his charity and +kindliness; his firm desire to do justly, and to love mercy. Moreover, +his friendship for me is such, that he would not lightly refuse me a +request. Also he would, of his kindness, incline to be guided by my +judgment. + +"Wherefore, no sooner were all the facts in my possession, those you +told me, those I already knew, and those I did for myself deduce from +both, than I sent for young Roger de Berchelai, whose wits and devotion +I could safely trust, gave him all he would need for board and lodging, +boats and steeds, that he might accomplish the journey in the shortest +possible time, and despatched him to Rome with a written account of the +whole matter, under my private seal, to His Holiness the Pope." + +The Knight stood during this recital, his eyes fixed in searching +question upon the Bishop's face. + +Then: "My lord," he said, "such kindness on your part, passes all +understanding. That you should have borne with me while I told my +tale, was much. That you should tacitly have allowed me the chance to +have speech with my betrothed, was more. But that, all this time, +while I was giving you half-confidence, and she no confidence at all, +you should have been working, spending, planning for us, risking much +if the Holy Father had taken your largeness of heart and breadth of +mind amiss! All this, you did, for Mora and for me! That you were, as +you tell me, a frequent guest in my childhood's home, holding my +parents in warm esteem, might account for the exceeding kindness of the +welcome you did give me. But this generosity--this wondrous +goodness--I stand amazed, confounded! That you should do so great a +thing to make it possible that I should wed the Prioress-- It passes +understanding!" + +When Hugh d'Argent ceased speaking, Symon of Worcester did not +immediately make reply. He sat looking into the fire, fingering, with +his left hand, the gold cross at his breast, and drumming, with the +fingers of his right, upon the carved lion's head which formed the arm +of his chair. + +It seemed as if the Bishop had, of a sudden, grown restive under the +Knight's gratitude; or as if some train of thought had awakened within +him, to which he did not choose to give expression, and which must be +beaten back before he allowed himself to speak. + +At length, folding his hands, he made answer to the Knight, still +looking into the fire, a certain air of detachment wrapping him round, +as with an invisible yet impenetrable shield. + +"You overwhelm me, my dear Hugh, with your gratitude. It had not +seemed to me that my action in this matter would demand either thanks +or explanation. There are occasions when to do less than our best, +would be to sin against all that which we hold most sacred. To my +mind, the most useful definition of sin, in the sacred writings, is +that of the apostle Saint James, most practical of all the inspired +writers, when he said: 'To him that knoweth to do good, and doeth it +not, to him it is sin.' I knew quite clearly the 'good' to be done in +this case. Therefore no gratitude is due to me for failing to fall +into the sin of omission. + +"Also, my son, many who seem to deserve the gratitude of others, would +be found not to deserve it, if the entire inward truth of motive could +be fully revealed. + +"With me it is well-nigh a passion that all good things should attain +unto full completeness. + +"It may be I was better able to give full understanding to your tale +because, for love of a woman, I dwelt seven years in exile from this +land, fearing lest my great love for her, which came to me all +unsought, should--by becoming known to her--lead her young heart, as +yet fresh and unawakened, to respond. There was never any question of +breaking my vows; and I hold not with love-friendships between man and +woman, there where marriage is not possible. They are, at best, +selfish on the part of the man. They keep the woman from entering into +her kingdom. The crown of womanhood is to bear children to the man she +loves--to take her place in his home, as wife and mother. The man who +cannot offer this, yet stands in the way of the man who can, is a poor +and an unworthy lover." + +The Bishop paused, unclasped his hands, withdrew his steadfast regard +from the fire, and sat back in his chair. The stone in his ring +gleamed blue, the colour of forget-me-nots beside a meadow brook. + +Presently he looked at the silent Knight. There was a kindly smile, in +his eyes, rather than upon his lips. + +"It may be, my dear Hugh, that this heart discipline of mine--of which, +by the way, I have never before spoken--has made me quick to understand +the sufferings of other men. Also it may explain the great desire I +always experience to see a truly noble woman come to the full +completion of her womanhood. + +"I returned to England not long after your betrothed had entered the +cloistered life in the Whytstone Nunnery. I was appointed to this See +of Worcester, which appointment gave me the spiritual control of the +White Ladies. My friendship with the Prioress has been a source of +interest, pleasure, and true helpfulness to myself and I trust to her +also. I think I told you while we supped that, many years ago, I had +known her at the Court when I was confessor to the Queen, and preceptor +to her ladies. But no mention has ever been made between the Prioress +and myself of any previous acquaintance. I doubt whether she +recognised, in the frail, white-haired, old prelate who arrived from +Italy, the vigorous, bearded priest known to her, in her girlhood's +days, as"--the Bishop paused and looked steadily at the Knight--"as +Father Gervaise." + +"Father Gervaise!" exclaimed Hugh d'Argent, lifting his hand to cross +himself as he named the Dead, yet arrested in this instinctive movement +by something in those keen blue eyes. "Father Gervaise, my lord, +perished in a stormy sea. The ship foundered, and none who sailed in +her were seen again." + +The Knight spoke with conviction; yet, even as he spoke, the amazing +truth rushed in upon him, and struck him dumb. Of a sudden he knew why +the Bishop's eyes had instantly won his fearless confidence. A trusted +friend of his childhood had looked out at him from their dear depths. +Often he had searched his memory, since the Bishop had claimed +knowledge of him in his boyhood, and had marvelled that no recollection +of Symon as a guest in his parents' home came back to him. + +Now--in this moment of revelation--how clearly he could see the figure +of the famous priest, in brown habit, cloak, and hood, a cord at his +waist, with tonsured head, full brown beard, and sandalled feet, pacing +the great hall, standing in the armoury, or climbing the Cumberland +hills to visit the chapel of the Holy Mount and the hermit who dwelt +beside it. + +As is the way with childhood's memories, the smallest, most trivial +details leapt up vivid, crystal clear. The present was forgotten, the +future disregarded, in the sudden intimate dearness of that long-ago +past. + +The Bishop allowed time for this realisation. Then he spoke. + +"True, the ship foundered, Hugh; true, none who sailed in her were seen +again. And, if I tell you that one swimmer, after long buffeting, was +flung up on a rocky coast, lay for many weeks sick unto death in a +fisherman's humble cot, rose at last the frail shadow of his former +self, to find that his hair had turned white in that desperate night, +to find that none knew his name nor his estate, that--leaving Father +Gervaise and his failures at the bottom of the ocean--he could shave +his beard, and make his way to Rome under any name he pleased; if I +tell you all this, I trust you with a secret, Hugh, known to one other +only, during all these years--His Holiness, the Pope." + +"Father!" exclaimed the Knight, with deep emotion; "Father"-- Then, +his voice broke. He dropped on one knee in front of the Bishop, and +clasped the bands stretched out to him. + +What strange thing had happened? One, greatly loved and long mourned, +had risen from the dead; yet she who had best loved and most mourned +him, had herself passed to the Realm of Shadows, and was not here to +wonder and to rejoice. + +"Father," said Hugh, when he could trust his voice, "in her last words +to me, my mother spoke of you. I went to her chamber to bid her sleep +well, and together we knelt before the crucifix. 'Let us repeat,' +whispered my mother, 'those holy words of comfort which Father Gervaise +ever bid his penitents to say, as they kneeled before the dying +Redeemer.' 'Mother,' said I, 'I know them not.' 'Thou wert so young, +my son,' she said, 'when Father Gervaise last was with us.' 'Tell me +the words,' I said; 'I should like well to have them from thy lips.' +So, lifting her eyes to the dead Christ, my mother said, with awe and +reverence in her voice and a deep gladness on her face: +'He--ever--liveth--to make intercession for us.' And, in the dawn of +the new day, her spirit passed." + +The Bishop laid his hand upon the Knight's bowed head. "My son," he +said, "of all the women I have known, thy gentle mother bore the most +beautiful and saintly character. I would there were more such as she, +in our British homes." + +"Father," said Hugh, brokenly, "knew you how much she had to bear? My +father's fierce feuds with all, shut her up at last to utter +loneliness. His anger against Holy Church and his contempt of Her +priests, cost my mother the comfort of your visits. His life-long +quarrel with Earl Eustace de Norelle caused that our families, though +dwelling within a three hours' ride, were allowed no intercourse. +Never did I enter Castle Norelle until I rode up from the South, with a +message for Mora from the King. And, to this day, Mora has never been +within the courtyard of my home! When we were betrothed, I dared not +tell my parents--though Earl Eustace and his Countess both were +dead--lest my father's wrath might reach Mora, when I had gone. News +of his death, chancing to me in a far-off land, brought me home. And +truly, it was home indeed, at last! Peace and content, where always +there had been turbulence and strain. Father, I tell you this because +I know my gentle mother feared you did not understand, and that you may +have thought her love for you had failed." + +Symon of Worcester smiled. + +"Dear lad," he said, "I understood." + +"Ah why," cried Hugh, with sudden passion, "why should a woman's whole +life be spoiled, and other lives be darkened and made sad, just by the +angry, churlish, sullen whims of----" + +"Hush, boy!" said the Bishop, quickly. "You speak of your father, and +you name the Dead. Something dies in the Living, each time they speak +evil of the Dead. I knew your father; and, though he loved me not, +yet, to be honest, I must say this of him: Sir Hugo was a good man and +true; upright, and a man of honour. He carried his shield untarnished. +If he was feared by his friends, he was also feared by his foes. Brave +he was and fearless. One thing he lacked; and often, alas, they who +lack just one thing, lack all. + +"Hugo d'Argent knew not love for his fellow-men. To be a man, was to +earn his frown; all things human called forth his disdain. To view the +same landscape, breathe the same air, in fact walk the same earth as +he, was to stand in his way, and raise his ire. Yet in his harsh, +vexed manner he loved his wife, and loved his little son. Nor had he +any self-conceit. He realised in himself his own worst foe. Lest we +fall into this snare, it is well daily to pray: 'O Lover of Mankind, +grant unto me truly to love my fellow-men; to honour them, until they +prove worthless; to trust them, until they prove faithless; and ever to +expect better of them, than I expect of myself; to think better of +them, than I think of myself.' Let us go through life, my son, +searching for good in others, not for evil; we may miss the good, if we +search not for it; the evil, alas, will find us, quite soon enough, +unsought." + +Suddenly Hugh lifted his head. + +"Father," he said, "the starling! Mind you the starling with the +broken wing, which you and I found in the woods and carried home; and +you did set his wing, and tamed him, and taught him to say 'Hugh'? +Each time I brought him food, you said: 'Hugh! Hugh!' And soon the +starling, seeing me coming, also said: 'Hugh! Hugh!' Do you remember, +Father?" + +"I do remember," said the Bishop. "I see thee now, coming across the +courtyard, bread and meat in thy hands--a little lad, bareheaded in the +sunshine, glowing with pleasure because the starling ran to meet thee, +shouting 'Hugh!'" + +"Then listen, dear Father. (Ah, how often have I wished to tell you +this!) Soon after you were gone, that starling rudely taught me a hard +lesson. Gaining strength, one day he left the courtyard, ran through +the buttery, and wandered in the garden. I followed, whistling and +watching. It greatly delighted the bird to find himself on turf. +There had been rain. The grass was wet. Presently a rash worm, +gliding from its hole, adventured forth. The starling ran to the worm, +calling it 'Hugh.' 'Hugh! Hugh!' he cried, and tugged it from the +earth. 'Hugh! Hugh!' and pecked it, where helpless it lay squirming. +Then, shouting 'Hugh!' once more, gobbled it down. I stood with heavy +heart, for I had thought that starling loved me with a true, personal +love, when he ran at my approach shouting my name. Yet now I knew it +was the food I carried, he called 'Hugh'; it was the food, not me, he +loved. Glad was I when, his wing grown strong, he flew away. It cut +me to the heart to hear the worms, the grubs, the snails, the +caterpillars, all called 'Hugh'!" + +The Bishop smiled, then sighed. "Poor little eager heart," he said, +"learning so hard a lesson, all alone! Yet is it a lesson, lad, sooner +or later learned in sadness by all generous hearts. . . . And now, +leaving the past, with all its memories, let us return to the present, +and face the uncertain future. Also, dear Knight, I must ask you to +remember, even when we are alone, that your old friend, Father +Gervaise, in his brown habit, lies at the bottom of the ocean; yet that +your new friend, Symon of Worcester, holds you and your interests very +near his heart." + +The Bishop put out his hand. + +Hugh seized and kissed it, knowing this was his farewell to Father +Gervaise. + +Then he rose to his feet. + +The Bishop said nothing; but an indefinable change came over him. +Again he extended his hand. + +The Knight kneeled, and kissed the Bishop's ring. + +"I thank you, my lord," he said, "for your great trust in me. I will +not prove unworthy." With this he went back to his seat. + +The Bishop, lifting the faggot-fork, carefully stirred and built up the +logs. + +"What were we saying, my dear Knight, when we strayed into a side +issue? Ah, I remember! I was telling you of my appointment to the See +of Worcester, and my belief that the Prioress failed to recognise in +me, one she had known long years before." + +The Bishop put by the faggot-fork and turned from the fire. + +"I found the promise of that radiant girlhood more than fulfilled. She +was changed; she shewed obvious signs of having passed through the +furnace; but pure gold can stand the fire. The strength of purpose, +the noble outlook upon life, the gracious tenderness for others, had +matured and developed. Even the necessary restrictions of monastic +life could not modify the grand lines--both mental, and physical--on +which Nature had moulded her. + +"I endeavoured to think no thoughts concerning her, other than should +be thought of a holy lady who has taken vows of celibacy. Yet, seeing +her so fitted to have made house home for a man, helping him upward, +and to have been the mother of a fine race of sons and daughters, I +felt it grievous that in leaving the world for a reason which in no +sense could be considered a true vocation, she should have cut herself +off from such powers and possibilities. + +"So passed the years in the calm service of God and of the Church; yet +always I seemed aware that a crisis would come, and that, when that +crisis came, she would need me." + +The Bishop paused and looked at the Knight. + +Hugh's face was in shadow; but, as the Bishop looked at him, the rubies +on his breast glittered in the firelight, as if some sudden thought had +set him strongly quivering. + +At sight of which, a flash of firm resolve, like the swift drawing of a +sword, broke o'er the Bishop's calmness. It was quick and powerful; it +seemed to divide asunder soul and spirit, joints and marrow, and to +discern the thoughts and intents of the heart. And before that +two-edged blade could sheathe itself again, swiftly the Bishop spoke. + +"Therefore, my dear Hugh, when you arrived with your tale of wrong and +treachery, all unconsciously to yourself, every word you spoke of your +betrothed revealed her to the man who had loved her while you were yet +a youth, with your spurs to win, and all life before you. + +"I saw in your arrival, and in the strange tale you told, a wondrous +chance for her of that fuller development of life for which I knew her +to be so perfectly fitted. + +"It had seemed indeed the irony of fate that, while I had fled and +dwelt in exile lest my presence should hold her back from marriage, the +treachery of others should have driven her into a life of celibacy. + +"Therefore while, with my tacit consent, you went to work in your own +way, I sent my messenger to Rome bearing to the Holy Father a full +account of all, petitioning a dispensation from vows taken owing to +deception, and asking leave to unite in the holy sacrament of marriage +these long-sundered lovers, undertaking that no scandal should arise +therefrom, either in the Nunnery or in the City of Worcester. + +"As you have seen, my messenger this night returned; and we now find +ourselves armed with the full sanction of His Holiness, providing the +Prioress, of her own free will, desires to renounce the high position +she has won in her holy calling, and to come to you." + +The quiet voice ceased speaking. + +The Knight rose slowly to his feet. At first he stood silent. Then he +spoke with a calm dignity which proved him worthy of the Bishop's trust. + +"I greatly honour you, my lord," he said; "and were our ages and +conditions other than they are, so that we might fight for the woman we +love, I should be proud to cross swords with you." + +The Bishop sat looking into the fire. A faint smile flickered at the +corners of the sensitive mouth. The fights he had fought for the woman +he loved had been of sterner quality than the mere crossing of knightly +swords. + +Hugh d'Argent spoke again. + +"Profoundly do I thank you, Reverend Father, for all that you have +done; and even more, for that which you did not do. It was six years +after her first sojourn at the Court that I met Mora, loved her, and +won her; and well I know that the sweet love she gave to me was a love +from which no man had brushed the bloom." + +Hugh paused. + +Those kindly and very luminous eyes were still bent upon the fire. Was +the Bishop finding it hard to face the fact that his life's secret had +now, by his own act, passed into the keeping of another? + +Hugh moved a pace nearer. + +"And deeply do I love you, Reverend Father, for your wondrous goodness +to her, and--for her sake--to me. And I pray heaven," added Hugh +d'Argent simply, "that if she come to me, she may never know that she +once won the love of so greatly better a man than he who won hers." + +With which the Knight dropped upon one knee, and humbly kissed the hem +of the Bishop's robe. + +Symon of Worcester was greatly moved. + +"My son," he said, "we are at one in desiring her happiness and highest +good. For the rest, God, and her own pure heart, must guide her feet +into the way of peace." + +The Bishop rose, and went to the casement. + +"The aurora breaks in the east. The dawn is near. Come with me, Hugh, +to the chapel. We pray for His Holiness, giving thanks for his +gracious letter and mandate; we praise for the safe return of my +messenger. But we will also offer up devout petition that the Prioress +may have clear light at this parting of the ways, and that our +enterprise may be brought to a happy conclusion." + +So, presently, in the dimly-lighted chapel, the Knight knelt alone; +while, away at the high altar, remote, wrapt, absorbed in the supreme +act of his priestly office, stood the Bishop, celebrating mass. + +Yet one anxious prayer ascended from the hearts of both. + + +And, in the pale dawn of that new day, the woman for whom both the +Knight and the Bishop prayed, kept vigil in her cell, before the shrine +of the Madonna. + +"Blessed Virgin," she said; "thou who lovedst Saint Joseph, being +betrothed to him, yet didst keep thyself an holy shrine consecrate to +the Lord and His need of thee--oh, grant unto me strength to put from +me this constant torment at the thought of his sufferings to whom once +I gave my troth, and to reconsecrate myself wholly to the service of my +Lord." + + +Thus these three knelt, as a new day dawned. + + +And the Knight prayed: "Give her to me!" + + +And the Bishop prayed: "Guide her feet into the way of peace." + + +And the Prioress, with hands crossed upon her breast and eyes uplifted, +said: "Cause me to know the way wherein I should walk; for I lift up my +soul unto Thee." + + +The silver streaks of the aurora paled before soaring shafts of gold, +bright heralds of the rising sun. + +Then from the Convent garden trilled softly the first notes, poignant +but passing sweet, of the robin's song. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +MARY ANTONY RECEIVES THE BISHOP + +The morning after the return from Rome of the Bishop's messenger, the +old lay-sister, Mary Antony, chanced to be crossing the Convent +courtyard, when there came a loud knocking on the outer gates. + +Mary Antony, hastening, thrust aside the buxom porteress, and herself +opened the _guichet_, and looked out. + +The Lord Bishop, mounted upon his white palfrey, waited without; +Brother Philip in attendance. + +What a bewildering surprise! What a fortunate thing, thought old +Antony, that she should chance to be there to deal with such an +emergency. + +Never did the Bishop visit the Nunnery, without sending a messenger +beforehand to know whether the Prioress could see him, stating the +exact hour of his proposed arrival; so that, when the great doors were +flung wide and the Bishop rode into the courtyard, the Prioress would +be standing at the top of the steps to receive him; Mother Sub-Prioress +in attendance in the background; the other holy ladies upon their knees +within the entrance; Mary Antony, well out of sight, yet where peeping +was possible, because she loved to see the Reverend Mother kneel and +kiss the Bishop's ring, rising to her feet again without pause, making +of the whole movement one graceful, deep obeisance. After which, Mary +Antony, still peeping, greatly loved to see the Prioress mount the +wide, stone staircase with the Bishop; each shewing a courtly deference +to the other. + +(One of Mary Antony's most exalted dreams of heaven, was of a place +where she should sit upon a jasper seat and see the Reverend Mother and +the great Lord Bishop mounting together interminable flights of golden +stairs; while Mother Sub-Prioress and Sister Mary Rebecca looked +through black bars, somewhere down below, whence they would have a good +view of Mary Antony on her jasper seat, but no glimpse of the golden +stairs or of the radiant figures which she watched ascending.) + +So much for the usual visits of the Bishop, when everything was in +readiness for his reception. + +But now, all unexpected, the Bishop waited without the gate, and Mary +Antony had to deal with this emergency. + +Crying to the porteress to open wide, she hastened to the steps. . . . +It was impossible to summon the Reverend Mother in time. . . . The +Lord Bishop must not be kept waiting! . . . Even now the great doors +were rolling back. + +Mary Antony mounted the six steps; then turned in the doorway. + +The Lord Bishop must be received. There was nobody else to do it. She +would receive the Lord Bishop! + +As she saw him riding in upon Icon, blessing the porteress as he +passed, she remembered how she had ridden round the river meadow as the +Bishop. Now she must play her part as the Prioress. + +So it came to pass that, as he rode up to the door and dismounted, +flinging his rein to Brother Philip, the Bishop found himself +confronted by the queer little figure of the aged lay-sister, drawn up +to its full height and obviously upheld by a sense of importance and +dignity. + +As the Bishop reached the entrance, she knelt and kissed his ring; then +tried to rise quickly, failed, and clutching at his hand, exclaimed: +"Devil take my old knee-joints!" + +Never before had the Bishop been received with such a formula! Never +had his ring been kissed by a lay-sister! But remembering the scene +when old Antony rode round the field upon Icon, he understood that she +now was playing the part of Prioress. + +"Good-day, worthy Mother," he said, as he raised her. "The spirit is +willing I know, but, in your case, the knee-joints are weak. But no +wonder, for they have done you long service. Why, I get up slowly from +kneeling, yet my knees are thirty years younger than yours. . . . Nay +I will not mount to the Reverend Mother's chamber until you acquaint +her of my arrival. Take me round to the garden, and there let me wait +in the shade, while you seek her." + +Greatly elated at the success of her effort, and emboldened by his +charming condescension, Mary Antony led the Bishop through the +rose-arch; and, casting a furtive glance at his face from behind the +curtain of her veil, ventured to hope there was naught afoot which +could bring trouble or care to the Reverend Mother. + +Mary Antony was trotting beside the Bishop, down the long walk between +the yew hedges, when she gave vent to this anxious question. + +At once the Bishop slackened speed. + +"Not so fast, Sister Antony," he said. "I pray you to remember mine +age, and to moderate your pace. Why should you expect trouble or +anxiety for the Reverend Mother?" + +"Nay," said Mary Antony, "I expect naught; I saw naught; I heard +naught! 'Twas all mine own mistake, counting with my peas. I told the +Reverend Mother so, and set her mind at rest by carrying up _six_ peas, +saying that I had found _six_ and not _five_ in my wallet." + +"Let us pause," said the Bishop, "and look at this lily. How lovely +are its petals. How tall and white it shews against the hedge. Why +did you need to set the Reverend Mother's mind at rest, Sister Antony, +by carrying up six peas?" + +"Because," said the old lay-sister, "when I had counted as they +returned, the twenty holy ladies who had gone to Vespers, yet another +passed making twenty-one. Upon which I ran and reported to the +Reverend Mother, saying in my folly, that I feared the twenty-first was +Sister Agatha, returned to walk amongst the Living, she being over +fifty years numbered with the Dead. Yet many a time, just before dawn, +have I heard her rapping on the cloister door; aye, many a time--tap! +tap! tap! But what good would there be in opening to a poor lady you +helped thrust into her shroud, nigh upon sixty years before? So 'Tap +away!' says I; 'tap away, Sister Agatha! Try Saint Peter at the gates +of Paradise. Old Antony knows better than to let you in.'" + +"What said the Reverend Mother when you reported on a twenty-first +White Lady?" asked the Bishop. + +"Reverend Mother bid me begone, while she herself dealt with the wraith +of Sister Agatha." + +"And why did you _not_ go?" asked the Bishop, quietly. + +Completely taken aback, Mary Antony's ready tongue failed her. She +stood stock still and stared at the Bishop. Her gums began to rattle +and she clapped her knuckles against them, horror and dismay in her +eyes. + +The Bishop looked searchingly into the frightened old face, and there +read all he wanted to know. Then he smiled; and, taking her gently by +the arm, paced on between the yew hedges. + +"Sister Antony," he said, and the low tones of his voice fell like +quiet music upon old Antony's perturbed spirit; "you and I, dear Sister +Antony, love the Reverend Mother so truly and so faithfully, that there +is nothing we would not do, to save her a moment's pain. _We_ know how +noble and how good she is; and that she will always decide aright, and +follow in the footsteps of our blessed Lady and all the holy saints. +But others there are, who do not love her as we love her, or know her +as we know her; and they might judge her wrongly. Therefore we must +tell to none, that which we know--how the Reverend Mother, alone, dealt +with that visitor, who was not the wraith of Sister Agatha." + +Mary Antony peeped up at the Bishop. A light of great joy was on her +face. Her eyes had lost their look of terror, and began to twinkle +cunningly. + +"I know naught," she said. "I saw naught; I heard naught." + +The Bishop smiled. + +"How many peas were left in your wallet, Sister Antony ?" + +"Five," chuckled Mary Antony. + +"Why did you shew six to the Reverend Mother?" + +"To set her mind at rest," whispered the old lay-sister. + +"To cause her to think that you had heard naught, seen naught, and knew +naught?" + +Mary Antony nodded, chuckling again. + +"Faithful old heart!" said the Bishop. "What gave thee this thought?" + +"Our blessed Lady, in answer to her petition, sharpened the wits of old +Antony." + +The Bishop sighed. "May our blessed Lady keep them sharp," he +murmured, half aloud. + +"Amen," said Mary Antony with fervour. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +LOVE NEVER FAILETH + +The Bishop awaited the Prioress on that stone seat under the beech, +from which the robin had carried off the pea. + +He saw her coming through the sunlit cloisters. + +As she moved down the steps, and came swiftly toward him, he was +conscious at once of an indefinable change in her. + +Had that ride upon Icon set her free from trammels in which she had +been hitherto immeshed? + +As she reached him, he took both her hands, so that she should not +kneel. + +"Already I have been received with obeisance, my daughter," he said; +and told her of old Mary Antony's quaint little figure, standing to do +the honours in the doorway. + +The Prioress, at this, laughed gaily, and in her turn told the Bishop +of the scene, on this very spot, when old Antony displayed her peas to +the robin. + +"What peas?" asked the Bishop; and so heard the whole story of the +twenty-five peas and the daily counting, and of the identifying of +certain of the peas with various members of the Community. "And a +large, white pea, chosen for its fine aspect, was myself," said the +Prioress; "and, leaving the Sub-Prioress and Sister Mary Rebecca, +Master Robin swooped down and flew off with me! Hearing cries of +distress, I hastened hither, to find Mary Antony denouncing the robin +as 'Knight of the Bloody Vest,' and making loud lamentations over my +abduction. Her imaginings become more real to her than realities." + +"She hath a faithful heart," said the Bishop, "and a shrewd wit." + +"Faithful? Aye," said the Prioress, "faithful and loving. Yet it is +but lately I have realised, the love, beneath her carefulness and +devotion." The Prioress bent her level brows, looking away to the +overhanging branches of the Pieman's tree. "How quickly, in these +places, we lose the very remembrance of the meaning of personal, human +love. We grow so soon accustomed to allowing ourselves to dwell only +upon the abstract or the divine." + +"That is a loss," said the Bishop. He turned and began to pace slowly +toward the cloister; "a grievous loss, my daughter. Sooner than that +you should suffer that loss, beyond repair, I would let the daring +Knight of the Bloody Vest carry you off on swift wing. Better a +robin's nest, if, love be there, than a nunnery full of dead hearts." + +He heard the quick catch of her breath, but gave her no chance to speak. + +"'And now abideth faith, hope, love, these three,'" quoted the Bishop; +"'but the greatest of these is love.'" + +They were moving through the cloisters. The Prioress turned in the +doorway, pausing that the Bishop might pass in before her. + +"This, my lord," she said, with a fine sweep of her arm, "is the abode +of Faith and Hope, and also of that divine Love, which excelleth both +Hope and Faith." + +"Nay," said the Bishop, "I pray you, listen. 'Love suffereth long, and +is kind; love envieth not; love vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up; +doth not behave itself unseemly; seeketh not her own; is not easily +provoked, thinking no evil; rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in +the truth; beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, +endureth all things. Love never faileth.' Methinks," said the Bishop, +in a tone of gentle meditation, as he entered the Prioress's cell, "the +apostle was speaking of a most human love; yet he rated it higher than +faith and hope." + +"Are you still dwelling upon Sister Mary Seraphine, my lord?" inquired +the Prioress, and in her voice he heard the sound of a gathering storm. + +"Nay, my dear Prioress," said the Bishop, seating himself in the +Spanish chair, and laying his biretta upon the table near by; "I speak +not of self-love, nor does the apostle whose words I quote. I take it, +he writes of human love, sanctified; upborne by faith and hope, yet +greater than either; just as a bird is greater than its wings, yet +cannot mount without them. We must have faith, we must have hope; then +our poor earthly loves can rise from the lower level of self-seeking +and self-pleasing and take their place among those things that are +eternal." + +The Prioress had placed her chair opposite the Bishop. She was very +pale, and her lips trembled. She made so great an effort to speak with +calmness, that her voice sounded stern and hard. + +"Why this talk of earthly loves, my Lord Bishop, in a place where all +earthly love has been renounced and forgotten?" + +The Bishop, seeing those trembling lips, ignored the hard tones, and +answered, very tenderly, with a simple directness which scorned all +evasion: + +"Because, my daughter, I am here to plead for Hugh." + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +THE WOMAN AND HER CONSCIENCE + +"For Hugh?" said the Prioress. And then again, in low tones of +incredulous amazement, "For Hugh! What know you of Hugh, my lord?" + +The Bishop looked steadfastly at the Prioress, and replied with +exceeding gravity and earnestness: + +"I know that in breaking your solemn troth to him, you are breaking a +very noble heart; and that in leaving his home desolate, you are +robbing him not only of his happiness but also of his faith. Men are +apt to rate our holy religion, not by its theories, but by the way in +which it causeth us to act in our dealings with them. If you condemn +Hugh to sit beside his hearth, through the long years, a lonely, +childless man, you take the Madonna from his home; if you take your +love from him, I greatly fear lest you should also rob him of his +belief in the love of God. I do not say that these things should be +so; I say that we must face the fact that thus they are. And +remember--between a man and woman of noble birth, each with a stainless +escutcheon, each believing the other to be the soul of honour, a broken +troth is no light matter." + +"I did not break my troth," said the Prioress, "until I believed that +Hugh had broken his. I had suffered sore anguish of heart and +humiliation of spirit, over the news of his marriage with his cousin +Alfrida, ere I resolved to renounce the world and enter the cloister." + +"But Hugh did not wed his cousin, nor any other woman," said the +Bishop. "He was true to you in every thought and act, even after he +also had passed through sore anguish of heart by reason of your +supposed marriage with another suitor." + +"I learned the truth but a few days since," said the Prioress. "For +seven long years I thought Hugh false to me. For seven long years I +believed him the husband of another woman, and schooled myself to +forget every memory of past tenderness." + +"You were both deceived," said the Bishop. "You have both passed +through deep waters. You each owe it to the other to make all possible +reparation." + +"For seven holy years," said the Prioress, firmly, "I have been the +bride of Christ." + +"Do you love Hugh?" asked the Bishop. + +There was silence in the chamber. + +The Prioress desired, most fervently, to take her stand as one dead to +all earthly loves and desires. Yet each time she opened her lips to +reply, a fresh picture appeared in the mirror of her mental vision, and +closed them. + +She saw herself, with hand outstretched, clasping Hugh's as they +kneeled together before the shrine of the Madonna. She could feel the +rush of pulsing life flow from his hand to the palm of hers, and so +upward to her poor numbed heart, making it beat its wings like a caged +bird. + +She felt again the strength and comfort of the strong arm on which she +leaned, as slowly through the darkness she and Hugh paced in silence, +side by side. + +She remembered each time when obedience had seemed strangely sweet, and +she had loved the manly abruptness of his commands. + +She saw Hugh, in the ring of yellow light cast by the lantern, kneeling +at her feet. She felt his hair, thick and soft, between her fingers. + +And then--she remembered that shuddering sob, and the instant breaking +down of every barrier. He was hers, to comfort; she was his, to soothe +his pain. Then--the exquisite moment of yielding; the relief of the +clasp of his strong arms; the passing away of the suffering of long +years, as she felt his lips on hers, and surrendered to the hunger of +his kiss. + +Then--one last picture--when loyal to her wish, felt rather than +expressed, he had freed her, and passed, without further word or touch, +up into that dim grey light like a pearly dawn at sea--passed, and been +lost to view; she saw herself left in utter loneliness, the heavy door +locked by her own turning of the key, he on one side, she on the other, +for ever; she saw herself lying beneath the ground, in darkness and +desolation, her face in the damp dust where his feet had stood. + +"Do you love Hugh?" again demanded the Bishop. + +And the Prioress lifted eyes full of suffering, reproach, and pain, but +also full of courage and truth, to his face, and answered simply: +"Alas, my lord, I do." + +The silence thereafter following was tense with conflict. The Bishop +turned his eyes to the figure of the Redeemer upon the cross, +self-sacrifice personified, while the Prioress mastered her emotion. + +Then: "'Love never faileth,'" said the Bishop gently. + +But the Prioress had regained command over herself, and the gentle +words were to her a challenge. She donned, forthwith, the breastplate +of holy resolve, and drew her sword. + +"My Lord Bishop, you have wrung from me a confession of my love; but in +so doing, you have wrung from me a confession of sin. A nun may not +yield to such love as Hugh d'Argent still desires to win from me. With +long hours of prayer and vigil, have I sought to purge my soul from the +stain of a weak yielding--even for 'a moment'--to the masterful +insistence of this man, who forced himself, by the subterfuge of a +sacrilegious masquerade, into the sacred precincts of our Nunnery. I +know not whom he bribed"--continued the Prioress, flashing an indignant +glance of suspicion at the Bishop. + +"'Love thinking no evil,'" murmured Symon of Worcester. + +"But I do know, that somebody in high authority must have connived at +his plotting, or he could not have found himself alone in the crypt at +the hour of Vespers, in such wise as to assume our dress and, mingling +with the returning procession, gain entrance to the cloisters. And +somebody must still be aiding and abetting his plans, or he could not +be, as he himself told me he would be, daily in the crypt alone, during +the hour when we pass to and from the clerestory. It angers me, my +lord, to think that one who should, in this, be on my side, taketh part +against me." + +"'Is not easily provoked,'" quoted the Bishop. + +"In fact I am tempted, my lord," said the Prioress, rising to her feet, +tall and indignant, "I am almost tempted, my Lord Bishop, to forget the +reverence which I owe to your high office----" + +"'Doth not behave itself unseemly,'" murmured Symon of Worcester, +putting on his biretta. + +The Prioress turned her back upon the Bishop, and walked over to the +window. She was so angry that she felt the tears stinging beneath her +eyelids; yet at the same time she experienced a most incongruous desire +to kneel down beside that beautiful and dignified figure, rest her head +against the Bishop's knees, and pour out the cruel tale of conflicts, +uncertainties and strivings, temptations and hard-won victories, which, +had lately made up the sum of her nights and days. He had been her +trusted friend and counsellor during all these years. Yet now she knew +him arrayed against her, and she feared him more than she feared Hugh. +Hugh wrestled with her feelings; and, on the plane of the senses, she +knew her will would triumph. But the Bishop wrestled with her +mentality; and behind his calm gentleness was a strength of intellect +which, if she yielded at all, would seize and hold her, as steel +fingers in a velvet glove. + +She returned to her seat, composed but determined. + +"Reverend Father," she said, "I pray you to pardon my too swift +indignation. To you I look to aid me in this time of difficulty. I +grieve for the sorrow and disappointment to a brave and noble knight, a +loyal lover, and a most faithful heart. But I cannot reward faith with +un-faith. If I broke my sacred vows in order to give myself to him, I +should not bring a blessing to his home. Better an empty hearth than a +hearth where broods a curse. Besides, we never could live down the +scandal caused. I should be anathema to all. The Pope himself would +doubtless excommunicate us. It would mean endless sorrow for me, and +danger for Hugh. On these grounds, alone, it cannot be." + +Then the Bishop drew from his sash a folded sheet of vellum. + +"My daughter," he said, "when Hugh came to me with his grievous tale of +treachery and loss, he refused to give me the name of the woman he +sought, saying only that he believed she was to be found among the +White Ladies of Worcester. When I asked her name he answered: 'Nay, I +guard her name, as I would guard mine honour. If I fail to win her +back; if she withhold herself from me, so that I ride away alone; then +must I ride away leaving no shadow of reproach on her fair fame. Her +name will be for ever in my heart,' said Hugh, 'but no word of mine +shall have left it, in the mind of any man, linked with a broken troth +or a forsaken lover.' I tell you this, my daughter, lest you should +misjudge a very loyal knight. + +"But no true lover was ever a diplomat. Hugh had not talked long with +me, before you stood clearly revealed. A few careful questions settled +the matter, beyond a doubt. Whereupon, my dear Prioress----" + +The Bishop paused. It became suddenly difficult to proceed. The clear +eyes of the Prioress were upon him. + +"Whereupon, my lord?" + +"Whereupon I realised--an early dream of mine seemed promised a +possible fulfilment. I knew Hugh as a lad-- It is a veritable passion +with me that all things should attain unto their full perfection-- In +short, I sent a messenger to Rome, bearing a careful account of the +whole matter, in a private letter from myself to His Holiness the Pope. +Last evening, my messenger returned, bringing a letter from the Holy +Father, with this enclosed." + +The Bishop held out the folded document. + +The Prioress rose, took it from him, and unfolded it. + +As she read the opening lines, the amazement on her face quickly +gathered into a frown. + +"What!" she said. "The name and rank I resigned on entering this +Order! Who dares to write or speak of me as 'Mora, Countess of +Norelle'?" + +"Merely His Holiness the Pope, and the Bishop of Worcester," said the +Bishop meekly, in an undertone, not meaning the Prioress to hear; and, +indeed, she ignored this answer, her words having been an angry +ejaculation, rather than a question. + +But there was worse to come. + +"Dispensation!" exclaimed the Prioress. + +"Absolution!" she cried, a little further on. + +And at last, reading rapidly, in tones of uncontrollable anger and +indignation: "'Empowers Symon, Lord Bishop of Worcester, or any priest +he may appoint, to unite in the holy sacrament of marriage the +Knight-Crusader, Hugh d'Argent, and Mora de Norelle, sometime Prioress +of the White Ladies of Worcester.' _Sometime_ Prioress? In very +truth, they have dared so to write it! SOMETIME Prioress! It will be +well they should understand she is Prioress NOW--not some time or any +time, but NOW and HERE!" + +She turned upon the Bishop. + +"My lord, the Church seems to be bringing its powers to bear on the +side of the World, the Flesh, and the Devil, leaving a woman and her +conscience to stand alone and battle unaided with the grim forces +arrayed against her. But you shall see that she knows how to deal with +any weapon of the adversary which happens to fall into her hands." + +Upon which the Prioress rent the mandate from top to bottom, then +across and again across; flung the pieces upon the floor, and set her +foot upon them. + +"Thus I answer," she cried, "your attempt, my lord, to induce the Pope +to release me from vows which I hold to be eternally sacred and +binding. And if you are bent upon divorcing a nun from her Heavenly +Union, and making her to become the chattel of a man, you must seek her +elsewhere than in the Convent of the White Ladies of Worcester, my Lord +Bishop!" + +So spoke the angry Prioress, making the quiet chamber to ring with her +scorn and indignation. + +The Bishop had made no attempt to prevent the tearing of the document. +When she flung it upon the floor, placing her foot upon the fragments, +he merely looked at them regretfully, and then back upon her face, back +into those eyes which flamed on him in furious indignation. And in his +own there was a look so sorrowful, so deeply wounded, and yet withal so +tenderly understanding, that it quelled and calmed the anger of the +Prioress. + +Her eyes fell slowly, from the serene sadness of that quiet face, to +the silver cross, studded with oriental amethysts, at his breast; to +the sash girdling his purple cassock; to the hand resting on his knees; +to the stone in his ring, from which the rich colour had faded, leaving +it pale and clear, like a large teardrop on the Bishop's finger; to his +shoes, with their strange Italian buckles; then along the floor to her +own angry foot, treading upon the torn fragments of that precious +document, procured, at such pains and cost, from His Holiness at Rome. + +Then, suddenly, the Prioress faltered, weakened, fell upon her knees, +with a despairing cry, clasped her hands upon the Bishop's knees, and +laid her forehead upon them. + +"Alas," she sobbed, "what have I done! In my pride and arrogance, I +have spoken ill to you, my lord, who have ever shewn me most +considerate kindness; and in a moment of ill-judged resentment, I have +committed sacrilege against the Holy Father, rending the deed which +bears his signature. Alas, woe is me! In striving to do right, I have +done most grievous wrong; in seeking not to sin, lo, I have sinned +beyond belief!" + +The Prioress wept, her head upon her hands, clasped and resting upon +the Bishop's knees. + +Symon of Worcester laid his hand very gently upon that bowed head, and +as he did so his eyes sought again the figure of the Christ upon the +cross. The Prioress would have been startled indeed, had she lifted +her head and seen those eyes--heretofore shrewd, searching, kindly, or +twinkling and gay,--now full of an unfathomable pain. But, sobbing +with her face hidden, the Prioress was conscious only of her own +sufferings. + +Presently the Bishop began to speak. + +"We did not mean to overrule your judgment, or to force your +inclination, my daughter. If we appear to have done so, the blame is +mine alone. This mandate is drawn up entirely along the lines of my +suggestion, owing to my influence with His Holiness, and based upon +particulars furnished by me. Now let me read to you the private letter +from the Holy Father to myself, giving further important conditions." + +The Bishop drew forth and unfolded the letter from Rome, and very +slowly, that each syllable might carry weight, he read it aloud. + +As the gracious and kindly words fell upon the Prioress's ear, +commanding that no undue pressure should be brought to bear upon her, +and insisting that it must be entirely by her own wish, if she resigned +her office and availed herself of this dispensation from her vows, she +felt humbled to the dust at thought of her own violence, and of the +injustice of her angry words. + +Her weeping became so heartbroken, that the Bishop again laid his left +hand, with kindly comforting touch, upon her bowed head. + +As he read the Pope's most particular injunctions as to the manner in +which she must leave the Nunnery and take her place in the world once +more, so as to prevent any public scandal, she fell silent from sheer +astonishment, holding her breath to listen to the final clause +empowering the Bishop to announce within the Convent, when her absence +became known, that she had been moved on by him, secretly, with the +knowledge and approval of the Pope, to a place where she was required +for higher service. + +"Higher service," said the Prioress, her face still hidden. "_Higher_ +service? Can it be that the Holy Father really speaks of the return to +earthly love and marriage, the pleasures of the world, and the joys of +home life, as 'higher service'?" + +The grief, the utter disillusion, the dismayed question in her tone, +moved the Bishop to compunction. + +"Mine was the phrase, to begin with, my daughter," he admitted. "I +used it to the Holy Father, and I confess that, in using it, I did mean +to convey that which, as you well know. I have long believed, that +wifehood and motherhood, if worthily performed, may rank higher in the +Divine regard than vows of celibacy. But, in adopting the expression, +the Holy Father, we may rest assured, had no thought of undervaluing +the monastic life, or the high position within it to which you have +attained. I should rather take it that he was merely accepting my +assurance that the new vocation to which you were called would, in your +particular case, be higher service." + +The Prioress, lifting her head, looked long into the Bishop's face, +without making reply. + +Her eyes were drowned in tears; dark shadows lay beneath them. Yet the +light of a high resolve, unconquerable within her, shone through this +veil of sorrow, as when the sun, behind it, breaks through the mist, +victorious, chasing by its clear beams the baffling fog. + +Seeing that look, the Bishop knew, of a sudden, that he had failed; +that the Knight had failed; that the all-powerful pronouncement from +the Vatican had failed. + +The woman and her conscience held the field. + +Having conquered her own love, having mastered her own natural yearning +for her lover, she would overcome with ease all other assailants. + +In two days' time Hugh would ride away alone. Unless a miracle +happened, Mora would not be with him. + +The Bishop faced defeat as he looked into those clear eyes, fearless +even in their sorrowful humility. + +"Oh, child," he said, "you love Hugh! Can you let him ride forth +alone, accompanied only by the grim spectres of unfaith and of despair? +His hope, his faith, his love, all centre in you. Another Prioress can +be found for this Nunnery. No other bride can be found for Hugh +d'Argent. He will have his own betrothed, or none." + +Still kneeling, the Prioress threw back her head, looking upward, with +clasped hands. + +"Reverend Father," she said, "I will not go to the man I love, trailing +broken vows, like chains, behind me. There could be no harmony in +life's music. Whene'er I moved, where'er I trod, I should hear the +constant clanking of those chains. No man can set me free from vows +made to God. But----" + +The Prioress paused, looking past the Bishop at the gracious figure of +the Madonna. She had remembered, of a sudden, how Hugh had knelt +there, saying: "Blessed Virgin . . . help this woman of mine to +understand that if she break her troth to me, holding herself from me, +now, when I am come to claim her, she sends me out to an empty life, to +a hearth beside which no woman will sit, to a home forever desolate." + +"But?" said the Bishop, leaning forward. "Yes, my daughter? But?" + +"But if our blessed Lady herself vouchsafed me a clear sign that my +first duty is to Hugh, if she absolved me from my vows, making it +evident that God's will for me is that, leaving the Cloister, I should +wed Hugh and dwell with him in his home; then I would strive to bring +myself to do this thing. But I can take release from none save from +our Lord, to Whom those vows were made, or from our Lady, who knoweth +the heart of a woman, and whose grace hath been with me all through the +strivings and conflicts of the years that are past." + +The Bishop sighed. "Alas," he said; "alas, poor Hugh!" + +For that our Lady should vouchsafe a clear sign, would have to be a +miracle; and, though he would not have admitted it to the Prioress, the +Bishop believed, in his secret heart, that the age of miracles was past. + +One so fixed in her determination, so persistent in her assertion, so +loud in her asseveration, would scarce be likely to hear the inward +whisperings of Divine suggestion. + +Therefore, should our Lady intervene with clear guidance, that +intervention must be miraculous. And the Bishop sighing, said: "Alas, +poor Hugh!" + +His eye fell upon the fragments of rent vellum on the floor. He held +out his hand. + +The Prioress gathered up the fragments, and placed them in the Bishop's +outstretched hand. + +"Alas, my lord," she said, "you were witness of my grievous sin in thus +rending the gracious message of His Holiness. Will it please you to +appoint me a penance, if such an act can indeed be expiated?" + +"The sin, my daughter, as I will presently explain, is scarcely so +great as you think it. But, such as it is, it arose from a lack of +calmness and of that mental equipoise which sails unruffled through a +sea of contradiction. The irritability which results in displays of +sudden temper is so foreign to your nature that it points to your +having passed through a time of very special strain, both mental and +physical; probably overlong vigils and fastings, while you wrestled +with this anxious problem upon which so much, in the future, depends. + +"As you ask me for penance, I will give you two: one which will set +right your ill-considered action; the other which will help to remedy +the cause of that action. + +"The first is, that you place these fragments together and, taking a +fresh piece of vellum, make a careful copy of this writing which you +destroyed. + +"The second is that, in order to regain the usual equipoise of your +mental attitude, you ride to-day, for an hour, in the river meadow. My +white palfrey, Iconoklastes, shall be in the courtyard at noon. +Yesterday, my daughter, you rode for pleasure. To-day you will ride +for penance; and incidentally"--an irrepressible little smile crept +round the corners of the Bishop's mouth, and twinkled in his +eyes--"incidentally, my daughter, you will work off a certain stiffness +from which you must be suffering, after the unwonted exercise. Ah me!" +said the Bishop, "that is ever the Divine method. Punishments should +be remedial, as well as deterrent. There is much stiffness of mind of +which we must be rid before we can stoop to the portal of God's +'whosoever' and, passing through the narrow gate, enter the Kingdom of +Heaven as little children." + +The Bishop rose, and giving his hand to the Prioress raised her to her +feet. + +"My lord," she said, "as ever you are most kind to me. Yet I fear you +have been too lenient for my own peace of mind. To have destroyed in +anger the mandate of His Holiness----" + +"Nay, my daughter," said the Bishop. "The mandate of His Holiness, +inscribed upon parchment, from which hangs the great seal of the +Vatican, is safely placed among my most precious documents. You have +but destroyed the result of an hour's careful work. I rose betimes +this morning to make this copy. I should not have allowed you to tear +it, had not the writing been my own. But I took pains to reproduce +exactly the peculiar style of lettering they use in Rome, and you will +do the same in your copy." + +Turning, the Bishop knelt for a few moments in prayer before the +Madonna. He could not have explained why, but somehow the only hope +for Hugh seemed to be connected with this spot. + +Yet it was hardly reassuring that, when he lifted grave and anxious +eyes, our Lady gently smiled, and the sweet Babe looked merry. + +Rising, the Bishop turned, with unwonted sternness, to the Prioress. + +"Remember," he said, "Hugh rides away to-morrow night; rides away, +never to return." + +Her steadfast eyes did not falter. + +"He had better have ridden away five days ago, my lord. He had my +answer, and I bade him go. By staying he has but prolonged his +suspense and my pain." + +"Yes," said the Bishop slowly, "he had better have ridden away; or, +better still, have never come upon this fruitless quest." + +He moved toward the door. + +The Prioress reached it before him. + +With her hand upon the latch: "Your blessing, Reverend Father," +entreated the Prioress, rather breathlessly. + +"_Benedicite_," said the Bishop, with uplifted fingers, but with eyes +averted; and passed out. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + +THE WHITE STONE + +Old Mary Antony was at the gate, when the Bishop rode out from the +courtyard. + +Thrusting the porteress aside, she pressed forward, standing with +anxious face uplifted, as the Bishop approached. + +He reined in Icon, and, bending from the saddle, murmured: "Take care +of her, Sister Antony. I have left her in some distress." + +"Hath she decided aright?" whispered the old lay-sister. + +"She always decides aright," said the Bishop. "But she is so made that +she will thrust happiness from her with both hands unless our Lady +should herself offer it, by vision or revelation. I could wish thy gay +little Knight of the Bloody Vest might indeed fly with her to his nest +and teach her a few sweet lessons, in the green privacy of some leafy +paradise. But I tell thee too much, worthy Mother. Keep a silent +tongue in that shrewd old head of thine. Minister to her; and send +word to me if I am needed. _Benedicite_." + +An hour later, mounted upon his black mare, Shulamite, the Bishop rode +to the high ground, on the north-east, above the city, from whence he +could look down upon the river meadow. + +As he had done on the previous day, he watched the Prioress riding upon +Icon. + +Once she put the horse to so sudden and swift a gallop that the Bishop, +watching from afar, reined back Shulamite almost on to her haunches, in +a sudden fear that Icon was about to leap into the stream. + +For an hour the Prioress rode, with flying veil, white on the white +steed; a fair marble group, quickened into motion. + +Then, that penance being duly performed, she vanished through the +archway. + +Turning Shulamite, Symon of Worcester rode slowly down the hill, passed +southward, and entered the city by Friar's Gate; and so to the Palace, +where Hugh d'Argent waited. + +The Bishop led him, through a postern, into the garden; and there on a +wide lawn, out of earshot of any possible listeners, the Bishop and the +Knight walked up and down in earnest conversation. + + +At length: "To-morrow, in the early morn," said the Knight, "I send her +tire-woman on to Warwick, with all her effects, keeping back only the +riding suit. Should she elect to come, we must be free to ride without +drawing rein. Even so we shall reach Warwick only something before +midnight." + +"She tore it up and planted her foot upon it," remarked the Bishop. + +"I will not give up hope," said the Knight. + +"Nothing short of a miracle, my son, will change her mind, or move her +from her fixed resolve." + +"Then our Lady will work a miracle," declared the Knight bravely. "I +prayed 'Send her to me!' and our blessed Lady smiled." + +"A sculptured smile, dear lad, is ever there. Had you prayed 'Hold her +from me!' our Lady would equally have smiled." + +"Nay," said the Knight; "I keep my trust in prayer." + +They paused at the parapet overhanging the river. + +"I was successful," said the Knight, "in dealing with Eustace, her +nephew. There will be no need to apply to the King. The ambition was +his mother's. Now Eleanor is dead, he cares not for the Castle. Next +month he weds an heiress, with large estates, and has no wish to lay +claim to Mora's home. All is now once more as it was when she left it. +Her own people are in charge. I plan to take her there when we leave +Warwick, riding northward by easy stages." + +The Bishop, stooping, picked up a smooth, white stone, and flung it +into the river. It fell with a splash, and sank. The water closed +upon it. It had vanished instantly from view. + +Then the Bishop spoke. "Hugh, my dear lad, she thought it was the +Pope's own deed and signature, yet she tore it across, and then again +across; flung it upon the ground, and set her foot upon it. I deem it +now as impossible that the Prioress should change her mind upon this +matter, as that we should ever see again that stone which now lies deep +on the river-bed." + +It was a high dive from the parapet; and, to the Bishop, watching the +spot where the Knight cleft the water, the moments seemed hours. + +But when the Knight reappeared, the white stone was in his hand. + +The Bishop went down to the water-gate. + +"Bravely done, my son!" he called, as the Knight swam to the steps. +"You deserve to win." + +But to himself he said: "Fighting men and quick-witted women will be +ever with us, gaining their ends by strenuous endeavour. But the age +of miracles is past." + +Hugh d'Argent mounted the steps. + +"I _shall_ win," he said, and shook himself like a great shaggy dog. + +The Bishop, over whom fell a shower, carefully wiped the glistening +drops from his garments with a fine Italian handkerchief. + +"Go in, boy," he said, "and get dry. Send thy man for another suit, +unless it would please thee better that Father Benedict should lend +thee a cassock! Give me the stone. It may well serve as a reminder of +that famous sacred stone from which the Convent takes its name. +Methinks we have, between us, contrived something of an omen, +concluding in thy favour." + +Presently the Bishop, alone in his library, stood the white stone upon +the iron-bound chest within which he had placed the Pope's mandate. + +"The age of miracles is past," he said again. "Iron no longer swims, +neither do stones rise from the depths of a river, unless the Divine +command be supplemented by the grip of strong human fingers. + +"Stand there, thou little tombstone of our hopes. Mark the place where +lies the Holy Father's mandate, ecclesiastically all-powerful, yet +rendered null and void by the faithful conscience and the firm will of +a woman. God send us more such women!" + +The Bishop sounded a silver gong, and when his body-servant appeared, +pointed to the handkerchief, damp and crumpled, upon the table. + +"Dry this, Jasper," he said, "and bring me another somewhat larger. +These dainty trifles cannot serve, when 'tears run down like a river.' +Nay, look not distressed, my good fellow. I do but jest. Yonder wet +Knight hath given me a shower-bath." + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX + +THE VISION OF MARY ANTONY + +On the afternoon following the Bishop's unexpected visit to the Nunnery, +the Prioress elected to walk last in the procession to and from the +Cathedral, placing Mother Sub-Prioress first. It was her custom +occasionally to vary the order of procession. Sometimes she walked +thirteenth, with twelve before, and twelve behind her. + +She had at first inclined on this day, after her strenuous time with the +Bishop, followed by the hour's ride upon Icon, not to go to Vespers. + +Then her heart failed her, and she went. On these two afternoons--this +and the morrow--Hugh would still be in the crypt. She should not so much +as glance toward the pillar at the foot of the winding stairway leading +to the clerestory; yet it would be sweet to feel him to be standing there +as she passed; sweet to know that he heard the same sounds as fell upon +her ear. + +To-day, and again on the morrow, she might yield to this yearning for the +comfort of his nearness; but never again, for Hugh would not return. + +She had wondered whether she dared ask him, by the Bishop, on a given +date once a year to attend High Mass in the Cathedral, so that she might +know him to be under the same roof, worshipping, at the same moment, the +same blessed manifestation of the Divine Presence. + +But almost at once she had dismissed the desire, realising that comfort +such as this, could be comfort but to the heart of a woman, more likely +torment to a man. Also that should his fancy incline him to seek +companionship and consolation in the love of another, a yearly pilgrimage +to Worcester for her sake, would stand in the way of his future happiness. + +Walking last in that silent procession back to the Nunnery, the Prioress +walked alone with her sadness. Her heart was heavy indeed. + +She had angered her old friend, Symon of Worcester. After being +infinitely patient, when he might well have had cause for wrath, he had +suddenly taken a sterner tone, and departed in a certain aloofness, +leaving her with the fear that she had lost him, also, beyond recall. + +Thus she walked in loneliness and sorrow. + + +As she passed up the steps into the cloisters, she noted that Mary Antony +was not in her accustomed place. + +Slightly wondering, and half unconsciously explaining to herself that the +old lay-sister had probably for some reason gone forward with the +Sub-Prioress, the Prioress moved down the now empty passage and entered +her own cell. + +On the threshold she paused, astonished. + +In front of the shrine of the Madonna, knelt Mary Antony in a kind of +trance, hands clasped, eyes fixed, lips parted, the colour gone from her +cheeks, yet a radiance upon her face, like the after-glow of a vision of +exceeding glory. + +She appeared to be wholly unconscious of the presence of the Prioress, +who recovering from her first astonishment, closed the door, and coming +forward laid her hand gently upon the old woman's shoulder. + +Mary Antony's eyes remained fixed, but her lips moved incessantly. +Bending over her, the Prioress could make out disjointed sentences. + +"Gone! . . . But it was at our Lady's bidding. . . . Flown? Ah, gay +little Knight of the Bloody Vest! Nay, it must have been the archangel +Gabriel, or maybe Saint George, in shining armour. . . . How shall we +live without the Reverend Mother? But the will of our blessed Lady must +be done." + +"Antony!" said the Prioress. "Wake up, dear Antony! You are dreaming +again. You are thinking of the robin and the pea. I have not gone from +you; nor am I going. See! I am here." + +She turned the old face about, and brought herself into Mary Antony's +field of vision. + +Slowly a light of recognition dawned in those fixed eyes; then came a +cry, as of fear and of a great dismay; then a gasping sound, a clutching +of the air. Mary Antony had fallen prone, before the shrine of the +Madonna. + + +An hour later she lay upon her bed, whither they had carried her. She +had recovered consciousness, and partaken of wine and bread. + +The colour had returned to her cheeks, when the Prioress came in, +dismissed the lay-sister in attendance, closed the door, and sat down +beside the couch. + +"Thou art better, dear Antony," said the Prioress. "They tell me thy +strength has returned, and this strange fainting is over. Thou must lie +still yet awhile; but will it weary thee to speak?" + +"Nay, Reverend Mother, I should dearly love to speak. My soul is full of +wonder; yet to none saving to you, Reverend Mother, can I tell of that +which I have seen." + +"Tell me all, dear Antony," said the Prioress. "Sister Mary Rebecca says +thy symptoms point to a Divine Vision." + +Mary Antony chuckled. "For once Sister Mary Rebecca speaks the truth," +she said. "Have patience with me, Reverend Mother, and I will tell you +all." + +The Prioress gently stroked the worn hands lying outside the coverlet. + +Mary Antony looked very old in bed. Were it not for the bright twinkling +eyes, she looked too old ever again to stand upon her feet. Yet how she +still bustled upon those same old feet! How diligently she performed her +own duties, and shewed to the other lay-sisters how they should have +performed theirs! + +Forty years ago, she had chosen her nook in the Convent burying-ground. +She was even then, among the older members of the Community; yet most of +those who saw her choose it, now lay in their own. + +"She will outlive us all," said Mother Sub-Prioress one day, sourly; +angered by some trick of Mary Antony's. + +"She is like an ancient parrot," cried Sister Mary Rebecca, anxious to +agree with Mother Sub-Prioress. + +Which when Mary Antony heard, she chuckled, and snapped her fingers. + +"Please God, I shall live long enough," she said, "to thrust Mother +Sub-Prioress into a sackcloth shroud; also, to crack nuts upon the +sepulchre of Sister Mary Rebecca." + +But none of these remarks reached the Prioress. She loved the old +lay-sister, knowing the aged body held a faithful and zealous heart, and +a mind which, in its quaint simplicity, oft seemed to the Prioress like +the mind of a little child--and of such is the Kingdom of Heaven. + +"There is no need for patience, dear Antony," said the Prioress. "I can +sit in stillness beside thee, until thy tale be fully told. Begin at the +beginning." + +The slanting rays of the late afternoon sun, piercing through the narrow +window, fell in a golden band of light upon the folded hands, lighting up +the aged face with an almost unearthly radiance. + +"I was in the cloisters," began Mary Antony, "awaiting the return from +Vespers of the holy Ladies. + +"I go there betimes, because at that hour I am accustomed to hold +converse with a little vain man in a red jerkin, who comes to see me, +when he knows me to be alone. I tell him tales such as he never hears +elsewhere. To-day I planned to tell him how the great Lord Bishop, +arriving unannounced, rode into the courtyard; and, seeing old Antony +standing in the doorway, mistook her for the Reverend Mother. That was a +great moment in the life of Mary Antony, and confers upon her added +dignity. + +"'So turn out thy toes, and make thy best bow, and behave thee as a +little layman should behave in the presence of one who hath been mistaken +for one holding so high an office in Holy Church.' + +"Thus," explained Mary Antony, "had I planned to strike awe into the +little red breast of that over-bold robin." + +"And came the robin to the cloisters?" inquired the Prioress, presently, +for Mary Antony lay upon her pillow laughing to herself, nodding and +bowing, and making her fingers hop to and fro on the coverlet, as a bird +might hop with toes out turned. Nor would she be recalled at once to the +happenings of the afternoon. + +"The great Lord Bishop did address me as 'worthy Mother,'" she remarked; +"not 'Reverend Mother,' as we address our noble Prioress. And this has +given me much food for thought. Is it better to be worthy and not +reverend, or reverend and not worthy? Our large white sow, when she did +contrive to have more little pigs in her litters, than ever our sows had +before; and, after a long and fruitful life, furnished us with two +excellent hams, a boar's head, and much bacon, was a worthy sow; but +never was she reverend, not even when Mother Sub-Prioress pronounced the +blessing over her face, much beautified by decoration--grand ivory tusks, +and a lemon in her mouth! Never, in life, had she looked so fair; which +is indeed, I believe, the case with many. Yet, for all her worthiness, +she was not reverend. Also I have heard tell of a certain Prior, not +many miles from here, who, borrowing money, never repays it; who +oppresses the poor, driving them from the Priory gate; who maltreats the +monks, and is kind unto none, saving unto himself. He--it seems--is +reverend but not worthy. While thou, Master Redbreast, art certainly not +reverend; the saints, and thine own conscience, alone know whether thou +art worthy. + +"This," explained Mary Antony, "was how I had planned to point a moral to +that jaunty little worldling." + +"They who are reverend must strive to be also worthy," said the Prioress; +"while they who count themselves to be worthy, must think charitably of +those to whom they owe reverence. Came the robin to thee in the +cloisters, Antony?" + +The old woman's manner changed. She fixed her eyes upon the Prioress, +and spoke with an air of detachment and of mystery. The very simplicity +of her language seemed at once to lift the strange tale she told, into +sublimity. + +"Aye, he came. But not for crumbs; not for cheese; not to gossip with +old Antony. + +"He stood upon the coping, looking at me with his bright eye. + +"'Well, little vain man!' said I. But he moved not. + +"'Well, Master Pieman,' I said, 'art come to spy on holy ladies?' But +never a flutter, never a chirp, gave he. + +"So grave and yet war-like was his aspect, that at length I said: 'Well, +Knight of the Bloody Vest! Hast thou come to carry off again our noble +Prioress?' Upon which, instantly, he lifted up his voice, and burst into +song; then flew to the doorway, turning and chirping, as if asking me to +follow. + +"Greatly marvelling at this behaviour on the part of the little bird I +love, I forthwith set out to follow him. + +"Along the passage, on swift wing, he flew; in and out of the empty +cells, as if in search of something.' Then, while I was yet some little +way behind, he vanished into the Reverend Mother's cell, and came not +forth again. + +"Laughing to myself at such presumption, I followed, saying: 'Ha, thou +Knight of the Bloody Vest! What doest thou there? The Reverend Mother +is away. What seekest thou in her chamber, Knight of the Bloody Vest?' + +"But, reaching the doorway, at that moment, I found myself struck dumb by +what I saw. + +"No robin was there, but a most splendid Knight, in shining armour, +kneeled upon his knees before the shrine of our Lady. A blood-red cross +was on his breast. His dark head was uplifted. On his noble face was a +look of pleading and of prayer. + +"Marvelling, but unafraid, I crept in, and kneeled behind that splendid +Knight. The look of pleading upon his face, inclined me also to prayer. +His lips moved, as I had seen at the first; but while I stood upon my +feet, I could hear no words. As soon as I too kneeled, I heard the +Knight saying: 'Give her to me! Give her to me!' And at last: 'Mother +of God, send her to me! Take pity on a hungry heart, a lonely home, a +desolate hearth, and send her to me!'" + +Mary Antony paused, fixing her eyes upon the rosy strip of sky, seen +through her narrow window. Absorbed in the recital of her vision, she +appeared to have forgotten the presence of the Prioress. She paused; and +there was silence in the cell, for the Prioress made no sound. + + +Presently the old voice went on, once more. + +"When the splendid Knight said: 'Send her to me,' a most wondrous thing +did happen. + +"Our blessed Lady, lifting her head, looked toward the door. Then +raising her hand, she beckoned. + +"No sooner did our Lady beckon, than I heard steps coming along the +passage--that passage which I knew to be empty. The Knight heard them, +also; for his heart began to beat so loudly that--kneeling behind--I +could hear it. + +"Our blessed Lady smiled. + +"Then--in through the doorway came the Reverend Mother, walking with her +head held high, and sunlight in her eyes, as I have ofttimes seen her +walk in the garden in Springtime, when the birds are singing, and a scent +of lilac is all around. + +"She did not see old Mary Antony; but moving straight to where the Knight +was kneeling, kneeled down beside him. + +"Then the splendid Knight did hold out his hand. But the Reverend +Mother's hands were clasped upon the cross at her breast, and she would +not put her hand into the Knight's; but lifting her eyes to our Lady she +said: 'Holy Mother of God, except thou thyself send me to him, I cannot +go." + +"And again the Knight said: 'Give her to me! Give her to me! Blessed +Virgin, give her to me!' + +"And the tears ran down the face of old Antony, because both those noble +hearts were wrung with anguish. Yet only the merry Babe, peeping over +the two bowed heads, saw that old Antony was there. + +"Then a wondrous thing did happen. + +"Stooping from her marble throne our Lady leaned, and taking the Reverend +Mother's hand in hers, placed it herself in the outstretched hand of the +Knight. + +"At once a sound like many chimes of silver bells filled the air, and a +voice, so wonderful that I did fall upon my face to the floor, said: + +"'TAKE HER; SHE HATH BEEN EVER THINE. I HAVE BUT KEPT HER FOR THEE.'" + + +"When I lifted my head once more, the Reverend Mother and the splendid +Knight had risen. Heaven was in their eyes. Her hand was in his. His +arm was around her. + +"As I looked, they turned together, passed out through the doorway, and +paced slowly down the passage. + +"I heard their steps growing fainter and yet more faint, until they +reached the cloisters. Then all was still." + + +"Then I heard other steps arriving. I still kneeled on, fearful to move; +because those earthly steps were drowning the sound of the silver chimes +which filled the air. + +"Then--why, then I saw the Reverend Mother, returned--and returned alone. + +"So I cried out, because she had left that splendid Knight. And, as I +cried, the silver bells fell silent, all grew | dark around me, and I +knew no more, until I woke up in mine own bed, tended by Sister Mary +Rebecca, and Sister Teresa; with Abigail--noisy hussy!--helping to fetch +and carry. + +"But--when I close mine eyes--Ah, then! Yes, I hear again the sound of +silver chimes. And some day I shall hear--shall hear again--that +wondrous voice of--voice of tenderness, which said: 'Take her, she hath +been ever--ever'----" + +The old voice which had talked for so long a time, wavered, weakened, +then of a sudden fell silent. + +Mary Antony had dropped off to sleep. + + +Slowly the Prioress rose, feeling her way, as one blinded by too great a +light. + +She stood for some moments leaning against the doorpost, her hand upon +the latch, watching the furrowed face upon the pillow, gently slumbering; +still illumined by a halo of sunset light. + +Then she opened the door, and passed out; closing it behind her. + +As the Prioress closed the door, Mary Antony opened one eye. + +Yea, verily! She was alone! + +She raised herself upon the couch, listening intently. + +Far away in the distance, she fancied she could hear the door of the +Reverend Mother's chamber shut--yes!--and the turning of the key within +the lock. + +Then Mary Antony arose, tottered over to the crucifix, and, falling on +her knees, lifted clasped hands to the dying Redeemer. + +"O God," she said, "full well I know that to lie concerning holy things +doth damn the soul forever. But the great Lord Bishop said she would +thrust happiness from her with both hands, unless our Lady vouchsafed a +vision. Gladly will I bear the endless torments of hell fires, that she +may know fulness of joy and pleasures for evermore. But, oh, Son of +Mary, by the sorrows of our Lady's heart, by the yearnings of her love, I +ask that--once a year--I may come out--to sit just for one hour on my +jasper seat, and see the Reverend Mother walk, between the great Lord +Bishop and the splendid Knight, up the wide golden stair. And some day +at last, O Saviour Christ, I ask it of Thy wounds, 'Thy dying love, Thy +broken heart, may the sin of Mary Antony--her great sin, her sin of thus +lying about holy things--be forgiven her, because--because--she loved"---- + +Old Mary Antony fell forward on the stones. This time, she had really +swooned. + +It took the combined efforts of Sister Teresa, Sister Mary Rebecca, and +Mother Sub-Prioress, to bring her back once more to consciousness. + +It added to their anxiety that they could not call the Reverend Mother, +she having already sent word that she would not come to the evening meal, +and must not be disturbed, as she purposed passing the night in prayer +and vigil. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX + +THE HARDER PART + +Dawn broke--a silver rift in the purple sky--and presently stole, in +pearly light, through the oriel window. Upon the Prioress's table, lay +a beautifully executed copy of the Pope's mandate. Beside it, +carefully pieced together, the torn fragments of the Bishop's copy. + +Also, open upon the table, lay the Gregorian Sacramentary, and near to +it strips of parchment upon which the Prioress had copied two of those +ancient prayers, appending to each a careful translation. + +These are the sixth century prayers which the Prioress had found +comfort in copying and translating, during the long hours of her vigil. + + +_O God, the Protector of all that trust in Thee, without Whom nothing +is strong, nothing is holy; Increase and multiply upon us Thy mercy, +that Thou being our ruler and guide, we may so pass through things +temporal, that we finally lose not the things eternal; Grant this, O +heavenly Father, for Jesus Christ's sake our Lord. Amen._ + + +And on another strip of parchment: + + +_O Lord, we beseech Thee mercifully to receive the prayers of Thy +people who call upon Thee; and grant that they may both perceive and +know what things they ought to do, and also may have grace and power +faithfully to fulfil the same: through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen._ + + +Then, in that darkest hour before the dawn, she had opened the heavy +clasps of an even older volume, and copied a short prayer from the +Gelasian Sacramentary, under date A.D. 492. + + +_Lighten our darkness, we beseech Thee O Lord, and my Thy great mercy +defend us from all perils and dangers of this night; for the love of +Thy only Son, our Saviour, Jesus Christ. Amen._ + + +This appeared to have been copied last of all. The ink was still wet +upon the parchment. + +The candles had burned down to the sockets, and gone out. The +Prioress's chair, pushed back from the table, was empty. + +As the dawn crept in, it discovered her kneeling before the shrine of +the Madonna, absorbed in prayer and meditation. + +She had not yet taken her final decision as to the future; but her +hesitation was now rather the slow, wondering, opening of the mind to +accept an astounding fact, than any attempt to fight against it. + +Not for one moment could she doubt that our Lady, in answer to Hugh's +impassioned prayers, had chosen to make plain the Divine will, by means +of this wonderful and most explicit vision to the aged lay-sister, Mary +Antony. + +When, having left Mary Antony, as she supposed, asleep, the Prioress +had reached her own cell, her first adoring cry, as she prostrated +herself before the shrine, had taken the form of the thanksgiving once +offered by the Saviour: "I thank Thee, O Father, Lord of Heaven and +earth, that Thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and +hast revealed them unto babes." + +She and the Bishop had indeed been wise and prudent in their own +estimation, as they discussed this difficult problem. Yet to them no +clear light, no Divine vision, had been vouchsafed. + +It was to this aged nun, the most simple--so thought the Prioress--the +most humble, the most childlike in the community, that the revelation +had been given. + +The Prioress remembered the nosegay of weeds offered to our Lady; the +games with peas; the childish pleasure in the society of the robin; all +the many indications that second-childhood had gently come at the close +of the long life of Mary Antony; just as the moon begins as a sickle +turned one way and, after coming to the full, wanes at length to a +sickle turned the other way; so, after ninety years of life's +pilgrimage, Mary Antony was a little child again--and of such is the +Kingdom of Heaven; and to such the Divine will is most easily revealed. + +The Prioress was conscious that she and the Bishop--the wise and +prudent--had so completely arrived at decisions, along the lines of +their own points of view, that their minds were not ready to receive a +Divine unveiling. But the simple, childlike mind of the old +lay-sister, full only of humble faith and loving devotion, was ready; +and to her the manifestation came. + +No shade of doubt as to the genuineness of the vision entered the mind +of the Prioress. She and the Bishop alone knew of the Knight's +intrusion into the Nunnery, and of her interview with him in her cell. + +Before going in search of the intruder, she had ordered Mary Antony to +the kitchens; and disobedience to a command of the Reverend Mother, was +a thing undreamed of in the Convent. + +Afterwards, her anxiety lest any question should come up concerning the +return of a twenty-first White Lady when but twenty had gone, was +completely set at rest by that which had seemed to her old Antony's +fortunate mistake in believing herself to have been mistaken. + +In recounting the fictitious vision, with an almost uncanny cleverness, +Mary Antony had described the Knight, not as he had appeared in the +Prioress's cell, in tunic and hose, a simple dress of velvet and cloth, +but in full panoply as a Knight-Crusader. The shining armour and the +blood-red cross, fully in keeping with the vision, would have precluded +the idea of an eye-witness of the actual scene, had such a thought +unconsciously suggested itself to the Prioress. + +As it was, it seemed beyond question that all the knowledge of Hugh +shewn by the old lay-sister, of his person his attitude, his very +words, could have come to her by Divine revelation alone. That being +so, how could the Prioress presume to doubt the climax of the vision, +when our blessed Lady placed her hand in Hugh's, uttering the wondrous +words: "Take her. She hath been ever thine. I have but kept her for +thee." + +Over and over the Prioress repeated these words; over and over she +thanked our Lady for having vouchsafed so explicit a revelation. Yet +was she distressed that her inmost spirit failed to respond, acclaiming +the words as divine. She knew they must be divine, yet could not feel +that they were so. + +As dawn crept into the cell, she found herself repeating again and +again "A sign, a sign! Thy will was hid from me; yet I accept its +revelation through this babe. But I ask a sign which shall speak to +mine own heart, also! A sign, a sign!" + +She rose and opened wide the casement, not of the oriel window, but of +one to the right of the group of the Virgin and child, and near by it. + +She was worn out both in mind and body, yet could not bring herself to +leave the shrine or to seek her couch. + +She remembered the example of that reverend and holy man, Bishop +Wulstan. She had lately been reading, in the Chronicles of Florence, +the monk of Worcester, how "in his early life, when appointed to be +chanter and treasurer of the Church, Wulstan embraced the opportunity +of serving God with less restraint, giving himself up to a +contemplative life, going into the church day and night to pray and +read the Bible. So devoted was he to sacred vigils that not only would +he keep himself awake during the night, but day and night also; and +when the urgency of nature at last compelled him to sleep, he did not +pamper his limbs by resting on a bed or coverings, but would lie down +for a short time on one of the benches of the Church, resting his head +on the book which he had used for praying or reading." + +The Prioress chanced to have read this passage aloud, in the Refectory, +two days before. + +As she stood in the dawn light, overcome with sleep, yet unwilling to +leave her vigil at the shrine, she remembered the example of this +greatly revered Bishop of Worcester, "a man of great piety and dovelike +simplicity, one beloved of God, and of the people whom he ruled in all +things," dead just over a hundred years, yet ever living in the memory +of all. + +So, remembering his example, the Prioress went to her table, and +shutting the clasps of her treasured Gregorian Sacramentary, placed it +on the floor before the shrine of the Virgin. + +Then, flinging her cloak upon the ground, and a silk covering over the +book, she sank down, stretched her weary limbs upon the cloak and laid +her head on the Sacramentary, trusting that some of the many sacred +prayers therein contained would pass into her mind while she slept. + +Yet still her spirit cried: "A sign, a sign! However slight, however +small; a sign mine own heart can understand." + +Whether she slept a few moments only or an hour, she could not tell. +Yet she felt strangely rested, when she was awakened by the sound of a +most heavenly song outpoured. It flooded her cell with liquid trills, +as of little silver bells. + +The Prioress opened her eyes, without stirring. + +Sunlight streamed in through the open window; and lo, upon the marble +hand of the Madonna, that very hand which, in the vision, had taken +hers and placed it within Hugh's, stood Mary Antony's robin, that gay +little Knight of the Bloody Vest, pouring forth so wonderful a song of +praise, and love, and fulness of joy, that it seemed as if his little +ruffling throat must burst with the rush of joyous melody. + +The robin sang. Our Lady smiled. The Babe on her knees looked merry. + +The Prioress lay watching, not daring to move; her head resting on the +Sacramentary. + +Then into her mind there came the suggestion of a test--a sign. + +"If he fly around the chamber," she whispered, "my place is here. But +if he fly straight out into the open, then doth our blessed Lady bid me +also to arise and go." + +And, scarce had she so thought, when, with a last triumphant trill of +joy, straight from our Lady's hand, like an arrow from the bow, the +robin shot through the open casement, and out into the sunny, +newly-awakened world beyond. + + +The Prioress rose, folded her cloak, placed the book back upon the +table; then kneeled before the shrine, took off her cross of office, +and laid it upon our Lady's hand, from whence the little bird had flown. + +Then with bowed head, pale face, hands meekly crossed upon her breast, +the Prioress knelt long in prayer. + +The breeze of an early summer morn, blew in at the open window, and +fanned her cheek. + +In the garden without, the robin sang to his mate. + +At length the Prioress rose, moving as one who walked in a strange +dream, passed into the inner cell, and sought her couch. + +The Bishop's prayer had been answered. + +The Prioress had been given grace and strength to choose the harder +part, believing the harder part to be, in very deed, God's will for her. + +And, as she laid her head at last upon the pillow, a prayer from the +Gregorian Sacramentary slipped into her mind, calming her to sleep, +with its message of overruling power and eternal peace. + + +_Almighty and everlasting God, Who dost govern all things in heaven and +earth; Mercifully bear the supplications of Thy people, and grant us +Thy peace, all the days of our life; through Jesus Christ our Lord. +Amen._ + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI + +THE CALL OF THE CURLEW + +For the last time, the Knight waited in the crypt. + +The men-at-arms, having deposited their burden before the altar, leaned +each against a pillar, stolid and unobservant, but ready to drop to +their knees so soon as the chanting of Vespers should reach the crypt +from the choir above. + +The man upon the stretcher lay motionless, with bandaged head; yet +there was an alert brightness in his eyes, and the turn of his head +betokened one who listened. A cloak of dark blue, bordered with +silver, covered him, as a pall. + +Hugh d'Argent stood in the shadow of a pillar facing the narrow archway +in the wall from which the winding stairs led up to the clerestory. + +From this position he could also command a view of the steps leading up +into the crypt from the underground way, and of the ground to be +traversed by the White Ladies as they passed from the steps to the +staircase in the wall. + +Here the Knight kept his final vigil. + +A strange buoyancy possessed him. He seemed to have left his +despondence, like a heavy weight, at the bottom of the river. From the +moment when, his breath almost exhausted, he had seen and grasped the +Bishop's stone, bringing it in triumph to the surface, Hugh had felt +sure he would win. Aye, even before Symon had flung the stone; when, +in reply to the doubt cast by him on our Lady's smile, the Knight had +said: "I keep my trust in prayer," a joyous confidence had then and +there awakened within him. He had stretched out the right hand of his +withered faith, and lo, it had proved strong and vital. + +Yet as, in the heavy silence of the crypt, he heard the turning of the +key in the lock, his heart stood still, and every emotion hung +suspended, as the first veiled figure--shadowy and ghostlike--moved +into view. + + +It was not she. + +The Knight's pulses throbbed again. His heart pounded violently as, +keeping their measured distances, nine, ten, eleven, white figures +passed. + +Then--twelfth: a tall nun, almost her height; yet not she. + +Then--thirteenth: Oh, blessed Virgin! Oh, saints of God! Mora! She, +herself. Never could he fail to recognize her carriage, the regal +poise of her head. However veiled, however shrouded, he could not be +mistaken. It was Mora; and that she should be walking in this central +position meant that she might with comparative safety, step aside. +Yet, even this---- + +But, at that moment, passing him, she turned her head, and for an +instant her eyes met the eyes of the Knight looking out from the +shadows. + +Another moment and she had vanished up the winding stairway in the wall. + +But that instant was enough. As her eyes met his, Hugh d'Argent knew +that his betrothed was once more his own. + +His heart ceased pounding; his pulses beat steadily. + +The calm of a vast, glad certainty enfolded him; a joy beyond belief. +Yet he knew now that he had been sure of it, ever since he came up from +the depths of the Severn into the summer sunshine, grasping the white +stone. + +"I keep my trust in prayer. . . . Give her to me! Give her to me! +Blessed Virgin, give her to me! 'A sculptured smile'? Nay, my lord. +I keep my trust in prayer!" + + +The solemn chanting of the monks, stole down from the distant choir. +Vespers had begun. + + +The Knight strode to the altar, and knelt for some minutes, his hands +clasped upon the crossed hilt of his sword. + +Then he rose, and spoke in low tones to his men-at-arms. + +"When a thrush calls, you will leave the crypt, and guard the entrance +from without; allowing none, on any pretext, to pass within. When a +blackbird whistles you will return, lift the stretcher, and pass with +it, as heretofore, from the Cathedral to the hostel." + +Next the Knight, returning to the altar, bent over the bandaged man +upon the stretcher. + +"Martin," he said, speaking very low, so that his trusted +foster-brother alone could hear him. "All is well. Our pilgrimage is +about to end, as we have hoped, in a great recovery and restoration. +When the call of a curlew sounds, leap from the stretcher, leave the +bandages beside it; go to the entrance, guarding it from within; but +turn not thy head this way, until a blackbird whistles; upon which lose +thyself among the pillars, letting no man see thee, until we have +passed out. After which, make thy way out, as best thou canst, and +join me at the hostel, entering by the garden and window, without +letting thyself be seen in the courtyard." + +The keen eyes below the bandage, smiled assent. + +Stooping, the Knight lifted the cloak, fastened it to his left +shoulder, and drew it around him, holding the greater part of it in +many folds in his right hand. Then he moved back into the shadow of +the pillar. + +Above, the monks sang _Nunc Dimittis_. + +By and by the voices fell silent. + +Vespers were over. + + +Careful, shuffling feet were coming down the stairs within the wall. + +One by one the white figures reappeared. + +The Knight stood back, rigid, holding his breath. + +As each nun stepped from the archway in the wall, on to the floor of +the crypt, and moved toward the steps leading down to the subterranean +way, she passed from the view of the nun following her, who was still +one turn up the staircase. It was upon this the Knight had counted, +when he laid his plains. + + Six + Seven + Eight + +Blessed Saint Joseph! How slowly they walked! + + Nine + Ten + Eleven + +The Knight gripped the cloak and moved a step further back into the +shadow. + + Twelve + +Were all the pillars rocking? Was the great new Cathedral coming down +upon his head? + + Thirteen + +The Prioress was beside him in the shadow. + +She had stepped aside. + +The twelfth White Lady was moving on, her back toward them. + +The fourteenth was shuffling down, but had not yet appeared. + +Hugh slipped his left arm about the Prioress, holding her close to him; +then flung the folds of the cloak completely around her, and over his +left shoulder, pressing her head down upon his breast. + +Thus they stood, motionless; her face hidden, his eyes bent upon the +narrow archway in the wall. + +The fourteenth White Lady appeared; evidently noted a wider gap than +she expected between herself and the distant figure almost at the +steps, and hastened forward. + +The fifteenth also hastened. + +The sixteenth chanced to have taken the stairs more quickly and, +appearing almost immediately, noticed no gap. + + Seventeen + Eighteen + Nineteen + Twenty + +Not one had turned her head in the direction of the pillar. The +procession was moving, with stately tread, along its accustomed way. + +A delicious sense of security enveloped Hugh d'Argent. + +The woman he loved was in his arms; she was his to shield, to guard, to +hold for evermore. + + Twenty-one + Twenty-two + +She had come to him--come to him of her own free will. Holding her +thus, he remembered those wondrous moments at the entrance to the +crypt. How hard it had been to loose her and leave her. Yet how glad +he now was that he had done so. + + Twenty-three + Twenty-four + +When all these white figures are gone, safely started on their +mile-long walk, the door shut and locked behind them--then he will fold +back the cloak, turn her sweet face up to his, and lay his lips on hers. + + Twenty-five + +Praise the holy saints! The last! But what an old ferret! + +Yes; Mother Sub-Prioress gave the Knight a moment of alarm. She peered +to right and left. Almost she saw the glint of the silver on the blue. +Almost, yet not quite. + +Sniffing, she passed on, walking as if her feet were angry, each with +the other for being before it. She tweaked at her veil, as she turned +and descended the steps. + +Hugh glowed and thrilled from head to foot. + +At last! + +Almost---- + +The sound of a closing door. + +Slowly a key turned, grated in the lock, and was withdrawn. + +Then--silence. + +But at sound of the turning key, the woman in his arms shivered, the +slow, cold shudder of a soul in pain; and suddenly he knew that in +coming to him she had chosen that which now seemed to her the harder +part. + +With the first revulsion of feeling occasioned by this knowledge, came +a strong impulse to put her from him, to leap down the stairway, force +open the heavy door, thrust her into the passage leading to her +Nunnery, and shut the door upon her; then go out himself into the world +to seek, in one wild search, every possible form of sin and revelry. + +But this ungoverned impulse lasted but for the moment in which his +passionate joy, recoiling upon himself, struck him a blinding, a +bewildering blow. + +In ten seconds he had recovered. His arms tightened more securely +around her. + +She had come to him. Whatever complex emotions might now be stirring +within her, this fact was beyond question. Also, she had come of her +own free will. The foot which had dared to stamp upon the torn +fragments of the Pope's mandate, had, with an equal courage, stepped +aside from the way of convention and had brought her within the compass +of his arms. + +He could not put her from him. She was his to hold and keep. But she +was his also to shield and guard; aye, to shield not from outward +dangers only, but from anything in himself which might cause her pain +or perplexity, thus making more difficult her noble act of +self-surrender. + +Words spoken by the Bishop, in the banqueting hall, came back to him +with fuller significance. + +A joy arose within him, deeper far than the rapture of passion; the joy +of a faithful patience, of a strong man's mastery over the strongest +thing in himself, of a lover's comprehension, by sure instinct, of that +which no words, however clear and forcible, could have succeeded in +making plain. + +His love arose, a kingly thing, crowned by her trust in him. + +As he folded back the cloak, he stood with eyes uplifted to the arched +roof above his head. And the vision he saw, in the dim pearly light, +was a vision of the Madonna in his home. + +The shelter of the cloak removed, the Prioress looked around with +startled eyes, full of an unspeakable shrinking; then upward to the +face of her lover, and saw it transfigured by the light of holy purpose +and of a great resolve. + +But, even as she looked, he took his arm from about her, stepped a pace +forward, leaving her in the shadow, and whistled thrice the _Do-it-now_ +call of the thrush. + +Instantly the men-at-arms leapt to their feet, and making quickly for +the entrance to the Cathedral from the crypt, stood to hold it from +without, against all comers. + +As their running feet rang on the steps, softly there sounded through +the crypt the plaintive call of the curlew. + +The man lying upon the stretcher rose, leaving his bandages behind; +and, without glancing to right or left, passed quickly in and out +amongst the forest of columns, and was lost to view. The entrance he +had to guard from within, was out of sight of the altar. To all +intents and purposes, the two who still stood motionless in the shadow, +were now alone. + +Then the Knight turned to the Prioress, took her right hand with his +left, and led her forward to the altar. + +There he loosed her hand as they knelt side by side; he clasping his +upon the crossed hilt of his sword; she crossing hers upon her breast. + +Presently the Prioress drew the marriage ring from the third finger of +her left hand, and gave it to the Knight. + +Divining her desire, he rose, laid the ring upon the altar, then knelt +again. + +Then rising, he took the ring, kissed it reverently, and slipped it +upon the little finger of his own left hand. + +The sad eyes of the Prioress, watching him, said to this neither "yea" +nor "nay." + +Rising she waited meekly to know his will for her. The Knight, the +blue cloak over his arm, turned to the stretcher, picked up the +bandages, then, spoke, very low, without looking at the Prioress. + +"Lay thyself down thereon," he said. "I grieve to ask it of thee, +Mora; but there is no other way of taking thee hence, unobserved." + +The Prioress took two steps forward, and stood beside the stretcher. + +It was many years since she had lain in any human presence. Standing, +walking, sitting, kneeling, she had been seen by the nuns; but +lying--never. + +Though her cross of office and sacred ring were gone, her dignity and +authority seemed still to belong to her while she stood, stately and +tall, upon her feet. + +She hesitated. The apologetic tone the Knight had used, seemed warrant +for her hesitancy, and rendered compliance more difficult. + +Each moment it became more impossible to place herself upon the +stretcher. + +"Lie down," said the Knight, sternly. + +At the curt word of command, the Prioress shuddered again; but, without +a word, she laid herself down upon the stretcher, closing her eyes, and +crossing her hands upon her breast. So white she was, so still, so +rigid; as Hugh d'Argent, the bandages in his hand, stood looking down +upon her, she seemed the marble effigy of a recumbent Prioress, graven +upon a tomb; save that, as the Knight looked upon that beautiful, proud +face, two burning tears forced their way from beneath the closed lids +and rolled helplessly down the pale cheeks. + +She did not see the look of tender compunction, of adoring love, in +Hugh's eyes. + +Her shame, her utter humiliation, seemed complete. + +Not when she took off her jewelled cross, and placed it upon our Lady's +hand; not when she stepped aside and allowed herself to be hidden by +the cloak; not even when she removed her ring and handed it to Hugh, +did she cease to be Prioress of the White Ladies of Worcester; but when +she laid herself down before the shrine of Saint Oswald, full length +upon the stretcher, at her lover's feet. + +Hugh stooped, and hid the bandages beside her. He could not bring +himself to touch or to disguise that lovely head. Instead, he covered +her completely with the cloak; saying, in deep tones of infinite +tenderness: + +"Our Lady be with thee. It will not be for long." + + +Then, shrill through the silent crypt, rang the dear call of the +blackbird. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII + +A GREAT RECOVERY AND RESTORATION + +Symon, Bishop of Worcester, attended by his Chaplain, chanced to be +walking through the Precincts on his way from the Priory to the Palace, +just as the men-at-arms bearing the stretcher came through the great +door of the Cathedral. + +Father Benedict, cowled, and robed completely in black, a head and +shoulders taller than the Bishop, walked behind him, a somewhat +sinister figure. + +The Bishop stopped. "Precede me to the Palace, Father Benedict," he +said. "I wish to have speech with yonder Knight who, I think, comes +this way." + +The Chaplain stood still, made deep obeisance, jerked his cowl more +closely over his face, and strode away. + +The Bishop waited, a radiant figure, in the afternoon sunshine. His +silken cassock, his silvery hair, his blue eyes, so vivid and +searching, not only made a spot on which light concentrated, but almost +seemed themselves to give forth light. + +The steady tramp of the men-at-arms drew nearer. + +Hugh d'Argent walked beside the stretcher, head erect, eyes shining, +his hand upon the hilt of his sword. + +When the Bishop saw the face of the Knight, he moved to meet the little +procession as it approached. + +He held up his hand, and the men-at-arms halted. + +"Good-day to you, Sir Hugh," said the Bishop. "Hath your pilgrimage to +the shrine of the blessed Saint Oswald worked the recovery you hoped?" + +"Aye, my lord," replied the Knight, "a great recovery and restoration. +We start for Warwick in an hour's time." + +"Wonderful!" said the Bishop. "Our Lady and the holy Saint be praised! +But you are wise to keep the patient well covered. However complete +the restoration, great care is required at first, and over-exertion +must be avoided." + +"Your blessing for the patient, Reverend Father," said the Knight, +uncovering. + +The Bishop moved nearer. He laid his hand upon the form beneath the +blue and silver cloak. + +"_Benedictio Domini sit vobiscum_," he said. Then added, in a lower +tone: "Be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed. . . . Go in peace." + +The two men who loved the Prioress, looked steadily at one another. + +The men-at-arms moved forward with their burden. + +The Knight smiled as he walked on beside the stretcher. + +The Bishop hastened to the Palace. + +It was the Knight who had smiled, and there was glory in his eyes, and +triumph in the squaring of his broad shoulders, the swing of his +stride, and the proud poise of his head. + +The Bishop was white to the lips. His hands trembled as he walked. + +He feared--he feared sorely--this that they had accomplished. + +It was one thing to theorize, to speculate, to advise, when the +Prioress was safe in her Nunnery. It was quite another, to know that +she was being carried through the streets of Worcester, helpless, upon +a stretcher; that when that blue pall was lifted, she would find +herself in a hostel, alone with her lover, surrounded by men, not a +woman within call. + +The heart of a nun was a thing well known to the Bishop, and he +trembled at thought of this, which he had helped to bring about. + +Also he marvelled greatly that the Prioress should have changed her +mind; and he sought in vain to conjecture the cause of that change. + +Arrived in the courtyard of the Palace, he called for Brother Philip. + +"Saddle me Shulamite," he said. "Also mount Jasper on our fastest nag, +with saddle-bags. We ride to Warwick; and must start within a quarter +of an hour." + +A portion of that time the Bishop spent writing in the library. + +When he was mounted, he stooped from the saddle and spoke to Brother +Philip. + +"Philip," he said, "a very noble lady, betrothed to Sir Hugh d'Argent, +has just arrived at the Star hostel, where for some days he has awaited +her. She rides with the Knight forthwith to Warwick, where they will +join me at the Castle. It is my wish to lend Iconoklastes to the lady. +Therefore I desire thee to saddle the palfrey precisely as he was +saddled when he went to the Convent of the White Ladies for their +pleasuring and play. Lead him, without delay, to the hostel; deliver +him over to the men-at-arms of Sir Hugh d'Argent, and see that they +hand this letter at once to the Knight, that he may give it to his +lady. Lose not a moment, my good Philip. Look to see me return +to-morrow." + +The Bishop gathered up the reins, and started out, at a brisk pace, for +the Warwick road. + +The letter he had intrusted to Brother Philip, sealed with his own +signet, was addressed to Sir Hugh d'Argent. But within was written: + + +_Will the Countess of Norelle be pleased to accept of the palfrey +Iconoklastes as a marriage gift from her old friend Symon Wygorn._ + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII + +MARY ANTONY HOLDS THE FORT + +Mary Antony awaited in the cloisters the return of the White Ladies +from Vespers. + +The old lay-sister was not in the mood for gay chatter to the robin, +nor even for quaint converse with herself. + +She sat upon the stone seat, looking very frail, and wearing a wistful +expression, quite unlike her usual alert demeanour. + +As she sat, she slowly dropped the twenty-five peas from her right +hand, to her left, and back again. + +A wonderful thing had happened on that afternoon, just before the White +Ladies set forth to the Cathedral. + +All were assembling in the cloisters, when word arrived that the +Reverend Mother wished to speak, in her cell, with Sister Mary Antony. + +Hastening thither she found the Reverend Mother standing, very white +and silent, very calm and steadfast, looking out from the oriel window. + +At first she did not turn; and Mary Antony stood waiting, just within +the doorway. + +Then she turned, and said: "Ah, dear Antony!" in tones which thrilled +the heart of the old lay-sister. + +"Come hither, Antony," she said; and even as she said it, moved to meet +her. + +A few simple instructions she gave, concerning matters in the Refectory +and kitchen. Then said: "Now I must go. The nuns wait." + +Then of a sudden she put her arms about the old lay-sister. + +"Good-bye, my Antony," she said. "Thy love and devotion have been very +precious to me. The Presence of the Lord abide with thee in blessing, +while we are gone." + +And, stooping, she kissed her gently on the brow; then passed from the +cell. + +Mary Antony stood as one that dreamed. + +It was so many years since any touch of tenderness had reached her. + +And now--those gracious arms around her; those serene eyes looking upon +her with love in their regard, and a something more, which her old +heart failed to fathom; those lips, whose every word of command she and +the whole Community hastened to obey, leaving a kiss upon her brow! + +Long after the White Ladies had formed into procession and left the +cloisters, Mary Antony stood as one that dreamed. Then, remembering +her duties, she hurried to the cloisters, but found them empty; down +the steps to the crypt passage; the door was locked on the inside; the +key gone. + +The procession had started, and Mary Antony had failed to be at her +post. The White Ladies had departed uncounted. Mary Antony had not +been there to count them. + +Never before had the Reverend Mother sent for her when she should have +been on duty elsewhere. + +Hastening to remedy her failure, Mary Antony drew the bag of peas from +her wallet, opened it, and hurrying from cell to cell, took out a pea +at each, as she verified its emptiness; until five-and-twenty peas lay +in her hand. + +So now she waited, her error repaired; yet ever with her--then, as she +ran, and now, as she waited--she felt the benediction of the Reverend +Mother's kiss, the sense of her encircling arms, the wonder of her +gracious words. + +"The Presence of the Lord abide with thee in blessing." + +Yes, a heavenly calm was in the cloisters. The Devil had stayed away. +Heaven seemed very near. Even that little vain man, the robin, +appeared to be busy elsewhere. Mary Antony was quite alone. + +"While we are gone." But they would not now be long. Mary Antony +could tell by the shadows on the grass, and the slant of the sunshine +through a certain arch, that the hour of return drew near. + +She would kneel beside the topmost step, and see the Reverend Mother +pass; she would look up at that serene face which had melted into +tenderness; would see the firm line of those beautiful lips---- + +Suddenly Mary Antony knew that she would not be able to look. Not just +yet could she bear to see the Reverend Mother's countenance, without +that expression of wonderful tenderness. And even as she realised +this, the key grated in the lock below. + +Taking up her position at the top of the steps, the five-and-twenty +peas in her right hand, Mary Antony quickly made up her mind. She +could not lift her eyes to the Reverend Mother's face. She would count +the passing feet. + +The young lay-sister who carried the light, stumped up the steps, and +set down the lantern with a clatter. She plumped on to her knees +opposite to Mary Antony. + +"Sister Mary Rebecca leads to-day," she chanted in a low voice, "and +all the way hath stepped upon my heels." + +But Mary Antony took no notice of this information, which, at any other +time, would have delighted her. + +Head bowed, eyes on the ground, she awaited the passing feet. + +They came, moving slow and sedate. + +They passed--stepping two by two, out of her range of vision; moving +along the cloister, dying away in the distance. + +All had passed. + +Nay! Not all? Another comes! Surely, another comes? + +Sister Abigail, lifting the lantern, rose up noisily. + +"What wait you for, Sister Antony? The holy Ladies have by now entered +their cells." + +Mary Antony lifted startled eyes. + +The golden bars of sunlight fell across an empty cloister. + +A few white figures in the passage, seen in the distance through the +open door, were vanishing, one by one, into their cells. + +Mary Antony covered her dismay with indignation. + +"Be off, thou impudent hussy! Hold thy noisy tongue and hang thy +rattling lantern on a nail; or, better still, hold thy lantern, and +hang thyself, holding it, upon the nail. If I am piously minded to +pray here until sunset, that is no concern of thine. Be off, I say!" + +Left alone, Mary Antony slowly opened her right hand, and peered into +the palm. + +One pea lay within it. + +She went over to the seat and counted, with trembling fingers, the peas +from her left hand. + +Twenty-four! One holy Lady had therefore not returned. This must be +reported at once to the Reverend Mother. In her excitement, Mary +Antony forgot the emotion which had so recently possessed her. + +Bustling down the steps, she drew the key from the door, paused one +moment to peep into the dank darkness, listening for running footsteps +or a voice that called; then closed the door, locked it, drew forth the +key, and hurried to the Reverend Mother's cell. + +The door stood ajar, just as she had left it. + +She knocked, but entered without waiting to be bidden, crying: "Oh, +Reverend Mother! Twenty-five holy Ladies went to Vespers, and but +twenty-four have"---- + +Then her voice died away into silence. + +The Reverend Mother's cell was empty. + +Stock-still stood Mary Antony, while her world crumbled from beneath +her old feet and her heaven rolled itself up like a scroll, from over +her head, and departed. + +The Reverend Mother's cell was empty. + +It was the Reverend Mother who had not returned. + +"Good-bye, my Antony. The Presence of the Lord abide with thee in +blessing, while we are gone." Ah, gone! Never to return! + +Once again the old lay-sister stood as one that dreamed; but this time +instead of beatific joy, there was a forlorn pathos in the dreaming. + +Presently a door opened, and a step sounded, far away in the passage +beyond the Refectory stairs. + +Instantly a look of cunning and determination replaced the helpless +dismay on the old face. She quickly closed the cell door, hung up the +crypt key in its accustomed place; then kneeling before the shrine of +the Madonna: "Blessed Virgin," she prayed, with clasped hands uplifted; +"be pleased to sharpen once again the wits of old Mary Antony." + +Rising, she found the key of the Reverend Mother's cell, passed out, +closing the door behind her; locked it, and slipped the key into her +wallet. + +The passage was empty. All the nuns were spending in prayer and +meditation the time until the Refectory bell should ring. + +Mary Antony appeared in the kitchen, only a few minutes later than +usual. + +"Prepare _you_ the evening meal," she said to her subordinates. "_I_ +care not what the holy Ladies feed upon this even, nor how badly it be +served. Reverend Mother again elects to spend the night in prayer and +fasting. So Mother Sub-Prioress will spit out a curse upon the viands; +or Sister Mary Rebecca will miaul over them like an old cat that sees a +tom in every shadow, though all toms have long since fled at her +approach. Serve at the usual hour; and let Abigail ring the Refectory +bell. I am otherwise employed. And remember. Reverend Mother is on +no account to be disturbed." + + +The porteress, at the gate, jumped well-nigh out of her skin when, +turning, she found Mary Antony at her elbow. + +"Beshrew me, Sister Antony!" she exclaimed. "Wherefore"---- + +"Whist!" said Mary Antony. "Speak not so loud. Now listen, Mary Mark. +Saw you the great Lord Bishop yesterday, a-walking with Mary Antony? +Ha, ha! Yea, verily! 'Worthy Mother,' his lordship called me. +'Worthy Mother,' with his hand upon his heart. And into the gardens he +walked with Mary Antony. Wherefore, you ask? Wherefore should the +great Lord Bishop walk in the Convent garden with an old lay-sister, +who ceased to be a comely wench more than half a century ago? Because, +Sister Mark, if you needs must know, the Lord Bishop is full of anxious +fears for the Reverend Mother, and knoweth that Mary Antony, old though +she be, is able to tend and watch over her. The Lord Bishop and the +Worthy Mother both fear that the Reverend Mother fasts too often, and +spends too many hours in vigil. The Reverend Father has therefore +deputed the Worthy Mother to watch in this matter, and to let him know +at once if the Reverend Mother imperils her health again, by too +lengthy a fast or vigil. And, lo! this very day, the Reverend Mother +purposes not coming to the evening meal, and intends spending the whole +night in prayer and vigil, before our Lady's shrine. Therefore the +Worthy Mother--I, myself--must start at once to fetch the great Lord +Bishop; and you, Sister Mary Mark, must open the gate and let me be +gone." + +The porteress gazed, round-eyed and amazed. + +"Nay, Sister Mary Antony, that can I not, without an order from the +Reverend Mother herself. And even then, you could not walk so far as +to the Lord Bishop's Palace. I doubt if you would even reach the +Fore-gate." + +"That I should, and shall!" cried Mary Antony. "And, if my old legs +fail me, many a gallant will dismount and offer me his horse. Thus in +fine style shall I ride into Worcester city. Didst thou not see me +bestride the Lord Bishop's white palfrey on Play Day?" + +Sister Mary Mark broke into laughter. + +"Aye," she said, "my sides have but lately ceased aching. I pray you, +Sister Antony, call not that sight again into my mind." + +"Then open the door, Mary Mark, and let me go." + +"Nay, that I dare not do." + +"Then, if I fail to do as bidden by the great Lord Bishop, I shall tell +his lordship that thou, and thine obstinacy, stood in the way of the +fulfilment of my purpose." + +The porteress wavered. + +"Bring me leave from the Reverend Mother, Sister Antony." + +"Nay, that can I not," said Mary Antony, "as any fool might see, when I +go without the Reverend Mother's knowledge to report to the Lord Bishop +by his private command. Even the Reverend Mother herself obeys the +commands of the Lord Bishop." + +Sister Mary Mark hesitated. She certainly had seen the Lord Bishop +pass under the rose-arch, and enter the garden, in close converse with +Sister Mary Antony. Yet her trust at the gate was given to her by the +Reverend Mother. + +"See here, Mary Mark," said Sister Antony. "I must send a message +forthwith to Mother Sub-Prioress. You shall take it, leaving me in +charge of the gate, as often I am left, by order of the Reverend +Mother, when you are bidden elsewhere. If, on your return--and you +need not to hurry--you find me gone, none can blame you. Yet when the +Lord Bishop rides in at sunset, he will give you his blessing and, like +enough, something besides." + +Mary Mark's hesitation vanished. + + +"I will take your message, Sister Antony," she said meekly. + +"Go, by way of the kitchens and the Refectory stairs, to the cell of +Mother Sub-Prioress. Say that the Reverend Mother purposes passing the +night in prayer and vigil, will not come to the evening meal, and +desires Mother Sub-Prioress to take her place. Also that for no cause +whatever is the Reverend Mother to be disturbed." + +Sister Mary Mark, being thus given a legitimate reason for leaving her +post and gaining the Bishop's favour without giving cause for +displeasure to the Prioress, departed, by way of the kitchens, to carry +Mary Antony's message. + +No sooner was she out of sight, than Mary Antony seized the key, +unlocked the great doors, pulled them apart, and left them standing +ajar, the key in the lock; then hastened back across the courtyard, +passed under the rose-arch, and creeping beneath the shelter of the yew +hedge, reached the steps up to the cloisters; slipped unobserved +through the cloister door, and up the empty passage; unlocked the +Reverend Mother's cell, entered it, and softly closed and locked the +door behind her. + +Then--in order to make it impossible to yield to any temptation to open +the door--she withdrew the key, and flung it through the open window, +far out into the shrubbery. + + +Thus did Mary Antony prepare to hold the fort, until the coming of the +Bishop. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV + +MORA DE NORELLE + +Symon, Bishop of Worcester, chid himself for restlessness. Surely for +once his mind had lost control of his limbs. + +No sooner did he decide to walk the smooth lawns around the Castle, +than he found himself mounting to the battlements; and now, though he +had installed himself for greatly needed repose in a deep seat in the +hall chamber, yet here he was, pacing the floor, or moving from one +window to another. + + +By dint of hard riding he had reached Warwick while the sun, though +already dipped beneath the horizon, still flecked the sky with rosy +clouds, and spread a golden mantle over the west. + +The lord of the Castle was away, in attendance on the King; but all was +in readiness for the arrival of the Bishop, and great preparations had +been made for the reception of Sir Hugh d'Argent. His people, having +left Worcester early that morning, were about in the courtyard, as the +Bishop rode in. + +As he passed through the doorway, an elderly woman, buxom, comely, and +of motherly aspect, whom he easily divined to be the tire-woman of whom +the Knight had spoken, came forward to meet him. + +"Good my lord," she said, her eagerness allowing of scant ceremony, +"comes Sir Hugh d'Argent hither this night?" + +"Aye," replied the Bishop, looking with kindly eyes upon Mora's old +nurse. "Within two hours, he should be here." + +"Comes he alone, my lord?" asked Mistress Deborah. + +"Nay," replied the Bishop, "the Countess of Norelle, a very noble lady +to whom the Knight is betrothed, rides hither with him." + +"The saints be praised!" exclaimed the old woman, and turned away to +hide her tears. + +Whilst his body-servant prepared a bath and laid out his robes, the +Bishop mounted to the ramparts and watched the gold fade in the west. +He glanced at the river below, threading its way through the pasture +land; at the billowy masses of trees; at the gay parterre, bright with +summer flowers. Then he looked long in the direction of the city from +which he had come. + +During his strenuous ride, the slow tramp of the men-at-arms, had +sounded continually in his ears; the outline of that helpless figure, +lying at full length upon the stretcher, had been ever before his eyes. + +He could not picture the arrival at the hostel, the removal of the +covering, the uprising of the Prioress to face life anew, enfolded in +the arms of her lover. + +As in a weary dream, in which the mind can make no headway, but returns +again and yet again to the point of distress, so, during the entire +ride, the Bishop had followed that stretcher through the streets of +Worcester city, until it seemed to him as if, before the pall was +lifted, the long-limbed, graceful form beneath it would have stiffened +in death. + +"A corpse for a bride! A corpse for a bride!" the hoofs of the black +mare Shulamite had seemed to beat out upon the road. "Alas, poor +Knight! A corpse for a bride!" + +The Bishop came down from the battlements. + +When he left his chamber an hour later, he had donned those crimson +robes which he wore on the evening when the Knight supped with him at +the Palace. + +As he paced up and down the lawns, the gold cross at his breast gleamed +in the evening light. + +A night-hawk, flying high overhead and looking downward as it flew, +might have supposed that a great scarlet poppy had left its clump in +the flower-beds, and was promenading on the turf. + +A steward came out to ask when it would please the Lord Bishop to sup. + +To the hovering hawk, a blackbird seemed to have hopped out, +confronting and arresting the promenading poppy. + +The Bishop said he would await the arrival of Sir Hugh; but he turned +and followed the man into the Castle. + +And now he sat in the great hall chamber. + +Two hours had passed since his arrival. + +Unless something unforeseen had occurred the Knight's cavalcade must be +here before long. He had planned to start within the hour; and, though +the Bishop had ridden fast, they could scarcely have taken more than an +hour longer to do the distance. + +But supposing the Prioress had faltered at the last, and had besought +to be returned to the Nunnery? Would the chivalry of the Knight have +stood such a test? And, having left in secret, how could she return +openly? Would the way through the crypt be possible? + +The Bishop began to wish that he had ridden to the Star hostel and +awaited developments there, instead of hastening on before. + +The hall chamber was in the centre of the Castle. Its casements looked +out upon the gardens. Thus it came about that he did not hear a +cavalcade ride into the courtyard. He did not hear the shouting of the +men, the ring of hoofs on the paving stones, the champing of horses. + +He sat in a great carved chair beside the fireplace in the hall +chamber, forcing himself to stillness, yet tormented by anxiety; half +minded to order a fresh horse and to ride back to Worcester. + +Suddenly, without any warning, the door, leading from the ante-chamber +at the further end of the hall, opened. + +Framed in the doorway appeared a vision, which for a moment led Symon +of Worcester to question whether he dreamed, so beautiful beyond belief +was the woman in a green riding-dress, looking at him with starry eyes, +her cheeks aglow, a veil of golden hair falling about her shoulders. + + +_Oh, Mora, child of delight! Has the exquisite promise of thy girlhood +indeed fulfilled itself thus? Have the years changed thee so +little---and yet so greatly?_ + +_"The captive exile hasteneth"; exile, long ago, for thy sake; seeking +to be free, yet captive still, caught once and forever in the meshes of +that golden hair._ + +_Oh, Mora, child of delight! Must all this planning for thy full +development and perfecting of joy, involve the poignant anguish of thus +seeing thee again?_ + + +Symon of Worcester rose and stood, a noble figure in crimson and gold, +at the top of the hall. But for the silver moonlight of his hair, he +might have been a man in his prime--so erect was his carriage, so keen +and bright were his eyes. + +The tall woman in the doorway gave a little cry; then moved quickly +forward. + +"You?" she said. "You! The priest who is to wed us? You!" + +He stood his ground, awaiting her approach. + +"Yes, I," he said; "I." + +Half-way across the hall, she paused. + +"No," she said, as if to herself. "I dream. It is not Father +Gervaise. It is the Bishop." + +She drew nearer. + +Earnestly he looked upon her, striving to see in her the Prioress of +Whytstone--the friend of all these happy, peaceful, blessed years. + +But the Prioress had vanished. + +Mora de Norelle stood before him, taller by half a head than he, +flushed by long galloping in the night breeze; nerves strung to +breaking point; eyes bright with the great unrest of a headlong leap +into a new world. Yet the firm sweet lips were there, unchanged; and, +even as he marked them, they quivered and parted. + +"Reverend Father," she said, "I have chosen, even as you prayed I might +do, the harder part." She flung aside the riding-whip she carried; and +folding her hands, held them up before him. "For Christ's sake, my +Lord Bishop, pray for me!" + +He took those folded hands in his, gently parted them, and held them +against the cross upon his heart. + +"You have chosen rightly, my child," he said; "we will pray that grace +and strength may be vouchsafed you, so that you may continue, without +faltering, along the pathway of this fresh vocation." + +She looked at him with searching gaze. The kind and gentle eyes of the +Bishop met hers without wavering; also without any trace of the +fire--the keen brightness--which had startled her as she stood in the +doorway. + +"Reverend Father," she said, and there was a strange note of bewildered +question in her voice: "I pray you, tell me what you bid penitents to +remember as they kneel in prayer before the crucifix?" + +The Bishop looked full into those starry grey eyes bent upon him, and +his own did not falter. His mild voice took on a shade of sternness as +befitted the solemn subject of her question. + +"I tell them, my daughter, to remember, the sacred Wounds that bled and +the Heart that broke for them." + +She drew her hands from beneath his, and stepped back a pace. + +"The Heart that broke?" she said. "That _broke_? Do hearts break?" +she cried. "Nay, rather, they turn to stone." She laughed wildly, +then caught her breath. The Knight had entered the hall. + +With free, glad step, and head uplifted, Hugh d'Argent came to them, +where they stood. + +"My Lord Bishop," he said, "you have been too good to us. I sent Mora +on alone that she might find you here, not telling her who was the +prelate who had so graciously offered to wed us, knowing how much it +would mean to her that it should be you, Reverend Father." + +"Gladly am I here for that purpose, my son," replied the Bishop, +"having as you know, the leave and sanction of His Holiness for so +doing. Shall we proceed at once to the chapel, or do you plan first to +sup?" + +"Nay, Father," said the Knight. "My betrothed has ridden far and needs +food first, and then a good night's rest. If it will not too much +delay your return to Worcester, I would pray you to wed us in the +morning." + +Knowing how determined Hugh had been, in laying his plans, to be wed at +once on reaching Warwick, the Bishop looked up quickly, wishing to +understand what had wrought this change. + +He saw on the Knight's face that look of radiant peace which the +Prioress had seen, when first the cloak was turned back in the crypt; +and the Bishop, having passed that way himself, knew that to Hugh had +come the revelation which comes but to the true, lover--the deepest of +all joys, that of putting himself on one side, and of thinking, first +and only, of the welfare of the beloved. + +And seeing this, the Bishop let go his fears, and in his heart thanked +God. + +"It is well planned, Hugh," he said. "I am here until the morning." + +At which the Knight turning, strode quickly to the door, and beckoned. + +Then back he came, leading by the hand the buxom, motherly old dame, +seen on arrival by the Bishop. Who, when the Lady Mora saw, she gave a +cry, and ran to meet her. + +"Debbie!" she cried, "Oh, Debbie! Let us go home!" + +And with that the tension broke all on a sudden, and with her old +nurse's arms around her, she sobbed on the faithful bosom which had +been the refuge of her childhood's woes. + +"There, my pretty!" said Deborah, as best she could for her own sobs. +"There, there! We are at home, now we are together. Come and see the +chamber in which we shall sleep, just as we slept long years ago, when +you were a babe, my dear." + +So, with her old nurse's arms about her, she, who had come in so +proudly, went gently out in a soft mist of tears. + +The Bishop turned away. + +"Love never faileth," he murmured, half aloud. + +Hugh turned with him, and laughed; but in his laughter there was no +vexation, no bitterness, no unrest. It was the happy laugh of a heart +aglow with a hope amounting to certainty. + +"There were two of us the other night, my dear lord," he said; "but now +old Debbie has appeared, methinks there are three!" + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV + +IN THE ARBOUR OF GOLDEN ROSES + +The next day dawned, clear and radiant; a perfect summer morning. + +Mora awoke soon after five o'clock. + +Notwithstanding the fatigue of the previous day, the strain and stress +of heart, and the late hour at which she had at length fallen asleep, +the mental habit of years overcame the physical need of further slumber. + +Her first conscious thought was for the rope which worked over a pulley +through a hole in the wall of her cell, enabling her from, within to +ring the great bell in the passage, thus rousing the entire community. +It had been her invariable habit to do this herself. She liked the +nuns to feel that the call to begin a new day came to them from the +hand of their Prioress. Realising the difficulty of early rising, +especially after night vigils, it pleased her that her nuns should know +that the fact of the bell resounding through the Convent proved that +the Reverend Mother was already on her feet. + +Yet now, looking toward the door, she could see no rope. And what +meant those sumptuous tapestry hangings? + +She leapt from her couch, and gazed around her. + +Why fell her hair about her, as a golden cloud?--that beautiful hair, +which in some Orders would have been shorn from her head; and, in this, +must ever be closely braided, covered, and never seen. Still +half-bewildered, she flung it back; gazing at the unfamiliar, yet +well-remembered, garments laid ready for her use. + +Sometimes she had had such dreams as this--dreams in which she was back +in the world, wearing its garments, tasting its pleasures, looking +again upon forbidden things. + +Why should she not now be dreaming? + +Then a sound fell upon her ear; a sound, long forgotten, yet so +familiar that as she heard it, she felt herself a child at home +again--the soft, contented snoring of old Debbie, fast asleep. + +Sound is ever more convincing than sight. The blind live in a world of +certainties. Not so, the deaf. + +Mora needed not to turn and view the comely countenance of her old +nurse sleeping upon a couch in a corner. At sound of that soft purring +snore, she knew all she needed to know--knew she was no longer +Prioress, knew she had renounced her vows; knew that even now the +Convent was waking and wondering, as last night it must have marvelled +and surmised, and to-morrow would question and condemn; knew that this +was her wedding morn; that this robe of softest white, with jewelled +girdle, and jewelled circlet to crown her hair, were old Debbie's +choice for her of suitable attire in which to stand beside her +bridegroom at the altar. + +Passing into an alcove, she bathed and clothed herself, even putting on +the jewelled band to clasp the shining softness of her hair. Debbie's +will on these points had never been disputed, and truly it mattered +little to Mora what she wore, since wimple and holy veil were forever +laid aside. + +She passed softly from the chamber, without awakening the old nurse, +made her way down a winding stair, out through a postern door, and so +into the gardens bathed in early morning sunshine. + +Seeking to escape observation from the Castle walls or windows, she +made her way through a rose-garden to where a high yew hedge surrounded +a bowling-green. At the further end of this secluded place stood a +rustic summer-house, now a veritable bower of yellow roses. + +Bending her head, Mora passed through an archway of yew, down three +stone steps, and so on to the lawn. + +Then, out from the arbour stepped the Bishop, in his violet cassock and +biretta, his breviary in his hand. + +If this first sight of Hugh's bride, in bridal array, on her wedding +morning, surprised or stirred him, he gave no sign of unusual emotion. + +As he came to meet her, his lips smiled kindly, and in his eyes was +that half whimsical, half tender look, she knew so well. He might have +been riding into the courtyard of the Nunnery, and she standing on the +steps to receive him, so natural was his greeting, so wholly as usual +did he appear. + +"You are up betimes, my daughter, as I guessed you would be; also you +have come hither, as I hoped you might do. Am I the first to wish you +joy, on this glad day?" + +"The first," she said. "Even my good Deborah slept through my rising. +I woke at the accustomed hour, to ring the Convent bell, and found +myself Prioress no longer, but bride--an earthly bride--expected to +deck herself with jewels for an earthly bridal." + +"'Even the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is in the sight +of God of great price,'" quoted, the Bishop, a retrospective twinkle in +his eye. + +"Alas, my lord, I fear that ornament was never mine." + +"Yet you must wear it now, my daughter. I have heard it is an ornament +greatly admired by husbands." + +Standing in the sunlight, all unconscious of her wondrous beauty, she +opened startled eyes on him; then dropped to her knees upon the turf. +"Your blessing, Reverend Father," she said, and there was a wild sob in +her voice. "Oh, I entreat your blessing, on this my bridal day!" + +The Bishop laid his hands upon the bright coronet of her hair, and +blessed her with the threefold Aaronic blessing; then raised her, and +bade her walk with him across the turf. + +Into the arbour he led her, beneath a cascade of fragrant yellow roses. +There, upon a rustic table was spread a dainty repast--new milk, fruit +freshly gathered, white rolls, and most golden pats of butter, the dew +of the dairy yet upon them. + +"Come, my daughter," said Symon of Worcester, gaily. "We of the +Church, who know the value of these early hours, let us break our fast +together." + +"Is it magic, my lord?" she asked, suddenly conscious of unmistakable +hunger. + +"Nay," said the Bishop, "but I was out a full hour ago. And the dairy +wench was up before me. So between us we contrived this simple repast." + +So, while the bridegroom and old Deborah still slumbered and slept, the +bride and the Bishop broke their fast together in a bower of roses; and +his eyes were the eyes of a merry schoolboy out on a holiday; and the +colour came back to her cheeks and she smiled and grew light-hearted, +as always in their long friendship, when he came to her in this gay +mood. + +Yet, presently, when she had eaten well, and seemed strengthened and +refreshed, the Bishop leaned back in his seat, saying with sudden +gravity: + +"And now, my daughter, will you tell me how it has come to pass that +you have been led to feel it right to take this irrevocable step, +renouncing your vows, and keeping your troth to Hugh? When last we +spoke together you declared that naught would suffice but a clear sign, +vouchsafed you from our Lady herself, making it plain that your highest +duty was to Hugh, and that Heaven absolved you from your vows. Was +such a sign vouchsafed?" + +"Indeed it was, my lord, in wondrous fashion, our Lady choosing as the +mouthpiece of her will, by means of a most explicit and unmistakable +revelation, one so humble and so simple, that I could but exclaim: +'Thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hast +revealed them unto babes.'" + +"And who," asked the Bishop, his eyes upon a peach which he was peeling +with extreme care; "who, my daughter, was the babe?" + +"The old lay-sister, Mary Antony." + +"Ah," murmured the Bishop, "an ancient babe. Yet truly, a most worthy +babe. Almost, I should be inclined to say, a wise and prudent babe." + +"Nay, my Lord Bishop," cried Mora, with a sharp decision of tone which +made it please him to imagine that, should he look up from the peach, +he would see the severe lines of the wimple and scapulary: "you and I +were the wise and prudent, arguing for and against, according to our +own theories and reason. But to this babe, our Lady vouchsafed a clear +vision." + +"Tell me of it," said the Bishop, splitting his peach and removing the +stone which he carefully washed, and slipped into his sash. The Bishop +always kept peach stones, and planted them. + +She told him. She began at the beginning, and told him all, to the +minutest detail; the full description of Hugh--the amazingly correct +repetition, in the vision, of the way in which she and Hugh had +actually kneeled together before the shrine of the blessed Virgin, of +their very words and actions; and, finally, the sublime and gracious +tenderness of our Lady's pronouncement, clearly heard at the close of +the vision, by the old lay-sister: "Take her; she hath been ever thine. +I have but kept her for thee." + +"What say you to that, Reverend Father?" exclaimed Mora, concluding. + +"I scarce know what to say," replied the Bishop. "For lack of anything +better, I fall back upon my favourite motto, and I say: 'Love never +faileth.'" + +Now, generally, she delighted in the exceeding aptness of the Bishop's +quotations; but this time it seemed to Mora that his favourite motto +bore no sort of relevance. + +She felt, with a chill of disappointment and a sense of vexation, that +the Bishop's mind had been so intent upon the fruit, that he had not +fully taken in the wonder of the vision. + +"It has naught to do with love, my lord," she said, rather coldly; +"unless you mean the divine lovingkindness of our blessed Lady." + +"Precisely," replied the Bishop, leaning back in his seat, and at +length looking straight into Mora's earnest eyes. "The divine +lovingkindness of our blessed Lady never faileth." + +"You agree, my lord, that the vision shed a clear light upon all my +perplexities?" + +"Absolutely clear," replied the Bishop. "The love which arranged the +vision saw to that. Revelations, my daughter, are useless unless they +are explicit. Had our Lady merely waved her marble hand, instead of +stooping to take yours and place it in that of the Knight, you might +have thought she was waving him away, and bidding you to remain. If +her marble hand moved at all, it is well that it moved in so definite +and practical a manner." + +"It seems to me, Reverend Father," said Mora, leaning upon the table, +her face framed in her hands, and looking with knitted brows at the +Bishop; "it almost seems to me that you regard the entire vision with a +measure of secret incredulity." + +"Nay, my daughter, there you mistake. On the contrary I am fully +convinced, by that which you tell me, that the ancient babe, Mary +Antony, was undoubtedly permitted to see you and your knightly lover +kneeling hand in hand before our Lady's shrine; also I praise our +blessed Lady that by vouchsafing this sight to Mary Antony, and by +allowing her to hear words which you yourself know to have been in very +deed actually spoken, your mind has been led to accept as the divine +will for you, this return to the world and union with your lover, which +will, I feel sure, be not only for your happiness and his, but also a +fruitful source of good to many. Yet, I admit----" + +The Bishop paused, and considered; as if anxious to say just so much, +and neither more nor less. Continuing, he spoke slowly, weighing each +word. "Yet, I frankly admit, I would sooner for mine own guidance +listen for the Voice of God within, or learn His will from the written +Word, than ask for miraculous signs, or act upon the visions of others. + +"No doubt you read, in the Chronicle I lately lent you, how 'in the +year of our Lord eleven hundred and thirty-seven--that time of many +sorrows, of burning, pillaging, rapine and torture, when the city of +York was burned together with the principal monastery; the city of +Rochester was consumed; also the Church of Bath, and the city of +Leicester; when owing to the absence of King Stephen abroad and the +mildness of his rule when at home, the barons greatly oppressed and +ill-used the Church and the people--while many were standing at the +Celebration of Mass at Windsor, they beheld the Crucifix, which was +over the altar, moving and wringing its hands, now the right hand with +the left, now the left with the right, after the manner of those who +are in distress.' + +"This wondrous sight convinced those who saw it that the crucified +Redeemer sympathised with the grievous sorrows of the land. + +"But no carven crucifix, wringing its hands before a gazing crowd, +could so deeply convince me of the sympathy of the Redeemer as to sit +alone in mine own chamber and read from the book of Isaiah the Prophet: +'Surely He hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows.'" + +Mora's brow cleared. + +"I think I understand, my lord; and that you should so feel, helps me +to confess to you a thing which I have scarce dared admit to myself. I +found it difficult in mine own soul to attach due weight to our blessed +Lady's words as heard by Mary Antony. Mine own test--the robin's +flight, straight from the hand of the Madonna to the world +without--spoke with more sense of truth to my heart. I blame myself +for this; but so it is. Yet it was the vision which decided me as to +my clear path of duty." + +"Doubtless," remarked the Bishop, "the medium of Mary Antony took from +the solemnity of the pronouncement. There would be a twist of +quaintness in even the holiest vision, as described by the old +lay-sister." + +"Nay, my lord," said Mora. "Truth to tell, it was not so. Once fairly +started on the telling, she seemed lifted into a strange sublimity of +utterance. I marvelled at it, and at the unearthly radiance of her +face. At the end, I thought she slept; but later I heard from the +Sub-Prioress that she was found swooning before the crucifix and they +had much ado to bring her round. + +"My lord, my heart fails me when I think to-day of my empty cell, and +of the sore perplexity of my nuns. How soon will it be possible that +you see them and put the matter right, by giving the Holy Father's +message?" + +"So soon as you are wed, my daughter, I ride back to Worcester. I +shall endeavour to reach the Convent before the hour when they leave +for Vespers." + +"May I beg, my lord, that you speak a word of especial kindness to old +Antony, whose heart will be sore at my departure? I had thought to bid +her be silent concerning the vision; but as she declares the shining +Knight was Saint George or Saint Michael, the nuns, in their devout +simplicity, will doubtless hold the vision to have been merely symbolic +of my removal to 'higher service.'" + +"I will seek old Antony," said the Bishop, "and speak with her alone." + +"Father," said Mora, with deep emotion, "during all these years, you +have been most good to me; kind beyond words; patient always. I fear I +ofttimes tried you by being too firmly set on my own will and way. +But, I pray you to believe, I ever valued your counsel and could scarce +have lived without your friendship. Last night, on first entering the +Castle, I fear I spoke wildly and acted strangely. I was sore +overwrought. I came in, out of the night, not knowing whom I should +find in the hall chamber; and--for a moment, my lord, for one wild, +foolish moment--I took you not for yourself but for another." + +"For whom did you take me, my daughter?" asked the Bishop. + +"For one of whom you have oft reminded me, my lord, if I may say so +without offence, seeing I speak of a priest who was the ideal of my +girlhood's dreams. Knew you, many years ago, one Father Gervaise, held +in high regard at the Court, confessor to the Queen and her ladies?" + +The Bishop smiled, and his blue eyes looked into Mora's with an +expression of quiet interest. + +"Father Gervaise?" he said. "Preacher at the Court? Indeed, I knew +him, my daughter; and more than knew him. Father Gervaise and I had +the same grandparents." + +"Ah," cried Mora, eagerly, "then that accounts for a resemblance which +from the first has haunted me, making of our friendship, at once, so +sweetly intimate a thing. The voice and the eyes alone were like--but, +ah, so like! Father Gervaise wore a beard, which hid his mouth and +chin; but his blue eyes had in them that kindly yet searching look, +though not merry as yours oft are, my lord; and your voice has ever +made me think of his. + +"And once--just once--his eyes looked at me, across the Castle hall at +Windsor, with a deep glow of fire in them; a look which made me feel +called to an altar whereon, if I could but stand the test of fire, I +should be forever purified, uplifted, blest as was never earthly maid +before, save only our blessed Lady. All that night I dreamed of it, +and my whole soul was filled with it, yet never again did I see Father +Gervaise. The next morning he left the Court, and soon after sailed +for Spain; and on the passage thither the ship foundered in a great +storm, and he, with all on board, perished. Heard you of that, my +lord?" + +"I heard it," said the Bishop. + +"All believed it, and mourned him; for by all he was beloved. But +never could I feel that he was dead. Always for me it seemed that he +still lived. And last night--when I entered--across the great hall +chamber, it seemed as if, once more, the eyes of Father Gervaise looked +upon me, with that glowing fire in them, which called me to an altar." + +The Bishop smiled again, and there was in his look a gentle merriment. + +"You were over-strained, my daughter. When you drew near, you +found--instead of a ghostly priest with eyes of fire, drowned many +years ago, off the coast of Spain--your old friend, Symon of Worcester, +who had stolen a march on you, by reason of the swift paces of his good +mare, Shulamite." + +Mora leaned forward, and laid her hand on his. + +"Mock not, my friend," she said. "There was a time when Father +Gervaise stood to me for all my heart held dearest. Yet I loved him, +not as a girl loves a man, but rather as a nun loves her Lord. He +stood to me for all that was noblest and best; and, above all, for all +that was vital and alive in life and in religion; strong to act; able +to endure. He confessed me once, and told me, when I kneeled before +the crucifix, to say of Him Who hangs thereon: 'He ever liveth to make +intercession for us.' Never have I forgotten it. And--sometimes--when +I say the sacred words, and, saying them, my mind turns to Father +Gervaise, an echo seems to whisper to my spirit: '_He, also, liveth_.'" + +Symon of Worcester rose. + +"My daughter," he said, "the sun is high in the heavens. We must not +linger here. Hugh will be seeking his bride, and Mistress Deborah be +waxing anxious over the escape of her charge. The morning meal will be +ready in the banqueting hall; after which we must to the chapel, for +the marriage. Then, without delay, I ride to Worcester to make all +right at the Nunnery. Let us go." + +As Mora walked beside him across the sunny lawn, "Father," she said, +"think you the heart of a nun can ever become again as the heart of +other women?" + +CHAPTER XXXVI + +STRONG TO ACT; ABLE TO ENDURE + +Back to Worcester rode the Bishop. + +Gallop! Gallop! along the grassy rides, beside the hard highway. + +Hasten good Shulamite, black and comely still, though flecked with foam. + +Important work lies ahead. Every moment is precious. + +If Mother Sub-Prioress should send to the Palace, mischief will be +done, which it will not be easy to repair. + +If news of the flight of the Prioress reaches the city of Worcester, a +hundred tongues, spiteful, ignorant, curious, or merely idle, will at +once start wagging. + +Gallop, gallop, Shulamite! + +How impossible to overtake a rumour, if it have an hour's start of you. +As well attempt to catch up the water which first rushed through the +sluice-gates, opened an hour before you reached the dam. + +How impossible to remake a reputation once broken. Before the +priceless Venetian goblet fell from the table on to the flagged floor, +one hand put forth in time might have hindered its fall. But--failing +that timely hand--when, a second later, it lies in a hundred pieces, +the hands of the whole world are powerless to make it again as it was +before it fell. + +Faster, faster, Shulamite! + +When the messenger of Mother Sub-Prioress reports the absence of the +Bishop, he will most certainly be sent in haste to Father Benedict, who +will experience a sinister joy at the prospect of following his long +nose into the Prioress's empty cell, who will scent out scandal where +there is but a fragrance of lilies, and tear to pieces Mora's +reputation, with as little compunction as a wolf tears a lamb. + +Gallop, gallop, Shulamite! If no hand be put forth to save it, between +Mother Sub-Prioress and Father Benedict, this crystal bowl will be +broken into a hundred pieces. + + +At length the Bishop drew rein, and walked his mare a mile. He had +left Warwick ten miles behind him. He would soon be half-way to +Worcester. + +He had left Warwick behind him! + +It seemed to the Bishop that, ever since he had first known Mora de +Norelle, he had always been riding away and leaving behind. + +For her sake he rode away, leaving behind the Court, his various +offices, his growing influence and popularity. + +For her sake he left his identity as Father Gervaise at the bottom of +the ocean, taking up his life again, in Italy, under his other name. + +For her sake, when he heard that she had entered the Convent of the +White Ladies, he obtained the appointment to the see of Worcester, +leaving the sunny land he loved, and the prospect of far higher +preferment there. + +And now for her sake he rode away from Warwick as fast as steed could +carry him, leaving her the bride of another, in whose hand he had +himself placed hers, pronouncing the Church's blessing upon their union. + +Riding away--leaving behind; leaving behind--riding away. This was +what his love had ever brought him. + +Yet he felt rich to-day, finding himself in possession of the certain +knowledge that he had been right in judging necessary, that first +departure into exile long years ago. + +For had not Mora told him--little dreaming to whom she spoke--that +there was a time when he had stood to her for all her heart held +dearest; yet that she had loved him, not as a girl loves a man, but +rather as a nun loves her Lord. + +But surely a man would need to be divine to be so loved, and to hold +such love aright. And, even then, when that other man arrived who +would fain woo her to love him as a girl loves a man, would her heart +be free to respond to the call of nature? Nay. To all intents and +purposes, her heart would be a cloistered thing; yet would she be +neither bride of Christ nor bride of man. The fire in his eyes would +indeed have called her to an altar, and the sacrifice laid thereon +would be the full completion of her womanhood. + +"I did well to pass into exile," said the Bishop, reviewing the past, +as he rode. Yet deep in his heart was the comfort of those words she +had said: that once he had stood to her for all her heart held dearest. +Mora, the girl, had felt thus; Mora, the woman, remembered it; and the +Bishop, as he thought of both, offered up a thanksgiving that neither +he nor Father Gervaise had done aught which was unworthy of the ideal +of her girlhood's dream. + +Gathering up the reins, he urged Shulamite to a rapid trot. There must +be no lingering by the way. + + +Hasten, Shulamite! Even now the sluice-gates may be opening. Even now +the crystal bowl may be slipping from its pedestal, presently to lie in +a hundred fragments on the ground. + +Nay, trotting will scarce do. Gallop, gallop, brave black mare! + +The city walls are just in sight. + +Well done! + + * * * * * * + +Not far from the Convent gate, the Bishop chanced, by great good +fortune, upon Brother Philip, trying in the meadows the paces of a +young horse, but lately purchased. + +The Bishop bade the lay-brother ride with him to the Nunnery and, so +soon as he should have dismounted, lead Shulamite to the Palace +stables, carefully feed and tend her; then bring him out a fresh mount. + +As they rode forward: "Hath any message arrived at the Palace from the +Convent, Philip?" inquired the Bishop. + +"None, my lord." + +"Or at the Priory?" + +"Nay, my lord. But I did hear, at the Priory, a strange rumour"---- + +"Rumours are rarely worth regarding or repeating, Brother Philip." + +"True, my lord. Yet having so lately aided her to ride upon Icon"---- + +"'Her'? With whom then is rumour making free? And what saith this +Priory rumour concerning 'her'?" + +"They say the old lay-sister, Mary Antony, hath fled the Convent." + +"Mary Antony!" exclaimed the Bishop, and his voice held the most +extraordinary combination of amazement, relief, and incredulity. "But, +in heaven's name, good brother, wherefore should the old lay-sister +leave the Convent?" + +"They say she was making her way into the city in search of you, my +lord; but she hath not reached the Palace." + +"Any other rumour, Philip?" + +"Nay, my lord, none; save that the Prioress is distraught with anxiety +concerning the aged nun, and has commanded that the underground way to +the Cathedral crypt be searched; though, indeed, the porteress +confesses to having let Sister Mary Antony out at the gate." + +"Rumour again," said the Bishop, "and not a word of truth in it, I +warrant. Deny it, right and left, my good Philip; and say, on my +authority, that the Reverend Mother hath most certainly not caused the +crypt way to be searched. I would I could lay hands on the originator +of these foolish tales." + +The Bishop spoke with apparent vexation, but his heart had bounded in +the upspring of a great relief. Was he after all in time to save with +outstretched hand that most priceless crystal bowl? + +The Bishop dismounted outside the Convent gate. He took Shulamite's +nose into his hand, and spoke gently in her ear. + +Then: "Lead her home, Philip," he said, "and surround her with +tenderest care. Her brave heart hath done wonders this day. It is for +us to see that her body doth not pay the penalty. Here! Take her +rein, and go." + + +Mary Mark looked out through the wicket, in response to a knocking on +the door. She gasped when she saw the Lord Bishop, on foot, without +the gate. + +Quickly she opened, wide, and wider; hiding her buxom form behind the +door. + +But the Bishop had no thought for Mary Mark, nor inclination to play +hide-and-seek with a conscience-stricken porteress. + +Avoiding the front entrance, he crossed the courtyard to the right, +passed beneath the rose-arch, along the yew walk, and over the lawn, to +the seat under the beech, where two days before he had awaited the +coming of the Prioress. + +Here he paused for a moment, looking toward the silent cloisters, and +picturing her tall figure, her flowing veil and stately tread, +advancing toward him over the sunny lawn. + +Yet no. Even in these surroundings he could not see her now as +Prioress. Even across the Convent lawn there moved to meet him the +lovely woman with jewelled girdle, white robe, and coronet of golden +hair--the bride of Hugh. + +Perhaps this was the hardest moment to Symon of Worcester, in the whole +of that hard day. + +It was the one time when he thought of himself. + +"I have lost her!" he said. "Holy Jesu--Thou Whose heart did break +after three hours of darkness and of God-forsaken loneliness--have +pity! The light of my life is gone from me, yet must I live." + +Overwhelmed by this sudden realisation of loss, worn out in mind and +exhausted in body, the Bishop sank upon the seat. + +Mora was safe with Hugh. That much had been accomplished. + +For the rest, things must take their own course. He could do no +more--go no further. + +Then he heard again her voice in the arbour of golden roses, saying, in +those low sweet tones which thrilled his very soul: "He stood to me for +all that was vital and alive, in life and in religion; strong to act; +able to endure." + +During five minutes the Bishop sat, eyes closed, hands firmly clasped. + +So still he sat, that the little Knight of the Bloody Vest, watching, +with bright eyes, from the tree overhead, almost made up his mind to +drop to the other end of the seat. He was missing Sister Mary Antony, +who had not appeared at all that morning. This meant neither crumbs +nor cheese, and the "little vain man" was hungry. + +But at the end of five minutes the Bishop rose, calm and purposeful; +moved firmly up the lawn, mounted the steps, and passed into the +cloisters. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII + +WHAT MOTHER SUB-PRIORESS KNEW + +Mother Sub-Prioress had applied her eye, for the fiftieth time, to the +keyhole; but naught could she see in the Prioress's cell, save a +portion of the great wooden cross against the opposite wall. + +Sister Mary Rebecca, mounted upon a stool, attempted to spy through the +hole over the rope and pulley by means of which the Reverend Mother +rang the Convent bell. But all Sister Mary Rebecca saw, after bumping +her head upon a beam, and her nose on the wall, owing to the +impossibility of getting it out of the way of her eye, was a portion of +the top of the Reverend Mother's window. + +She cried out, as a great discovery, that the curtains were drawn back; +upon which, Mother Sub-Prioress, exclaiming, tartly, that that had been +long ago observed from the garden below, pushed the stool in her anger, +and sent Sister Mary Rebecca flying. + +Jumping to save herself, she alighted heavily on the feet of Sister +Teresa, striking Mary Seraphine full in the face with her elbow, and +scattering, to right and left, the crowd around the door. + +This cleared a view for Mother Sub-Prioress straight down the passage +and through the big open door, to the cloisters; when, looking up--to +scold Mary Rebecca for taking such a leap, to bid Sister Teresa cease +writhing, and Mary Seraphine to shriek in her cell with the door shut, +if shriek she must--Mother Sub-Prioress saw the Bishop, alone and +unattended, walking toward them from the cloisters. + +"_Benedicite_," said the Bishop, as he approached. "I am fortunate in +chancing to find the whole community assembled." + +The Bishop's uplifted fingers brought the nuns to their knees; but they +rose at once to their feet again and crowded behind Mother Sub-Prioress +as, taking a step forward, she hastened to explain the situation. + +"My Lord Bishop, you find us in much distress. The Reverend Mother is +locked into her cell, and we fear that, after a long night of vigil and +fasting, she hath swooned. We cannot get an answer by much knocking, +and we have no means of forcing the door, which is of most massive +strength and thickness." + +The Bishop looked searchingly into the ferrety face of Mother +Sub-Prioress, but he saw naught there save genuine distress and +perplexity. + +He looked at the massive door, and at the excited crowd of nuns. He +even gave himself time to note that the nose and lip of Seraphine were +beginning to swell, and to experience a whimsical wish that the Knight +could see her. + +Then his calm, observant eye turned again to Mother Sub-Prioress. + +"And why do you make so sure, Mother Sub-Prioress, that the Reverend +Mother is indeed within her cell?" + +"Because we _know_ her to be," replied Mother Sub-Prioress, as tartly +as she dared, when addressing the Lord Bishop. "Permit me, Reverend +Father, to recount to you the happenings of the last twenty hours. + +"Soon after her return from Vespers, yestereven, the Reverend Mother +sent word by Mary Antony that she purposed again spending the night in +prayer and vigil, and would not be present at the evening meal; also +that she must not, on any account whatever, be disturbed. Mary Antony +took this message to the kitchens, bidding the younger lay-sisters to +prepare the meal without her, saying she cared not how badly it was +served, seeing the Reverend Mother would not be there to partake of it." + +Mother Sub-Prioress paused to sniff, and to give the other nuns an +opportunity for ejaculations concerning Sister Antony. But their awe +of the Lord Bishop, and their genuine anxiety for the old lay-sister, +kept them silent. + +The Bishop stroked his chin, keeping the corners of his mouth firmly in +place by means of his thumb and finger. Old Antony was delectably +funny when she said these things herself; but she was delectably +funnier, when her remarks were repeated by Mother Sub-Prioress. + +"The old _creature_," continued Mother Sub-Prioress, eyeing the +Bishop's meditative hand suspiciously, "then betook herself to the +outer gates, told the porteress that she had your orders, Reverend +Father, to report to you if the Reverend Mother again elected to pass a +night in vigil and in fasting, because you and she--you and _she_ +forsooth!--were made anxious by the too constant fasting and the too +prolonged vigils of the Reverend Mother. Mary Mark very properly +refused to allow the old"---- + +"Lay-sister," interposed the Bishop, sternly. + +Mother Sub-Prioress gasped; then made obeisance:--"the old lay-sister +to leave the Convent. Whereupon Sister Antony sent Mary Mark to +deliver the Reverend Mother's message to me, bribing her, with the +promise of a gift from you, my lord, to leave her the key. When the +porteress returned, Mary Antony was gone, having left the great doors +ajar, and the key within the lock. She has not been seen since. Did +she reach the Palace, and speak with you, my lord? Is she now in +safety at the Palace?" + +"Nay," said the Bishop gravely. "Sister Mary Antony hath not been seen +at the Palace." + +"Alack-a-day!" exclaimed Sister Abigail; "she will have fallen by the +way, and perished! She was too old to face the world or attempt to +reach the city." + +"Peace, girl!" commanded the Sub-Prioress. "Thy comments and thy +wailings mend not the matter, and do but incense the Lord Bishop." + +Nothing could have appeared less incensed than the Bishop's benign +countenance. But he had spoken sternly to Mother Sub-Prioress, +therefore she endeavoured to put herself in the right by charging him, +at the first opportunity, with unreasonable irritation. + +The Bishop reassured Sister Abigail, with a smile; then, pointing +toward the closed door: "Proceed with your recital, Mother +Sub-Prioress," he said. "You have as yet given me no proof confirming +your belief that the Prioress is within the cell." + +"When the absence of Mary Antony became known, my lord," continued +Mother Sub-Prioress, "we felt it right to acquaint the Reverend Mother +with the old lay-sister's flight. I, myself, knocked upon this door; +but the only reply I received was the continuous low chanting of +prayers, from within; not so much a clear chanting, as a murmur; and +whenever, during the night, nuns listened at the door, or ventured +again to tap, the sound of the Reverend Mother's voice, reciting psalms +or prayers, reached them. As you may remember, my lord, the ground +upon the other side of the building is on a lower level than the +cloister lawn. The windows of the Reverend Mother's cell are therefore +raised above the shrubbery and it is not possible to see into the +chamber. But Sister Mary Rebecca, who went round after dark, noted +that the Reverend Mother had lighted her tapers and drawn her curtains. +This morning the light is extinguished, the curtains are drawn back, +and the casement flung open. Moreover at the usual hour for rising, +the Reverend Mother rang the bell, as is her custom, to waken the +nuns--rang it from within her cell, by means of this rope and pulley." + +"Ah," said the Bishop. + +"Sister Abigail, up already, thereupon ran to the Reverend Mother's +cell; and, the bell still swinging, tapped and asked if she might bring +in milk and bread. Once more the only answer was the low chanting of +prayers. Also, Sister Abigail declares, the voice was so weak and +faltering, she scarce knew it for the Reverend Mother's. And since +then, my lord, there has been silence within the cell, and a sore sense +of fear within our hearts; for it is unlike the Reverend Mother to keep +her door locked, when the entire community calls and knocks without." + +The Bishop lifted his hand. + +"In that speak you truly, Mother Sub-Prioress," said he. "Also I must +tell you without further delay, that the Prioress is not within her +cell." + +"_Not_ within her cell!" exclaimed Mother Sub-Prioress. + +"Not within her cell!" shrieked a score of terrified voices, like +seagulls calling to each other, before a gathering storm. + +"The Prioress left the Convent yesterday afternoon," said the Bishop, +"with my knowledge and approval; travelling at once, with a sufficient +escort, to a place some distance from Worcester, where I also spent the +night. I have come to bring you a message from His Holiness the Pope, +sent to me direct from Rome. . . . The Holy Father bids me say that +your Prioress has been moved on by me, with his full knowledge and +approval, to a place where she is required for higher service. Perhaps +I may also tell you," added the Bishop, looking with kindly sympathy +upon all the blankly disconcerted faces, "that this morning I myself +performed a solemn rite, for which I held the Pope's especial mandate, +setting apart your late Prioress for this higher service. She grieved +that it was not possible to bid you farewell. She sends you loving +greetings, her thanks for loyalty and obedience, and prays that the +blessing of the Lord may ever be with you." + +The Bishop ceased speaking. + +At first there was an amazed silence. + +Then the unexpected happened. Mother Sub-Prioress, without any +warning, broke into passionate weeping. + +Never before had Mother Sub-Prioress been known to weep. The sight +petrified the Convent. Yet somehow all knew that she wept because, in +the hard old nut which did duty for her heart, there was a kernel of +deep love for their noble Prioress. + +The other nuns wept, because Mother Sub-Prioress wept. + +The sobbing became embarrassing in its completeness. Wheresoever the +Bishop looked he was confronted by a weeping nun. + +Suddenly Mother Sub-Prioress dried her eyes, holding herself once more +in control. It had just occurred to her that the Bishop's word could +not be taken against the evidence of all their senses! On that very +morning, at five o'clock the Convent call to rise had been rung from +_within_ the Prioress's cell! + +So Mother Sub-Prioress dried her eyes, punished her nose for sharing in +the general breakdown, and looking with belligerent eye at the Bishop, +said: "_If_ the Reverend Mother _be_ not within her cell, _perhaps_ it +will please you, my lord, to _inform_ the Convent who is within it!" + +"That point," said the Bishop, "can speedily be settled." + +He took from his girdle the Prioress's master-key, handed over to him +before he left Warwick. + +Fitting it into the lock, he opened the door of the cell, and entered, +followed by the Sub-Prioress and a crowd of palpitating, eager nuns. + +A few paces from the door the Bishop paused, signing to Mother +Sub-Prioress to come forward, but restraining, with uplifted hand, +those who pressed in behind her. + +The chamber was very still. + +The chair of the Prioress was empty. + +But, before the shrine of the Madonna, there lay, stretched upon the +floor, the unconscious form of the old lay-sister, Mary Antony. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII + +THE BISHOP KEEPS VIGIL + +Old Mary Antony lay dying. + +The Bishop had not allowed her to be carried from the cell of the +Prioress, to her own. + +He had commanded that the Reverend Mother's couch be moved from the +inner room and placed before the shrine of the Virgin. On this lay +Mary Antony, while the Bishop himself kept watch beside her. + +The evening light came in through the open casement, illumining the +calm old face, from which the soothing hand of death was already +smoothing the wrinkles. + +Five hours had passed since they found her. + +It had taken long to restore her to consciousness; and so soon as she +awoke to her surroundings, and recognised Mother Sub-Prioress, and the +many faces around her, she relapsed into silence, refusing to answer +any questions, yet keeping her eyes anxiously fixed upon the door. + +Seeing which, Sister Teresa slipped from the room and ran secretly to +tell the Lord Bishop, who had paid but a brief visit to the Palace and +was now pacing the lawn below the cloisters. + +The Bishop came at once; when, seeing him enter, Mary Antony gave a +cry, striving to raise herself from the pillows. + +Moving to the bedside, the Bishop laid his hand upon the shaking hands, +which had been clasped at sight of him. + +An eager question was in the eyes lifted to his. + +The Bishop bent over the couch. + +"Yes," he said, and smiled. + +The anxious look faded. The eyes closed. A triumphant smile illumined +the dying face. + +Turning, the Bishop asked a few whispered questions of the Sub-Prioress. + +Mary Antony had taken a sip of wine, but seemed to find it impossible +to partake of food. She had been so long without, that now nature +refused it. + +"Undoubtedly she is dying," said Mother Sub-Prioress, not unkindly, but +in the matter-of-fact tone of one to whom the hard outline of a fact is +unsoftened by the atmosphere of imagination or of sympathy. + +"I know it," said the Bishop, in low tones. "Therefore am I come to +confess our sister and to administer the final rites and consolations +of the Church. I have with me all that is needed. You may now +withdraw, and leave me to watch alone beside Sister Mary Antony." + +"We sent for Father Peter," began Mother Sub-Prioress, "but she paid no +heed to any of his questions, neither would she"---- + +The Bishop took one step toward Mother Sub-Prioress, with uplifted +hand, pointing to the door. + +Mother Sub-Prioress hastened out. + +The Bishop followed her into the passage, where a waiting crowd of nuns +created that atmosphere of excited tension, which seizes certain minds +at the near approach of death. + +"I bid you all to go to your cells," said the Bishop, "there to spend +the next hour in earnest prayer for the passing soul of this aged nun +who, during so long a time, has lived and worked in this Convent. Let +every door be closed. I keep the final vigil alone. When I need help +I shall ring the Convent bell." + +Immovable in the passage stood the Bishop, until every figure had +vanished; every door had closed. + +Then he re-entered the Prioress's cell, and shut the door. + +He placed the holy oil on the step, before the shrine of the Madonna, +just where old Antony had knelt when she had prayed our blessed Lady to +be pleased to sharpen her old wits. + +Then he drew forth a tiny flask of rare Italian workmanship, let fall a +few drops from it into a spoonful of wine, and firmly poured the liquid +between the old lay-sister's parted lips. + +One anxious moment; then he heard her swallow. + +At that, the Bishop drew the Prioress's chair to the side of the couch, +and sat down to await events. + +In a few moments the stertorous breathing ceased, the open mouth +closed. Mary Antony sighed thrice, as a little child that has wept +before sleeping sighs in its sleep. + +Then she opened her eyes, and fixed them on the Bishop. + +"Reverend Father"--she began, then chuckled, gleefully. Her voice had +come back, and with it a great activity of brain, though the hands upon +the coverlet seemed to belong to someone else, and she hoped they would +not rise up and strike her. Her feet, she could not feel at all; but, +seeing that she was most comfortably lying there where she best loved +to be, why should she require feet? Feet are such tired things. One +rests better without them. + +"Speak low," said the Bishop, bending forward. "Speak low, dear Sister +Antony; partly to spare thy strength; and partly because, though I have +sent all the White Ladies to their cells, our good Mother Sub-Prioress, +in her natural anxiety for thy welfare, may be outside the door, even +now." + +Mary Antony chuckled. + +"If we could but thrust a nail through into her ear," she whispered. +Then suddenly serious, she put the question which already her eyes had +asked: "Did I succeed in keeping from them the flight of the Reverend +Mother, until you arrived, Reverend Father?" + +"Yes, faithful heart, wise beyond all expectation, you did." + +Again Mary Antony chuckled. + +"I locked them out," she said, with a knowing wink, "but I also took +them in. Yea, verily, I took them in! Scores of times they called me +'Reverend Mother.' 'Open the door, I humbly pray you, Reverend +Mother,' pleaded Mother Sub-Prioress at the keyhole. '_Dixi: Custodiam +vias meas_,' chanted Mary Antony, in a beauteous voice! . . . 'Open, +open, Reverend Mother!' besought a multitude without. '_Quid +multiplicati sunt gui tribulant me_!' intoned Mary Antony, +within. . . . 'Most dear and Reverend Mother,' crooned Sister Mary +Rebecca, at midnight, 'I have something of deepest importance to +say'--'_Dixit insipiens_,' was Mary Antony's appropriate response. Eh, +and Sister Mary Rebecca, thinking none could observe her, had already +been round, in the moonlight, and attempted to climb a tree. All the +Reverend Mother's windows were closely curtained; but old Antony had +her eye to a crack, and the sight of Sister Mary Rebecca climbing, made +all the other trees to shake with laughter, but is not a sight to be +described to the great Lord Bishop. . . . Nay, then!"--with a startled +cry--"Why doth this knotted finger rise up and shake itself at me?" + +The Bishop took the worn old hand, now stone cold, laid it back upon +the quilt, and covered it with his own. + +The drug he had administered had indeed revived the powers, but the +over-excited brain was inclined to wander. + +He recalled it with a name which he knew would act as a potent spell. + +"Would you have news of the Prioress, Sister Antony?" + +Instantly the eyes grew eager. + +"Is she safe, Reverend Father? Is she well? Hath she taken happiness +to her with both hands, not thrusting it away?" + +"Happiness hath taken her by both hands," said the Bishop. "This +morning I blest her union with a noble knight to whom she was betrothed +before she came hither." + +"_I_ know," whispered old Antony ecstatically. "I heard it all, I and +my meat chopper, hidden in there; I and my meat chopper--not willing to +let the Reverend Mother face danger alone. And I did thrust the handle +of the chopper between my gums, that I might not cry 'Bravely done!' +when the noble Knight and his men-at-arms flung a rope over a strong +bough, and hanged that clerkly fellow--somewhat lean and out at elbows. +Oh, ah? It was bravely done! I heard it all! I saw it all!" + +Then the joy faded; a look of shame and grief came into the old face. + +"But having thus seen and heard has led me into grievous sin, Reverend +Father. Alas, I have lied about holy things, sinning, I fear me, +beyond forgiveness, though indeed I did it, meaning to do well. May I +tell you all, Reverend Father, that you may judge whether in that which +I did, I acted according to our blessed Lady's will and intention, or +whether the deceitfulness of mine own heart has led me into mortal sin?" + +The Bishop looked anxiously at the sun dipping slowly in the west. The +effect of the drug he had given should last an hour, if care were taken +of this spurious strength. He judged a quarter of that time to have +already sped. + +"Tell me from the beginning, without reserve, dear Antony," he said. +"But speak low, for my ear only. Remember possible listeners outside +the door." + +So presently the whole tale was told, with many a quaint twist of old +Antony's. And the Bishop's heart melted to tenderness as she whispered +the story, and he realised the greatness of the devotion which had gone +forward, without a thought of self, in the bold endeavour to bring +happiness to the Prioress she loved, yet the anxious conscience, which +now trembled at the thought of that which the fearless heart had done. + +"I lied about holy things; I put words into our blessed Lady's mouth; I +said she moved her hand. But you did tell me, Reverend Father, that +the Reverend Mother was so made that unless there was a vision or +revelation from our Lady, she would thrust away her happiness with both +hands. And there would not have been a vision if old Antony had not +contrived one. Yet I fear me, for the sin of that contriving, I shall +never find forgiveness; my soul must ever stay in torment." + +Tears coursed down the wrinkled cheeks. + +The Bishop kneeled beside the bed. + +"Dear Antony," he said. "Listen to me. 'Perfect love casteth out +fear, because fear hath torment.' You have loved with a perfect love. +You need have no fear. Trust in the love of God, in the precious blood +of the Redeemer, which cleanseth from all sin, in the understanding +tenderness of our Lady, who knoweth a woman's heart. You meant to do +right; and if, honestly intending to do well, you used the wrong means, +Divine love, judging you by your intention, will pardon the mistake. +'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our +sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.' Think no more of +yourself, in this. Dwell solely on our Lord. Silence your own fears, +by repeating: 'He is faithful and just.'" + +"Think you, Reverend Father," quavered the pathetic voice, "that They +will sometimes let old Antony out of hell for an hour, to sit on her +jasper seat and see the Reverend Mother walk up the golden stairs, with +the splendid Knight on one side and the great Lord Bishop on the other?" + +"Sister Mary Antony," said the Bishop, clearly and solemnly, "there is +no place in hell for so faithful and so loving a heart. You shall go +straight to your jasper seat; and because, with the Lord, one day is as +a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day, your eyes will +scarce have time to grow used to the great glory, before you see the +Reverend Mother coming, walking between the two who have faithfully +loved her; and you, who have also loved her faithfully, will also mount +the golden stair, and together we all shall kneel before the throne of +God, and understand at last the full meaning of those words of wonder: +GOD IS LOVE." + +A look of ineffable joy lit up the dying face. + +"Straight to my jasper seat," she said, "to watch--to wait"---- + +Then came the sudden fading of the spurious strength. The Bishop put +out his hand and reached for the holy oil. + + * * * * * * + +The golden sunset light flooded the chamber with radiance. + +The Bishop still watched beside the couch. + +Having rallied sufficiently to make her last confession, short and +simple as a child's; having received absolution and the last sacred +rites of the Church, Mary Antony had slipped into a peaceful slumber. + +The Bishop had to bend over and listen, to make sure that she still +breathed. + +Suddenly she opened her eyes and looked full into his. + +"Did you wed the Reverend Mother to the splendid Knight?" she asked, +and her voice was strong again and natural, with the little chuckle of +curiosity and humour in it, as of old. + +"This morning," answered the Bishop, "I wedded them." + +"Did he kiss her?" asked old Antony, with an indescribable twinkle of +gleeful enjoyment, though those twinkling eyes seemed the only living +thing in the old face. + +"Nay," said the Bishop. "They who truly kiss, kiss not in public." + +"Ah," whispered Mary Antony. "Yea, verily! I know that to be true." + +She lifted wandering fingers and, after much groping, touched her +forehead, with a happy smile. + +Not knowing what else the action could mean, the Bishop leaned forward +and made the sign of the cross on her brow. + +Mary Antony gave that peculiar little chuckle of enjoyment, which had +always marked her pleasure when the very learned made mistakes. It +gave her so great a sense of cleverness. + +After this the light faded from the old eyes, and the Bishop had begun +to think they would not again open upon this world, when a strange +thing happened. + +There was a flick of wings, and in, through the open window, flew the +robin. + +First he perched on the marble hand of the Madonna. Then, with a +joyful chirp, dropped straight to the couch on which lay Mary Antony. + +At sound of that chirp, Mary Antony opened her eyes, and saw her much +loved little bird hopping gaily on the coverlet. + +"Hey, thou little vain man!" she said. "Ah, naughty Master Pieman! +Art come to look upon old Antony in her bed? The great Lord Bishop +will have thee hanged." + +The robin hopped nearer, and pecked gently at the hand which so oft had +fed him, now lying helpless on the quilt. + +A look of exquisite delight came into the old woman's eyes. + +"Ah, my little Knight of the Bloody Vest," she whispered, "dost want +thy cheese? Wait a minute, while old Antony searches in her wallet." + +She sat up suddenly, as if to reach for something. + +Then a startled look came into her face. She stretched out appealing +hands to the Bishop. + +Instantly he caught them in his. + +"Fear not, dear Antony," he said. "All is well." + +The robin, spreading his wings, flew out at the window. And the loving +spirit of Mary Antony went with him. + +The Bishop laid the worn-out body gently back upon the couch, closed +the eyes, and folded the hands upon the breast. + +Then he walked over to the window, and stood looking at the golden +ramparts of that sunset city, glowing against the delicate azure of the +evening sky. + +Great loneliness of soul came to the Bishop, standing thus in the empty +cell. + +The Prioress had gone; the robin had gone; Mary Antony had gone; and +the Bishop greatly wished that he might go, also. + +Presently he turned to the Prioress's table. She had sent to the +Palace the copy she had made, and the copy she had mended, of the +Pope's mandate. But she had left upon the table the strips of +parchment upon which she had inscribed, on the night of her vigil, +copies and translations of ancient prayers from the Sacramentaries. +The Bishop gathered these up, reading them as he stood. Two he slipped +into his sash, but the third he took to the couch and placed beneath +the folded hands. + +"Take this with thee to thy jasper seat, dear faithful heart," he said; +"for truly it was given unto thee to perceive and know what things thou +oughtest to do, and also to have grace and power faithfully to fulfil +the same." + +The peaceful face, growing beautiful with that solemn look of eternal +youth which death brings, even to the aged, seemed to smile, as the +precious parchment passed into the keeping of those folded hands. + +The Bishop knelt long in prayer and thanksgiving. At length, with +uplifted face, he said: "And grant, O my God, that I too may be +faithful, unto the very end." + +Then he rose, and rang the Convent bell. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX + +THE "SPLENDID KNIGHT" + +On the steps of Warwick Castle stood the Knight and his bride. + +Their eyes still lingered on the archway through which the noble figure +of Symon, Bishop of Worcester, mounted upon his black mare, Shulamite, +had just disappeared from view. + +The marriage had taken place in the Castle chapel, half an hour before, +with an astonishing amount of pomp and ceremony. Priests and acolytes +had appeared from unexpected places. Madonna lilies, on graceful stem, +gleamed white in the shadows of the sacred place. Solemn music rose +and fell; the deep roll of the Gregorian chants, beginning with a low +hum as of giant bees in a vast field of clover; swelling, in +full-throated unison, a majestic volume of sound which rang against the +rafters, waking echoes in the clerestory; then rumbling back into +silence. + +Standing beneath the sacred canopy, the bridal pair lifted their eyes +to the high altar and saw, amid a cloud of incense, the Bishop, in +gorgeous vestments, descending the steps and coming toward them. + +To Mora, at the time, and afterwards in most thankful remembrance, the +wonder of that which followed lay in the fact that where she had +dreaded an inevitable sense of sacrilege in giving to another that +which had been already consecrated to God, the Bishop so worded the +service as to make her feel that she could still be spiritually the +bride of Christ, even while fulfilling her troth to Hugh; also that, in +accepting the call to this new Vocation, she was not falling from her +old estate, but rather rising above it. + +As the words were spoken which made her a wife, it seemed as if the +Bishop gently wrapped her about with a fresh mantle of dignity--that +dignity which had fallen from her in those moments of humiliation when, +at Hugh's bidding she laid herself down upon the stretcher. + +The Bishop voiced the Church with a pomp and power which could not be +withstood; and when, in obedience to his command Hugh grasped her right +hand with his right hand, and the Bishop laid his own on either side of +their clasped hands, and pronounced them man and wife, it seemed indeed +as if a Divine touch united them, as if a Divine voice ratified their +vows and sanctified their union. + +Mora had never before seen the _man_ so completely merged in his high +office. + +And, when all was over, even as he mounted Shulamite and rode away, he +rode out of the courtyard with the air of a Knight Templar riding +forth-to do battle in a Holy War. + +It seemed to Mora that she had bidden farewell to her old friend of the +kindly smile, the merry eye, and the ready jest, in the early hours of +that morning, as together they left the arbour of the golden roses. + +There remained therefore but one man to be considered: the "splendid +Knight" of old Antony's vision; the lover who had pursued her into her +Nunnery; wooed her in her own cell, unabashed by the dignity of her +office; mastered her will; forced her numbed heart to awaken, disturbed +by the thrill of an unwilling tenderness; moved her to passion by the +poignant anguish of a parting, which she regarded as inevitably final; +won the Bishop over, to his side, and, through him, the Pope; and +finally, by the persistence of his pleadings, moved our blessed Lady to +vouchsafe a vision on his behalf. + +This was the "splendid Knight" against whom the stars in their courses +had most certainly not fought. Principalities and powers had all been +for him; against him, just a woman and her conscience, and--he had won. + +When, at their first interview in her cell, in reply to her demand: +"Why are you not with your wife?" he had answered: "I _am_ with my +wife; the only wife I have ever wanted, the only woman I shall ever +wed, is here"--she stood ready to strike with ivory and steel, at the +first attempt upon her inviolable chastity, and could afford to smile, +in pitying derision, at so empty a boast. + +But now? If he said: "My wife is here," and chose to seize her with +possessive grasp, she must meekly fold her hands upon her breast, and +say: "Even so, my lord. I am yours. Deal with me as you will." + +As the Bishop's purple cloak and the hind quarters of his noble black +mare, disappeared from view, the crowd which hitherto had surrounded +the bridal pair, also vanished, as if at the wave of a magic wand. +Thus for the first time, since those tense moments in the Cathedral +crypt, Mora found herself alone with Hugh. + +She was not young enough to be embarrassed; but she was old enough to +be afraid; afraid of him, and afraid of herself; afraid of his +masterful nature and imperious will, which had always inclined to break +rather than bend anything which stood in his way; and afraid of +something in herself which leapt up in response to this fierce strength +in him, yearning to be mastered, hungry to yield, wishful to obey; yet +which, if yielded to, would lay her spirit in the dust, and turn the +awakened tenderness in her heart to scorn of herself, and anger against +him. + +So she feared as she stood in the sunshine, watching the now empty +archway through which her sole remaining link with Convent life had +vanished; conscious, without looking round, that Debbie, who had been +curtseying behind her, was there no longer; that Martin Goodfellow, who +had held Shulamite's bridle while the Bishop mounted, had disappeared +in one direction, the rest of the men in another; intensely conscious +that she and Hugh were now alone; and fearing, she shivered again, as +she had shivered in the crypt; then, of a sudden, knew that she had +done so, and, with a swift impulse of shame and contrition, turned and +looked at Hugh. + +He was indeed the "splendid Knight" of Mary Antony's vision! He had +donned for his bridal the dress of white and silver, which he had last +put on when he supped at the Palace with the Bishop. This set off, +with striking effect, his dark head and the noble beauty of his +countenance; and Mora, who chiefly remembered him as a handsome youth, +graceful and gay, realised for the first time his splendour as a man, +and the change wrought in him by all he had faced, endured, and +overcome. + +In the crypt, the day before, and during the hours which followed, she +had scarce let herself look at him; and he, though always close beside +her, had kept out of her immediate range of vision. + +Since that infolding clasp in the crypt when he had flung the cloak +about her, not once had he touched her, until the Church just now bade +him, with authority, to take her right hand, with his. + +Her mind flew back to the happenings of the previous day. With the +lightning rapidity of retrospective thought, she passed again through +each experience from the moment when the call of the blackbird sounded +in the crypt. The helpless horror of being lifted by unseen hands; the +slow, swinging progress, to the accompaniment of the measured tread of +the men-at-arms; the stifling darkness, air and light shut out by the +heavy cloak, and yet the clear consciousness of the moment when the +stretcher passed from the Cathedral into the sunshine without; the +sudden pause, as the Bishop met the stretcher, and then--as she lay +helpless between them--Symon's question and Hugh's reply, with their +subtlety of hidden meaning, which filled her with impotent anger, +shewing as it did the completeness of the Bishop's connivance at Hugh's +conspiracy. Then Hugh's request, and the Bishop's hand laid upon her, +the Bishop's voice uplifted in blessing. Then once again the measured +tramp, tramp, and the steady swing of the stretcher; but now the men's +heels rang on cobbles, and voices seemed everywhere; cheery greetings, +snatches of song, chance words concerning a bargain or a meeting, a +light jest, a coarse oath; and, all the while, the steady, tramp, +tramp, and the ring of Hugh's spurs. + +She grew faint and it seemed to her she was about to die beneath the +cloak, and that when at length Hugh removed it, it would prove a pall +beneath which he would find a dead bride. + +"Dead bride! Dead bride!" sounded the tramping footsteps. And all the +way she was haunted by the belief, assailing her confused senses in the +darkness, that the spirit of Father Gervaise had met the stretcher; +that his was the voice which murmured low and tenderly; "Be not afraid, +neither be thou dismayed. Go in peace." + +With this had come a horror of the outer world, a wild desire for the +safety and shelter of the Cloister, and an absolute physical dread of +the moment when the covering cloak should be removed, and she would +find herself alone with her lover; and, on rising from the stretcher, +be seized by his arms. + +Yet when, having been tilted up steps, she was conscious of the silence +of passages and soon the even more complete quiet of a room; when the +stretcher was set down, and the bearers' feet died away, Hugh's deep +voice said gently: "Change thy garments quickly, my beloved. There is +no time to lose." But he laid no hand upon the cloak, and his +footsteps, also, died away. + +Then pushing back the heavy folds and sitting up, she had found herself +alone in a bedchamber, everything she could need laid ready to her +hand; while, upon the bed, lay her green riding-dress, discarded +forever, eight years before! + +Her mind refused to look back upon the half-hour that followed. + +She saw herself next appearing in the doorway at the top of a flight of +eight steps, leading down into the yard of the hostelry, where a +cavalcade of men and horses waited; while Icon, the Bishop's beautiful +white palfrey, was being led to and fro, and Hugh stood with an open +letter in his hand. + +As she hesitated in the doorway, gazing down upon the waiting, restive +crowd, Hugh looked up and saw her. Into his eyes flashed a light of +triumphant joy, of adoring love and admiration. She had avoided +looking at her own reflection; but his face, as he came up the steps, +mirrored her loveliness. It had cost her such anguish of soul to +divest herself of her sacred habit and don these gay garments belonging +to a life long left behind, that his evident delight in the change, +moved her to an unreasonable resentment. Also that sudden blaze of +love in his dark eyes, dazzled her heart, even as a burst of sunshine +might dazzle one used to perpetual twilight. + +She took the Bishop's letter, with averted eyes; read it; then moved +swiftly down the steps to where Icon waited. + +"Mount me," she said to Martin Goodfellow, as she passed him; and it +was Martin who swung her into the saddle. + +Then she trembled at what she had done, in yielding to this impulse +which made her shrink from Hugh. + +As the black mane of his horse drew level with Icon's head, and side by +side they rode out from the courtyard, she feared a thunder-cloud on +the Knight's brow, and a sullen silence, as the best she could expect. +But calm and cheerful, his voice fell on her ear; and glancing at him +furtively, she still saw on his face that light which dazzled her +heart. Yet no word did he speak which all might not have heard, and +not once did he lay his hand on hers. Each time they dismounted, she +saw him sign to Martin Goodfellow, and it was Martin who helped her to +alight. + +All this, in rapid retrospect, passed through Mora's mind as she stood +alone beside her splendid Knight, miserably conscious that she had +shivered, and that he knew it; and fearful lest he divined the +shrinking of her soul away from him, away from love, away from all for +which love stood. Alas, alas! Why did this man--this most human, +ardent, loving man--hang all his hopes of happiness upon the heart of a +nun? Would it be possible that he should understand, that eight years +of cloistered life cannot be renounced in a day? + +Mora looked at him again. + +The stern profile might well be about to say: "Shudder again, and I +will do to thee that which shall give thee cause to shudder indeed!" + +Yet, at that moment he spoke, and his voice was infinitely gentle. + +"Yonder rides a true friend," he said. "One who has learned love's +deepest lesson." + +"What is love's deepest lesson?" she asked. + +He turned and looked at her, and the fire of his dark eyes was drowned +in tenderness. + +"That true love means self-sacrifice," he said. "Come, my beloved. +Let us walk in the gardens, where we can talk at ease of our plans for +the days to come." + + + + +CHAPTER XL + +THE HEART OF A NUN + +Hugh and Mora passed together through the great hall, along the +armoury, down the winding stair and so out into the gardens. + +The Knight led the way across the lawn and through the rose garden, +toward the yew hedge and the bowling-green. + +Old Debbie, looking from her casement, thought them beautiful beyond +words as she watched them cross the lawn--she in white and gold, he in +white and silver; his dark head towering above her fair one, though she +was uncommon tall. And, falling upon her knees, old Debbie prayed to +the Angel Gabriel that she might live to hold in her arms, and rock to +sleep upon her bosom, sweet babes, both fair and dark: "Fair little +maids," she said, "and fine, dark boys," explaining to Gabriel that +which she thought would be most fit. + +Meanwhile Hugh and Mora, walking a yard apart--all unconscious of these +family plans, being so anxiously made for them at an upper +casement--bent their tall heads and passed under the arch in the yew +hedge, crossed the bowling-green, and entered the arbour of the golden +roses. + +Hugh led the way; yet Mora gladly followed. The Bishop's presence +seemed to abide here, in comfort and protection. + +All signs of the early repast were gone from the rustic table. + +Mora took her seat there where in the early morning she had sat; while +Hugh, not knowing he did so, passed into the Bishop's place. + +The sun shone through the golden roses, hanging in clusters over the +entrance. + +The sense of the Bishop's presence so strongly pervaded the place, that +almost at once Mora felt constrained to speak of him. + +"Hugh," she said, "very early this morning, long before you were awake, +the Bishop and I broke our fast, in this arbour, together." + +The Knight smiled. + +"I knew that," he said. "In his own characteristic way the Bishop told +it me. 'My son,' he said, 'you have reversed the sacred parable. In +your case it was the bride-groom who, this morning, slumbered and +slept.' 'True, my lord,' said I. 'But there were no foolish virgins +about.' 'Nay, verily!' replied the Bishop. 'The two virgins awake at +that hour were pre-eminently wise: the one, making as the sun rose most +golden pats of butter and crusty rolls; the other, rising early to +partake of them with appetite. Truly there were no foolish virgins +about. There was but one foolish prelate.'" + +She, who so lately had been Prioress of the White Ladies, flushed with +indignation at the words. + +"Wherefore said he so?" she inquired, severely. "He, who is always +wiser than the wisest." + +Hugh noted the heightened colour and the ready protest. + +"Perhaps," he suggested, speaking slowly, as if choosing his words with +care, "the Bishop's head, being so wise, revealed to him, in himself, a +certain foolishness of heart." + +Mora struck the table with her hand. + +"Nay then, verily!" she cried. "Head and heart alike are wise; +and--unlike other men--the Bishop's head rules his heart." + +"And a most noble heart,", the Knight said, with calmness; neither +wincing at the blow upon the table, nor at the "unlike other men," +flung out in challenge. + +Then, folding his arms upon the table, and looking searchingly into the +face of his bride: "Tell me," he said, "during all these years, has +this friendship with Symon of Worcester meant much to thee?" + +Something in his tone arrested Mora. She answered, with an equal +earnestness: "Yes, Hugh. It has done more for me than can well be +told. It has kept living and growing in me much that would otherwise +have been stunted or dead; an ever fresh flow of thought, where, but +for him, would have been a stagnant pool. My sad heart might have +grown bitter, my nature too austere, particularly when advancement to +high office brought with it an inevitable loneliness, had it not been +for the interest and charm of his visits and missives; his constant +gifts and kindness. There is about him a light-hearted gaiety, a +whimsical humour, a joy in life, which cannot fail to wake responsive +gladness in any heart with which he comes in contact. And mingled with +his shrewd wisdom, his wide knowledge of men and matters, there is ever +a tender charity, which thinks no evil, always believing in good and +hoping for the best; a love which never fails; a kindness which makes +one ashamed of harbouring hard or revengeful thoughts." + +Hugh made no reply. He sat with his eyes fixed upon the beautiful face +before him, now glowing with enthusiasm. He waited for something more. +And presently it came. + +"Also," said Mora, slowly: "a very precious memory of my early days at +Court, when as a young maiden I attended on the Queen, was kept alive +by a remarkable likeness in the Bishop to one who was, as I learned +this morning for the first time, actually near of kin to him. Do you +remember, Hugh, long years ago, that I spoke to you of Father Gervaise?" + +"I do remember," said the Knight. + +She leaned her elbows on the table, framed her face in her hands, and +looked straight into his eyes. + +"Father Gervaise was more to me than I then told you, Hugh." + +"What was he to thee, Mora?" + +"He was the Ideal of my girlhood. For a time, I thought of him by day, +I dreamed of him by night. No word of his have I ever forgotten. Many +of his sayings and precepts have influenced, and still deeply +influence, my whole life. In fact, Hugh, I loved Father Gervaise; not +as a woman loves a man--ah, no! But, rather, as a nun loves her Lord." + +"I see," said the Knight. "But you were not then a nun, Mora." + +"No, I was not then a nun. But I have been a nun since then; and that +is how I can best describe my love for the Queen's Confessor." + +"Long after," said the Knight, "you were betrothed to me?" + +"Yes, Hugh." + +"How did you love me, Mora?" + +Across the rustic table they looked full into each other's eyes. +Tragedy, stalking around that rose-covered arbour, drew very near, and +they knew it. Almost, his grim shadow came between them and the +sunshine. + +Then the Knight smiled; and with that smile rushed back the flood-tide +of remembrance; remembrance of all which their young love had meant, of +the sweet promise it had held. + +His eyes still holding hers, she smiled also. + +The golden roses clustering in the entrance swayed and nodded in the +sunlight, as a gently rising breeze fanned them to and fro. + +"Dear Knight," she said, softly, a wistful tenderness in her voice, "I +suppose I loved you, as a girl loves the man who has won her." + +"Mora," said Hugh, "I have something to tell thee." + +"I listen," she said. + +"My wife--so wholly, so completely, do I love thee, that I would not +consciously keep anything from thee. So deeply do I love thee, that I +would sooner any wrong or sin of mine were known to thee and by thee +forgiven, than that thou shouldest think me one whit better than I am." + +He paused. + +Her eyes were tender and compassionate. Often she had listened, with a +patient heart of charity, to the tedious, morbid, self-centred +confessions of kneeling nuns, who watched with anxious eyes for the +sign which would mean that they might clutch at the hem of her robe and +press it to their lips in token that they were forgiven. + +But she had had no experience of the sins of men. What had the +"splendid Knight" upon his conscience, which must now be told her, in +this sunny arbour, on the morning of their bridal day? + +Her heart throbbed painfully. Alas, it was still the heart of a nun. +It would not be controlled. Must she hear wild tales of wickedness and +shame, of which she would but partly understand the meaning? + +Oh, for the calm of the Cloister! Oh, for the sheltered purity of her +quiet cell! + +Yet his eyes, still meeting hers, were clear and fearless. + +"I listen," she said. + +"Mora, not long ago a wondrous tale was told me of a man's great love +for thee--a man, nobler than I, in that he mastered all selfish +desires; a love higher than mine, in that it put thy welfare, in all +things, first. Hearing this tale, I failed both myself and thee, for I +said: 'I pray heaven that, if she come to me, she may never know that +she once won the love of so greatly better a man than I.' But, since I +clasped thy hand in mine, and the Bishop, laying his on either side, +gave thee to be my wife, I have known there would be no peace for me if +I feared to trust thee with this knowledge, because that the man who +loved thee was a better man than the man who, by God's mercy and our +Lady's grace, has won thee." + +As the Knight spoke thus, the grey eyes fixed on his face grew wide +with wonder; soft, with a great compunction; yet, at the corners, +shewed a little crinkle in which the Bishop would instantly have +recognised the sign of approaching merriment. + +Was this then a sample of the unknown sins of men? Nothing here, +surely, to cause the least throb of apprehension, even to the heart of +a nun! But what strange tale had reached the ears of this most dear +and loyal Knight? She leaned a little nearer to him, speaking in a +tone which was music to his heart. + +"Dear Knight of mine," she said, "no tale of a man's love for me can +have been a true one. Yet am I glad that, deeming it true, and feeling +as it was your first impulse to feel, you now tell me quite frankly +what you felt, thus putting from yourself all sense of wrong, while +giving me the chance to say to you, that none more noble than this +faithful Knight can have loved me; for, saving a few Court pages, +mostly popinjays, and Humphry of Camforth, of whom the less said the +better, no other man hath loved me." + +More kindly she looked on him than she yet had looked. She leaned +across the table. + +By reaching out his arms he could have caught her lovely face between +his hands. + +Her eyes were merry. Her lips smiled. + +Greatly tempted was the Knight to agree that, saving himself, and +Humphry of Camforth, of whom the less said the better, none save Court +popinjays had loved her. Yet in his heart he knew that ever between +them would be this fact of his knowledge of the love of Father Gervaise +for her, and of the noble renunciation inspired by that love. He had +no intention of betraying the Bishop; but Mora's own explanation, +making it quite clear that she would not be likely to suspect the +identity of the Bishop with his supposed cousin, Father Gervaise, +seemed to the Knight to remove the one possible reason for concealment. +He was willing to risk present loss, rather than imperil future peace. + +With an effort which made his voice almost stern: "The tale was a true +one," he said. + +She drew back, regarding him with grave eyes, her hands folded before +her. + +"Tell me the tale," she said, "and I will pronounce upon its truth." + +"Years ago, Mora, when you were a young maiden at the Court, attending +on the Queen, you were most deeply loved by one who knew he could never +ask you in marriage. That being so, so noble was his nature and so +unselfish his love, that he would not give himself the delight of +seeing you, nor the enjoyment of your friendship, lest, being so strong +a thing, his love--even though unexpressed--should reach and stir your +heart to a response which, might hinder you from feeling free to give +yourself, when a man who could offer all sought to win you. Therefore, +Mora, he left the Court, he left the country. He went to foreign +lands. He thought not of himself. He desired for you the full +completion which comes by means of wedded love. He feared to hinder +this. So he went." + +Her face still expressed incredulous astonishment. + +"His name?" she demanded, awaiting the answer with parted lips, and +widely-open eyes. + +"Father Gervaise," said the Knight. + +He saw her slowly whiten, till scarce a vestige of colour remained. + +For some minutes she spoke no word; both sat silent, Hugh ruefully +facing his risks, and inclined to repent of his honesty. + +At length: "And who told you this tale," she said; "this tale of the +love of Father Gervaise for a young maid, half his age?" + +"Symon of Worcester told it me, three nights ago." + +"How came the Bishop to know so strange and so secret a thing? And +knowing it, how came he to tell it to you?" + +"He had it from Father Gervaise himself. He told it to me, because his +remembrance of the sacrifice made so long ago in order that the full +completion of wifehood and motherhood might be thine, had always +inclined him to a wistful regret over thy choice of the monastic life, +with its resultant celibacy; leading him, from the first, to espouse +and further my cause. In wedding us to-day, methinks the Bishop felt +he was at last securing the consummation of the noble renunciation made +so long ago by Father Gervaise." + +With a growing dread at his heart, Hugh watched the increasing pallor +of her face, the hard line of the lips which, but a few moments before, +had parted in such gentle sweetness. + +"Alas!" he exclaimed, "I should not have told thee! With my clumsy +desire to keep nothing from thee, I have spoilt an hour which else +might have been so perfect." + +"You did well to tell me, dear Knight of mine," she said, a ripple of +tenderness passing across her stern face, as swiftly and gently as the +breeze stirs a cornfield. "Nor is there anything in this world so +perfect as the truth. If the truth opened an abyss which plunged me +into hell, I would sooner know it, than attempt to enter Paradise +across the flimsy fabric of a lie!" + +Her voice, as she uttered these words, had in it the ring which was +wont to petrify wrong-doers of the feebler kind among her nuns. + +"Dear Knight, had the Bishop not forestalled me when he named his +palfrey, truly I might have found a fine new name for you! But now, I +pray you of your kindness, leave me alone with my fallen image for a +little space, that I may gather up the fragments and give them decent +burial." + +With which her courage broke. She stretched her clasped hands across +the table and laid her head upon her arms. + +Despair seized the Knight as he stood helpless, looking down upon that +proud head laid low. + +He longed to lay his hand upon the golden softness of her hair. + +But her shoulders shook with a hard, tearless sob, and the Knight fled +from the arbour. + + +As he paced the lawn, on which the Bishop had promenaded the evening +before, Hugh cursed his rashness in speaking; yet knew, in the heart of +his heart, that he could not have done otherwise. Mora's words +concerning truth, gave him a background of comfort. Even so had he +ever himself felt. But would it prove that his honesty had indeed +shattered his chances of happiness, and hers? + +A new name? . . . What might it be? . . . What the mischief, had the +Bishop named his palfrey? . . . Sheba? Nay, that was the ass! +Solomon? Nay, that was the mare! Yet--how came a mare to be named +Solomon? + +In his disturbed mental state it irritated him unreasonably that a mare +should be called after a king with seven hundred wives! Then he +remembered "black, but comely," and arrived at the right name, +Shulamite. Of course! Not Solomon but Shulamite. He had read that +love-poem of the unnamed Eastern shepherd, with the Rabbi in the +mountain fastness. The Rabbi had pointed out that the word used in +that description signified "sunburned." The lovely Shulamite maiden, +exposed to the Eastern sun while tending her kids and keeping the +vineyards, had tanned a ruddy brown, beside which the daughters of +Jerusalem, enclosed in King Solomon's scented harem, looked pale as +wilting lilies. Remembering the glossy coat of the black mare, Hugh +wondered, with a momentary sense of merriment, whether the Bishop +supposed the maiden of the "Song of Songs" to have been an Ethiopian. + +Then he remembered "Iconoklastes." Yes, surely! The palfrey was +Iconoklastes. Now wherefore gave the Bishop such a name to his white +palfrey? + +Striding blindly about the lawn, of a sudden the Knight stepped full on +to a flower-bed. At once he seemed to hear the Bishop's gentle voice: +"I named him Iconoklastes because he trampled to ruin some flower-beds +on which I spent much time and care, and of which I was inordinately +fond." + +Ah! . . . That was it! The destroyer of fair bloom and blossom, of +buds of promise; of the loveliness of a tended garden. . . . Was this +then what he seemed to Mora? He, who had forced her to yield to the +insistence of his love? . . . In her chaste Convent cell, she could +have remained true to this Ideal love of her girlhood: and, now that +she knew it to have been called forth by love, could have received, +mentally, its full fruition. Also, in time she might have discovered +the identity of the Bishop with Father Gervaise, and long years of +perfect friendship might have proved a solace to their sundered hearts, +had not he--the trampler upon flower-beds--rudely intervened. + +And yet--Mora had been betrothed to him, her love had been his, long +after Father Gervaise had left the land. + +How could he win her back to be once more as she was when they parted +on the castle battlements eight years before? + +How could he free himself, and her, from these intangible, +ecclesiastical entanglements? + +He was reminded of his difficulties when he tried to walk disguised in +the dress of the White Ladies, and found his stride impeded by those +trailing garments. He remembered the relief of wrenching them off, and +stepping clear. + +Why not now take the short, quick road to mastery? + +But instantly that love which seeketh not its own, the strange new +sense so recently awakened in him, laid its calm touch upon his +throbbing heart. Until that moment in the crypt the day before, he had +loved Mora for his own delight, sought her for his own joy. Now, he +knew that he could take no happiness at the cost of one pang to her. + +"She must be taught not to shudder," cried the masterfulness which was +his by nature. + +"She must be given no cause to shudder," amended this new, loyal +tenderness, which now ruled his every thought of her. + + +Presently, returning to the arbour, he found her seated, her elbows on +the table, her chin cupped in her hands. + +She had been weeping; yet her smile of welcome, as he entered, held a +quality he had scarce expected. + +He spoke straight to the point. It seemed the only way to step clear +of immeshing trammels. + +"Mora, it cuts me to the heart that, in striving to be honest with you, +I have all unwittingly trampled upon those flower-beds in which you +long had tended fair blossoms of memory. Also I fear this knowledge of +a nobler love, makes it hard for you to contemplate life linked to a +love which seems to you less able for self-sacrifice." + +She gazed at him, wide-eyed, in sheer amazement. + +"Dear Knight," she said, "true, I am disillusioned, but not in aught +that concerns you. You trampled on no flower-beds of mine. My +shattered idol is the image of one whom I, with deepest reverence, +loved, as a nun might love her Guardian Angel. To learn that he loved +me as a man loves a woman, and that he had to flee before that love, +lest it should harm me and himself, changes the hallowed memory of +years. This morning, three names stood to me for all that is highest, +noblest, best: Father Gervaise, Symon of Worcester, and Hugh d'Argent. +Now, the Bishop and yourself alone are left. Fail me not, Hugh, or I +shall be bereft indeed." + +The Knight laughed, joyously. The relief at his heart demanded that +much vent. "Then, if I failed thee, Mora, there would be but the +Bishop?" + +"There would be but the Bishop." + +"I will not fail thee, my beloved. And I fear I must have put the +matter clumsily, concerning Father Gervaise. As the Bishop told it to +me, there was naught that was not noble. It seemed to me it should be +sweet to the heart of a woman to be so loved." + +"Hush," she said, sternly. "You know not the heart of a nun." + +He did not reason further. It was enough for him to know that the +shattered image she had buried was not the ideal of his love and hers, +or the hope of future happiness together. + +"Time flies, dear Heart," he said. "May I speak to thee of immediate +plans?" + +"I listen," she answered. + +Hugh stood in the entrance, among the yellow roses, leaning against the +doorpost, his arms folded on his breast, his feet crossed. + +At once she was reminded of the scene in her cell, when he had taken up +that attitude while still garbed as a nun, and she had said: "I know +you for a man," and, in her heart had added: "And a stronger man, +surely, than Mary Seraphine's Cousin Wilfred!" + +"We ride on to-day," said the Knight, "if you feel able for a few hours +in the saddle, to the next stage in our journey. It is a hostel in the +forest; a poor kind of place, I fear; but there is one good room where +you can be made comfortable, with Mistress Deborah. I shall sleep on +the hay, without, amongst my men. Some must keep guard all night. We +ride through wild parts to reach our destination." + +He paused. He could not hold on to the matter of fact tones in which +he had started. When he spoke again, his voice was low and very tender. + +"Mora, I am taking thee first to thine own home; to the place where, +long years ago, we loved and parted. There, all is as it was. Thy +people who loved thee and had fled, have been found and brought back. +Seven days of journeying should bring us there. I have sent men on +before, to arrange for each night's lodging, and make sure that all is +right. Arrived at thine own castle, Mora, we shall be within three +hours' ride of mine--that home to which I hope to bring thee. Until we +enter there, my wife, although this morning most truly wed, we will +count ourselves but betrothed. Once in thy home, it shall be left to +thine own choice to come to mine when and how thou wilt. The step now +taken--that of leaving the Cloister and coming to me--had perforce to +be done quickly, if done at all. But, now it is safely accomplished, +there is no further need for haste. The wings of my swift desire shall +be dipt to suit thine inclination." + +Hugh paused, looking upon her with a half-wistful smile. She made no +answer; so presently he continued. + +"I have planned that, each day, Mistress Deborah, with the baggage and +a good escort, shall go by the most direct route, and the best road. +Thus thou and I will be free to ride as we will, visiting places we +have known of old and which it may please thee to see again. To-day we +can ride out by Kenilworth, and so on our first stage northward. +Martin will take Mistress Deborah on a pillion behind him. Should she +weary of travelling so, she can have a seat in the cart with the +baggage. But they tell me she travels bravely on horseback. We will +send them on ahead of us, and on arrival all will be in readiness for +thee. If this weather holds, we shall ride each day through a world of +sunshine and beauty; and each day's close, my wife, will find us one +day nearer home. Does this please thee? Have I thought of all?" + +Rising, she came and stood beside him in the entrance to the arbour. + +A golden rose, dipping from above, rested against her hair. + +Her eyes were soft with tears. + +"So perfectly have you thought and planned, dear faithful Knight, that +I think our blessed Lady must have guided you. As we ride out into the +sunshine, I shall grow used to the great world once more; and you will +have patience and will teach me things I have perhaps forgot." + +She hesitated; half put out her hands; but his not meeting them, folded +them on her breast. + +"Hugh, it seems hard that I should clip your splendid wings; but--oh, +Hugh! Think you the heart of a nun can ever become again as the heart +of other women?" + +"Heaven forbid!" said the Knight, fervently, thinking of Eleanor and +Alfrida. + +And, as leaving the arbour they walked together over the lawn, she +smiled, remembering, how that morning the Bishop had answered the same +question in precisely the same words. Whatever Father Gervaise might +have said, the Bishop and the Knight were agreed! + +Yet she wished, somewhat wistfully, that this most dear and loyal +Knight had taken her hands when she held them out. + +She would have liked to feel the strong clasp of his upon them. + +Possibly our Lady, who knoweth the heart of a woman, had guided the +Knight in this matter also. + + + + +CHAPTER XLI + +WHAT THE BISHOP REMEMBERED + +Symon, Bishop of Worcester, sat in his library, in the cool of the day. + +He was weary, with a weariness which surpassed all his previous +experience of weariness, all his imaginings as to how weary, in body +and spirit, a man could be, yet continue to breathe and think. + +With some, extreme fatigue leads to restlessness of body. Not so with +the Bishop. The more tired he was, the more perfectly still he sat; +his knees crossed, his elbows on the arms of his chair, the fingers of +both hands pressed lightly together, his head resting against the high +back of the chair, his gaze fixed upon the view across the river. + +As he looked with unseeing eyes upon the wide stretch of meadow, the +distant woods and the soft outline of the Malvern hills, he was +thinking how good it would be never again to leave this quiet room; +never to move from this chair; never again to see a human being; never +to have to smile when he was heart-sick, or to bow when he felt +ungracious! + +Those who knew the Bishop best, often spoke together of his wondrous +vitality and energy, their favourite remark being: that he was never +tired. They might with more truth have said that they had never known +him to appear tired. + +It had long been a rule in the Bishop's private code, that weariness, +either of body or spirit, must not be shewn to others. The more tired +he was, the more ready grew his smile, the more alert his movements, +the more gracious his response to any call upon his sympathy or +interest. + +He never sighed in company, as did Father Peter when, having supped too +well off jolly of salmon, roast venison, and raisin pie, he was fain to +let indigestion pass muster for melancholy. + +He never yawned in Council, either gracefully behind his hand, as did +the lean Spanish Cardinal; or openly and unashamed, as did the round +and rosy Abbot of Evesham, displaying to the fascinated gaze of the +brethren in stalls opposite, a cavernous throat, a red and healthy +tongue, and a particularly fine set of teeth. + +Moreover the Bishop would as soon have thought of carrying a garment +from the body of a plague-stricken patient into the midst of a family +of healthy children, as of entering an assemblage with a jaded +countenance or a languorous manner. + +Therefore: "He is never weary," said his friends. + +"He knoweth not the meaning of fatigue," agreed his acquaintances. + +"There is no merit in labour which is not in anywise a burden, but, +rather, a delight," pronounced those who envied his powers. + +"He is possessed," sneered his enemies, "by a most energetic demon! +Were that demon exorcised, the Bishop would collapse, exhausted." + +"He is filled," said his admirers, "by the Spirit of God, and is thus +so energized that he can work incessantly, without experiencing +ordinary human weakness." + +And none knew that it was a part of his religion to Symon of Worcester, +to hide his weariness from others. + +Yet once when, in her chamber, he sat talking with the Prioress, she +had risen, of a sudden, saying: "You are tired, Father. Rest there in +silence, while I work at my missal." + +She had passed to the table; and the Bishop had sat resting, just as he +was sitting now, save that his eyes could then dwell on her face, as +she bent, absorbed, over the illumination. + +After a while he had asked: "How knew you that I was tired, my dear +Prioress?" + +Without lifting her eyes, she had made answer: "Because, my Lord +Bishop, you twice smiled when there was no occasion for smiling." + +Another period of restful silence, while she worked, and he watched her +working. Then he had remarked: "My friends say I am never tired." + +And she had answered: "They would speak more truly if they said that +you are ever brave." + +It had amazed the Bishop to find himself thus understood. Moreover he +could scarce put on his biretta, so crowned was his head by the laurels +of her praise. Also this had been the only time when he had wondered +whether the Prioress really believed Father Gervaise to be at the +bottom of the ocean. It is ever an astonishment to a man when the +unerring intuition of a woman is brought to bear upon himself. + +Now, in this hour of his overwhelming fatigue, he recalled that scene. +Closing his eyes on the distant view, and opening them upon the +enchanted vistas of memory, he speedily saw that calm face, with its +chastened expression of fine self-control, bending above the page she +was illuminating. He saw the severe lines of the wimple, the folds of +the flowing veil, the delicate movement of the long fingers, +and--yes!--resting upon her bosom the jewelled cross, sign of her high +office. + +Thus looking back, he vividly recalled the extraordinary restfulness of +sitting there in silence, while she worked. No words were needed. Her +very presence, and the fact that she knew him to be weary, rested him. + +He looked again. But now the folds of the wimple and veil were gone. +A golden circlet clasped the shining softness of her hair. + +The Bishop opened tired eyes, and fixed them once again upon the +landscape. + +He supposed the long rides on two successive days had exhausted him +physically; and the strain of securing and ensuring the safety and +happiness of the woman who was dearer to him than life, had reacted now +in a mental lassitude which seemed unable to rise up and face the +prospect of the lonely years to come. + +The thought of her as now with the Knight, did not cause him suffering. +His one anxiety was lest anything unforeseen should arise, to prevent +the full fruition of their happiness. + +He had never loved her as a man loves the woman he would wed;--at +least, if that side of his love had attempted to arise, it had +instantly been throttled and flung back. + +It seemed to him that, from the very beginning he had ever loved her as +Saint Joseph must have loved the maiden intrusted to his keeping--his, +yet not his; called, in the inspired dream, "Mary, thy wife"; but so +called only that he might have the right to guard and care for her--she +who was shrine of the Holiest, o'ershadowed by the power of the +Highest; Mother of God, most blessed Virgin forever. + +It seemed to the Bishop that his joy in watching over Mora, since his +appointment to the See of Worcester, had been such as Saint Joseph +could well have understood; and now he had accomplished the supreme +thing; and, in so doing, had left himself desolate. + +On the afternoon of the previous day, so soon as the body of the old +lay-sister had been removed from the Prioress's cell, the Bishop had +gathered together all those things which Mora specially valued and +which she had asked him to secure for her; mostly his gifts to her. + +The Sacramentaries, from which she so often made copies and +translations, now lay upon his table. + +His tired eyes dwelt upon them. How often he had watched the firm +white fingers opening those heavy clasps, and slowly turning the pages. + +The books remained; yet her presence was gone. + +His weary brain repeated, over and over, this obvious fact; then began +a hypothetical reversal of it. Supposing the books had gone, and her +presence had remained? . . . Presently a catalogue formed itself in +his mind of all those things which might have gone, unmissed, +unmourned, if her dear presence had remained. . . . Before long the +Palace . . . the City . . . the Cathedral itself . . . all had swelled +the list. . . . He was alone with Mora and the sunset; . . . and the +battlements of glory were the radiant walls of heaven; . . . and soon +he and she were walking up old Mary Antony's golden stair +together. . . . + +Hush! . . . "So He giveth His beloved sleep." + + * * * * * * + +The Bishop had but just returned from laying to rest, in the +burying-ground of the Convent, the worn-out body of the aged lay-sister. + +When he had signified that he intended himself to perform the last +rites, Mother Sub-Prioress had ventured upon amazed expostulation. + +Such an honour had never, in the history of the Community, been +accorded even to the Canonesses, much less to a lay-sister. Surely +Father Peter--or the Prior? Had it been the Prioress herself, why +then---- + +Few can remember the petrifying effect of a flash of sudden anger in +the kindly eyes of Symon of Worcester. Mother Sub-Prioress will never +forget it. + +So, with as much pomp and circumstance as if she had been Prioress of +the White Ladies, old Mary Antony's humble remains were laid in that +plot in the Convent burying-ground which she had chosen for herself, +half a century before. + +Much sorrow was shewn, by the entire Community. The great loss they +had sustained by the mysterious passing of the Prioress from their +midst, weighed heavily upon them; and seemed, in some way which they +could not fathom, to be connected with the death of the old lay-sister. + +As the solemn procession slowly wended its way from the Chapel, along +the Cypress Walk, and so, across the orchard, to the burying-ground, +the tears which ran down the chastened faces of the nuns, were as much +a tribute of love to their late Prioress, as a sign of sorrow for the +loss of Mary Antony. The little company of lay-sisters sobbed without +restraint. Sister Abigail, so often called "noisy hussy" by old +Antony, fully, on this final occasion, justified the name. + +As the procession was re-forming to leave the grave, Sister Mary +Seraphine felt that the moment had now arrived, old Antony being +disposed of, when she might suitably become the centre of attention, +and be carried, on the return journey. She therefore fell prone upon +the ground, in a fainting fit. + +The Bishop, his chaplain, the priests and acolytes, paused uncertain +what to do. + +Sister Teresa, and other nuns, would have hastened to raise her, but +the command of Mother Sub-Prioress rang sharp and clear. + +"Let her lie! If she choose to remain with the Dead, it is but small +loss to the Living." + +And with hands devoutly crossed upon her breast, ferret face peering to +right and left from out the curtain of her veil, Mother Sub-Prioress +moved forward at the head of the nuns. + +The Bishop's procession, which had wavered, continued to lead the way; +solemn chanting began; and, as the Bishop turned into the Cypress Walk +he saw the flying figure of Mary Seraphine running among the trees in +the orchard, trying to catch up, and to take her place again, +unnoticed, among the rest. + +The Bishop smiled, remembering his many talks with the Prioress +concerning Seraphine, and the Knight's dismay when he feared they were +foisting the wayward nun upon him. + +Then he sighed as he realised that the control of the Convent had now +passed into the able hands of Mother Sub-Prioress; and that, in these +unusual circumstances, the task of selecting and appointing a new +Prioress, fell to him. + +Perhaps his conversations on this subject, first with the Prior, and +later on with Mother Sub-Prioress, partly accounted for his extreme +fatigue, now that he found himself at last alone in his library. + + +But the reward of those "whose strength is to sit still," had come to +the Bishop. + +Soon after he fixed his eyes upon the Gregorian and Gelasian +Sacramentaries, his eyelids gently began to droop. Sleep was already +upon him when he decided to let the Palace, the City, yea, even the +Cathedral go, if he might but keep the Prioress. And as he walked with +Mora up the golden stair, his mind was at rest; his weary body slept. + +A very few minutes of sleep sufficed the Bishop. + +He awoke as suddenly as he had fallen asleep; and, as he awoke, he +seemed to hear himself say: "Nay, Hugh. None save the old lay-sister, +Mary Antony." + +He sat up, wondering what this sentence could mean; also when and where +it had been spoken. + +As he wondered, his eye fell upon the white stone which he had flung +into the Severn, and which the Knight, diving from the parapet, had +retrieved from the river bed. The stone seemed in some way connected +with this chance sentence which had repeated itself in his brain. + +The Bishop rose, walked over to his deed chest, took the white stone in +his hand and stood motionless, his eyes fixed upon it, wrapped in +thought. Then he passed out on to the lawn, and paced slowly to and +fro between the archway leading from the courtyard, to the parapet +overlooking the river. + +Yes; it was here. + +He had ridden in on Shulamite, from the heights above the town, whence +he had watched the Prioress ride in the river meadow. + +He had found Hugh d'Argent awaiting him, and together they had paced +this lawn in earnest conversation. + +Hugh had been anxious to hear every detail of his visit to the Convent +and the scene in the Prioress's cell when he had shewn her the copy of +the Pope's mandate, just received from Rome. In speaking of the +possible developments which might take place in the course of the next +few hours, Hugh had asked whether any in the Convent, beside Mora +herself, knew of his presence in Worcester, or that he had managed to +obtain entrance to the cloisters by the crypt passage, to make his way +disguised to Mora's cell, and to have speech with her. + +The Bishop had answered that none knew of this, save the old lay-sister +Mary Antony, who was wholly devoted to the Prioress, made shrewd by +ninety years of experience in outwitting her superiors, and could be +completely trusted. + +"How came she to know?" the Bishop seemed to remember that the Knight +had asked. And he had made answer that he had as yet no definite +information, but was inclined to suspect that when the Prioress had +bidden the old woman begone, she had slipped into some place of +concealment from whence she had seen and heard something of what passed +in the cell. + +To this the Knight had made no comment; and now, walking up and down +the lawn, the white stone in his hand, the Bishop could not feel sure +how far Hugh had taken in the exact purport of the words; yet well he +knew that sentences which pass almost unnoticed when heard with a mind +preoccupied, are apt to return later on, with full significance, should +anything occur upon which they shed a light. + +This then was the complication which had brought the Bishop out to pace +the lawn, recalling each step in the conversation, there where it had +taken place. + +Sooner or later, Mora will tell her husband of Mary Antony's wondrous +vision. If she reaches the conclusion, uninterrupted, all will be +well. The Knight will realise the importance of concealing the fact of +the old lay-sister's knowledge--by non-miraculous means--of his +presence in the cell, and his suit to the Prioress. But should she +preface her recital by remarking that none in the Community had +knowledge of his visit, the Knight will probably at once say: "Nay, +there you are mistaken! I have it from the Bishop that the old +lay-sister, Mary Antony, knew of it, having stayed hidden where she saw +and heard much that passed; yet being very faithful, and more than +common shrewd, could--so said the Bishop--be most completely trusted." + +Whereupon irreparable harm would be done; for, at once, Mora would +realise that she had been deceived; and her peace of mind and calm of +conscience would be disturbed, if not completely overthrown. + +One thing seemed clear to the Bishop. + +Hugh must be warned. Probably no harm had as yet been done. The +vision was so sacred a thing to Mora, that weeks might elapse before +she spoke of it to her husband. + +With as little delay as possible Hugh must be put upon his guard. + + + + +CHAPTER XLII + +THE WARNING + +Alert, determined, all trace of lassitude departed, the Bishop returned +to the library, laid the stone upon the deed chest, sat down at a table +and wrote a letter. He had made up his mind as to what must be said, +and not once did he pause or hesitate over a word. + +While still writing, he lifted his left hand and struck upon a silver +gong. + +When his servant entered, the Bishop spoke without raising his eyes +from the table. + +"Request Brother Philip to come here, without loss of time." + +When the Bishop, having signed his letter, laid down the pen, and +looked up, Brother Philip stood before him. + +"Philip," said the Bishop, "select a trustworthy messenger from among +the stable men, one possessed of wits as well as muscle; mount him on a +good beast, supply him with whatsoever he may need for a possible six +days' journey. Bring him to me so soon as he is ready to set forth. +He must bear a letter, of much importance, to Sir Hugh d'Argent; and, +seeing that I know only the Knight's route and stopping places, on his +northward ride, but not his time of starting, which may have been +yesterday or may not be until to-morrow, my messenger must ride first +to Warwick, which if the Knight has left, he must then follow in his +tracks until he overtake him." + +"My lord," said Brother Philip, "the sun is setting and the daylight +fades. The messenger cannot now reach Warwick until long after +nightfall. Would it not be safer to have all in readiness, and let him +start at dawn. He would then arrive early in the day, and could +speedily overtake the most worshipful Knight who, riding with his lady, +will do the journey by short stages." + +"Nay," said the Bishop, "the matter allows of no delay. Mount him so +well, that he shall outdistance all dangers. He must start within half +an hour." + +Brother Philip, bowing low, withdrew. + +The Bishop bent again over the table, and read what he had written. +Glancing quickly through the opening greetings, he considered carefully +what followed. + + +_"This comes to you, my son, by messenger, riding in urgent haste, +because the advice herein contained is of extreme importance. + +"On no account let Mora know that which I told you here, four days +since, as we paced the lawn; namely: that the old lay-sister, Mary +Antony, was aware of your visit to the Convent, and had, from some +place of concealment, seen and heard much of what passed in Mora's +cell. How far you realised this, when I made mention of it, I know +not. You made no comment. It mattered little, then; but has now +become a thing of extreme importance. + +"On that morning, finding the old lay-sister knew more than any +supposed, and was wholly devoted to the Prioress, I had chanced to +remark to her as I rode out of the courtyard that the Reverend Mother +would thrust happiness from her with both hands unless our Lady herself +offered it, by vision or revelation. + +"Whereupon, my dear Knight, that faithful old heart using wits she had +prayed our Lady to sharpen, contrived a vision of her own devising, so +wondrously contrived, so excellently devised, that Mora--not dreaming +of old Antony's secret knowledge--could not fail to believe it true. +In fact, my son, you may praise heaven for an old woman's wits, for, as +you will doubtless some day hear from Mora herself, they gave you your +wife! + +"But beware lest any chance words of yours lead Mora to suspect the +genuineness of the vision. It would cost HER her peace of mind. It +might cost YOU her presence. + +"Meanwhile the aged lay-sister died yesterday, after having mystified +the entire Community by locking herself into the Prioress's cell, and +remaining there, from the time she found it empty when the nuns +returned from Vespers, until I arrived on the following afternoon. She +thus prevented any questionings concerning Mora's flight, and averted +possible scandal. But the twenty-four hours without food or drink cost +the old woman her life. A faithful heart indeed, and a most shrewd wit! + +"Some day, if occasion permit, I will recount to you the full story of +Mary Antony's strategy. It is well worth the hearing. + +"I trust your happiness is complete; and hers, Hugh, hers! + +"But we must take no risks; and never must we forget that, in dealing +with Mora, we are dealing with the heart of a nun. + +"Therefore, my son, be wary. Heaven grant this may reach you without +delay, and in time to prevent mischief."_ + + +When the messenger, fully equipped for his journey, was brought before +the Bishop by Brother Philip, this letter lay ready, sealed, and +addressed to Sir Hugh d'Argent, at Warwick Castle in the first place, +but failing there, to each successive stopping place upon the northward +road, including Castle Norelle, which, the Bishop had gathered, was to +be reached on the seventh day after leaving Warwick. + +So presently the messenger swung into the saddle, and rode out through +the great gates. In a leathern wallet at his belt, was the letter, and +a good sum of money for his needs on the journey; and in his somewhat +stolid mind, the Bishop's very simple instructions--simple, yet given +with so keen a look, transfixing the man, that it seemed to the honest +fellow he had received them from the point of a blue steel blade. + +He was to ride to Warwick, without drawing rein; to wake the porter at +the gate, and the seneschal within, no matter at what hour he arrived. +If the Knight were still at the Castle, the letter must be placed in +his hands so soon as he left his chamber in the morning. But had he +already gone from Warwick, the messenger, after food and rest for +himself and his horse, was to ride on to the next stage and, if +needful, to the next, until he overtook Sir Hugh and delivered into his +own hands, with as much secrecy as possible, the letter. + + +The Bishop passed along the gallery, after the messenger had left the +library, mounted to the banqueting hall and watched him ride away, from +that casement, overlooking the courtyard, from which Hugh had looked +down upon the arrival of Roger de Berchelai, bringing the letter from +Rome. + +A great relief filled the mind of the Bishop as he heard the clattering +hoofs of the fastest nag in his stables, ring on the paving stones +without, and die away in the distance. + +A serious danger would be averted, if the Knight were warned in time. + +The Bishop prayed that his letter might reach Hugh's hands before Mora +was moved to speak to him of Mary Antony's vision. + +He blamed himself bitterly for not having sooner recalled that +conversation on the lawn. How easy it would have been, after hearing +Mora's story in the arbour, to have given Hugh a word of caution before +leaving Warwick. + +Just after sunset, one of the Bishop's men, who had remained behind at +Warwick, reached the Palace, bringing news that the Knight, his Lady, +and their entire retinue, had ridden out from Warwick in the afternoon +of the previous day. + +The Bishop chafed at the delay this must involve, yet rejoiced at the +prompt beginning of the homeward journey, having secretly feared lest +Hugh should find some difficulty in persuading his bride to set forth +with him. + +After all, they were but two days ahead of the messenger who, by fast +riding, might overtake them on the morrow. Mistress Deborah, even on a +pillion, should prove a substantial impediment to rapid progress. + +But, alas, before noon on the day following, Brother Philip appeared in +haste, with an anxious countenance. + +The messenger had returned, footsore and exhausted, bruised and +wounded, with scarce a rag to his back. + +In the forest, while still ten miles from Warwick, overtaken by the +darkness, he had met a band of robbers, who had taken his horse and all +he possessed, leaving him for dead, in a ditch by the wayside. Being +but stunned and badly bruised, when he came to himself he thought it +best to make his way back to Worcester and there report his +misadventure. + +The Bishop listened to this luckless tale in silence. + +When it was finished he said, gently: "My good Philip, thou art proved +right, and I, wrong. Had I been guided by thee, I should not have lost +a good horse, nor--which is of greater importance at this +juncture--twenty-four hours of most precious time." + +Brother Philip made a profound obeisance, looking deeply ashamed of his +own superior foresight and wisdom, and miserably wishful that the +Reverend Father had been right, and he, wrong. + +"However," continued the Bishop, after a moment of rapid thought, "I +must forgo the melancholy luxury of meditating upon my folly, until +after we have taken prompt measures, so far as may be, to put right the +mischief it has wrought. + +"This time, my good Philip, you shall be the bearer of my letter. Take +with you, as escort, two of our men--more, if you think needful. Ride +straight from here, by the most direct route to Castle Norelle, the +home of the noble Countess, lately wedded to Sir Hugh. I will make you +a plan of the road. + +"If, when you reach the place, Sir Hugh and his bride have arrived, ask +to have speech with the Knight alone, and put the letter into his own +hands. But if they are yet on the way, ride to meet them, by a road I +will clearly indicate. Only be careful to keep out of sight of all +save the Knight or his body-servant, Martin Goodfellow. + +"The letter delivered, and the answer in thy hands, return, to me as +speedily as may be, without overpressing men or steeds. How soon canst +thou set forth?" + +"Within the hour, my lord," said Brother Philip, joyfully, cured of his +shame by this call to immediate service; "with an escort of three, that +we may ride by night as well as by day." + +"Good," said the Bishop; and, as the lay-brother, bowing low, hastened +from the chamber, Symon of Worcester drew toward him writing materials, +and penned afresh his warning to the Knight; not at such length as in +the former missive, but making very clear the need for silence +concerning Mary Antony's previous knowledge of his visit to the +Nunnery, lest Mora should come to doubt the genuineness of the vision +which had brought her to her great decision, and which in very truth +had been wholly contrived by the loving heart and nimble wits of Mary +Antony. + + +So once again the Bishop stood at the casement in the banqueting hall; +and, looking down into the courtyard, saw faithful Philip, with an +escort fully armed, ride out at the Palace gates. + +No time had been lost in repairing the mistake. Yet there was heavy +foreboding at the Bishop's heart, as he paced slowly down the hall. + +Greatly he feared lest this twenty-four hours' delay should mean +mischief wrought, which could never be undone. + +Passing into the chapel, he kneeled long before the shrine of Saint +Joseph praying, with an intense fervour of petition, that his warning +might reach the Knight before any word had passed his lips which could +shake Mora's belief in that which was to her the sole justification for +the important step she had taken. + +The Bishop prayed and fasted; fasted, prayed, and kept vigil. And all +the night through, in thought, he followed Brother Philip and his +escort as they rode northward, through the forests, up the glens, and +over the moors, making direct for Mora's home, to which she and Hugh +were travelling by a more roundabout way. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIII + +MORA MOUNTS TO THE BATTLEMENTS + +The moonlight, shining in at the open casement, illumined, with its +clear radiance, the chamber which had been, during the years of her +maidenhood, Mora de Norelle's sleeping apartment. + +It held many treasures of childhood. Every familiar thing within it, +whispered of the love and care of those long passed into the realm of +silence and of mystery; a noble father, slain in battle; a gentle +mother, unable to survive him, the call to her of the spirit of her +Warrior, being more compelling than the need of the beautiful young +daughter, to whom both had been devoted. + +The chamber seemed to Mora full of tender and poignant memories. + +How many girlish dreams had been dreamed while her healthy young body +rested upon that couch, after wild gallops over the moors, or a long +day's climbing among the rocky hills, searching for rare ferns and +flowers to transplant into her garden. + +In this room she had mourned her father, with her strong young arms +wrapped around her weeping mother. + +In this room she had wept for her mother, with none to comfort her, +saving the faithful nurse, Deborah. + +To this room she had fled in wrath, after the scene with, her +half-sister, Eleanor, who had tried to despoil her of her heritage--the +noble Castle and lands left to her by her father, and confirmed to her, +with succession to her father's title, by the King. These Eleanor +desired for her son; but neither bribes nor cajolery, threats, nor +cruel insinuations, had availed to induce Mora to give up her rightful +possession--the home of her childhood. + +Before the effects of this storm had passed, Hugh d'Argent had made his +first appearance upon the scene, riding into the courtyard as a King's +messenger, but also making himself known to the young Countess as a +near neighbour, heir to a castle and lands, not far distant, among the +Cumberland hills. + +With both it had been love at first sight. His short and ardent +courtship had, unbeknown to him, required not so much to win her heart, +as to overcome her maidenly resistance, rendered stubborn by the +consciousness that her heart had already ranged itself on the side of +her lover. + +When at last, vanquished by his eager determination, she had yielded +and become betrothed to him, it had seemed to her that life could hold +no sweeter joy. + +But he, hard to content, ever headstrong and eager, already having +taken the cross, and being now called at once to join the King in +Palestine, begged for immediate marriage that he might take her with +him to the Court of the new Queen, to which his cousin Alfrida had +already been summoned; or, if he must leave her behind, at least leave +her, not affianced maid, but wedded wife. + +Here Eleanor and her husband had interposed; and, assuming the position +of natural guardians, had refused to allow the marriage to take place. +This necessitated the consent of the King, which could not be obtained, +he being in the Holy Land; and Hugh had no wish to make application to +the Queen-mother, then acting regent during the absence of the King; or +to allow his betrothed to be brought again into association with the +Court at Windsor. + +Mora--secretly glad to keep yet a little longer the sweet bliss of +betrothal, with its promise of unknown yet deeper joys to +come--resisted Hugh's attempts to induce her to defy Eleanor, flout her +wrongful claim to authority, and wed him without obtaining the Royal +sanction. Steeped in the bliss of having taken one step into an +unimagined state of happiness, she felt no necessity or inclination +hurriedly to take another. + +Yet when, upheld by the ecstasy of those final moments together, she +had let him go, as she watched him ride away, a strange foreboding of +coming ill had seized her, and a restless yearning, which she could not +understand, yet which she knew would never be stilled until she could +clasp his head again to her breast, feel his crisp hair in her fingers, +and know him safe, and her own. + +This chamber then had witnessed long hours of prayer and vigil, as she +knelt at the shrine in the nook between the casements, beseeching our +Lady and Saint Joseph for the safe return of her lover. + +Then came the news of Hugh's supposed perfidy; and from this chamber +she had gone forth to hide her broken heart in the sacred refuge of the +Cloister; to offer to God and the service of Holy Church, the life +which had been robbed of all natural joys by the faithlessness of a man. + + +And this had happened eight years ago, as men count time. But as nuns +count it? And lovers? A lifetime? A night? + +It had seemed indeed a lifetime to the Prioress of the White Ladies, +during the first days of her return to the world. But to the woman who +now kneeled at the casement, drinking in the balmy sweetness of the +summer night, looking with soft yearning eyes at the well-remembered +landscape flooded in silvery moonlight, it seemed--a night. + +A night--since she stood on the battlements, her lover's arms about her. + +A night--since she said: "Thou wilt come back to me, Hugh. . . . My +love will ever be around thee as a silver shield." + +A night--since, as the last words he should hear from her lips, she had +said: "Maid or wife, God knows I am all thine own. Thine, and none +other's, forever." + +Of all the memories connected with this chamber, the clearest to-night +was of the hungry ache at her heart, when Hugh had gone. It had seemed +to her then that never could that ache be stilled, until she could once +again clasp his head to her breast. She knew now that it never had +been stilled. Dulled, ignored, denied; called by other names; but +stilled--never. + +On this night it was as sweetly poignant as on that other night eight +years ago, when she had slowly descended to this very room, from the +moonlit battlements. + +Yet to-night she was maid _and_ wife. Moreover Hugh was here, under +this very roof. Yet had he bidden her a grave good-night, without so +much as touching her hand. Yet his dark eyes had said: "I love thee." + +Kneeling at the casement, Mora reviewed the days since they rode forth +from Warwick. + +It had been a wondrous experience for her--she, who had been Prioress +of the White Ladies--thus to ride out into the radiant, sunny world. + +Hugh was ever beside her, watchful, tender, shielding her from any +possible pain or danger, yet claiming nothing, asking nothing, for +himself. + +One night, not being assured of the safety of the place where they +lodged, she found afterwards that he had lain all night across the +threshold of the chamber within which she and Debbie slept. + +Another night she saw him pacing softly up and down beneath her window. + +Yet when each morning came, and they began a new day together, he +greeted her gaily, with clear eye and unclouded brow; not as one +chilled or disappointed, or vexed to be kept from his due. + +And oh, the wonder of each new day! The glory of those rides over the +mossy softness of the woodland paths, where the sunlight fell, in +dancing patches, through the thick, moving foliage, and shy deer peeped +from the bracken, with soft eyes and gentle movements; out on to the +wild liberty of the moors, where Icon, snuffing the fresher air, would +stretch his neck and gallop for pure joy at having left cobbled streets +and paved courtyards far behind him. And ever they rode northward, and +home drew nearer. Looking back upon those long hours spent alone +together, Mora realised how simply and easily she had grown used to +being with Hugh, and how entirely this was due to his unselfishness and +tact. He talked with her constantly; yet never of his own feelings +regarding her. + +He told her of his adventures in Eastern lands; of the happenings in +England during the past eight years, so far as he had been able to +learn them; of his home and property; of hers, and of the welcome which +awaited her from her people. + +He never spoke of the Convent, nor of the eventful days through which +he and she had so recently passed. + +So successfully did he dominate her mind in this, that almost it seemed +to her she too was returning home after a long absence in a foreign +land. + +Her mind awoke to unrestrained enjoyment of each hour, and to the keen +anticipation of the traveller homeward bound. + +Each day spent in Hugh's company seemed to wipe out one, or more, of +the intervening years, so that when, toward evening, on the seventh +day, the grey turrets of her old home came in sight, it might have been +but yesterday they had parted, on those same battlements, and she had +watched him ride away, until the firwood from which they were now +emerging, had hidden him from view. + +Kneeling at her casement, her mind seemed lost in a whirlpool of +emotion, as she reviewed the hour of their arrival. The road up to the +big gates--every tree and hillock, every stock and stone, loved and +familiar, recalling childish joys and sorrows, adventure and +enterprise. Then the passing in through the gates, the familiar faces, +the glad greetings; Zachary--white-haired, but still rosy and +stalwart--at the foot of the steps; and, in the doorway, just where +loneliness might have gripped her, old Debbie, looking as if she had +never been away, waiting with open arms. So this was the moment +foreseen by Hugh when he had planned an early start, that morning, for +Mistress Deborah, and a more roundabout ride for her. + +She turned, with an impulsive gesture, holding out to him her left +hand, that he might cross the threshold with her. But the Knight was +stooping to examine the right forehoof of her palfrey, she having +fancied Icon had trod tenderly upon it during the last half-mile; so +she passed in alone. + +Afterwards she overheard old Debbie say, in her most scolding tones: +"She did stretch out her hand to you, Sir Hugh, and you saw it not!" +But the Knight's deep voice made courteous answer: "There is no look or +gesture of hers, however slight, good Mistress Deborah, which doth +escape me." And at this her heart thrilled far more than if he had met +her hand, responsive; knowing that thus he did faithfully keep his +pledge to her, and that he could so keep it, only by never relaxing his +stern hold upon himself. + +Yet almost she began to wish him less stern and less faithful, so much +did she long to feel for one instant the strong clasp of his arms about +her. By his rigid adherence to his promise, she felt herself punished +for having shuddered. Why had she shuddered? . . . Would she shudder +now? This wonderful first evening had quickly passed, in going from +chamber to chamber, walking in the gardens, and supping with Hugh in +the dining-hall, waited on by Mark and Beaumont, with Zachary to +supervise, pour the wine, and stand behind her chair. + +Then a final walk on the terrace; a grave good-night upon the stairs; +and, at last, this time of quiet thought, in her own chamber. + +She could not realise that she was wedded to Hugh; but her heart awoke +to the fact that truly she was betrothed to him. And she was +happy--deeply happy. + +Leaving the casement, she kneeled before the shrine of the +Virgin--there where she had put up so many impassioned prayers for the +safe return of her lover. + +"Blessed Virgin," she said, "I thank thee for sending me home." + +Years seemed to roll from her. She felt herself a child again. She +longed for her mother's understanding tenderness. Failing that, she +turned to the sweet Mother of God. + +The image before which she knelt, shewed our Lady standing, tall and +fair and gracious, the Infant Saviour, seated upon her left hand, her +right hand holding Him leaning against her, His baby arms outstretched. +Neither the Babe nor His Mother smiled. Each looked grave and somewhat +sad. + +"Home," whispered Mora. "Blessed Virgin I thank thee for sending me +home." + +"Nay," answered a voice within her. "I sent thee not home. I gave +thee to him to whom thou didst belong. He hath brought thee home. +What said the vision? 'Take her. She is thine own. I have but kept +her for thee.'" + +Yet Hugh knew naught of this gracious message--knew naught of the +vision which had given her to him. Until to-night she had felt it +impossible to tell him of it. Now she longed that he should share with +her the wonder. + +She sought her couch, but sleep would not come. The moonlight was too +bright; the room too sweetly familiar. Moreover it seemed but +yesterday that she had parted from Hugh, in such an ecstasy of love and +sorrow, up on the battlements. + +A great desire seized her to mount to those battlements, and to stand +again just where she had stood when she bade him farewell. + +She rose. + +Among the garments put ready for her use, chanced to be the robe of +sapphire velvet which she had worn on that night. + +She put it on; with jewels at her breast and girdle. Then, with the +mantle of ermine falling from her shoulders, and her beautiful hair +covering her as a veil, she left her chamber, passed softly along the +passage, found the winding stair, and mounted to the ramparts. + +As she stepped out from the turret stairway, she exclaimed at the +sublime beauty of the scene before her; the sleeping world at midnight, +bathed in the silvery light of the moon; the shadows of the firs, lying +like black bars across the road to the Castle gate. + +"There I watched him ride away," she said, with a sweep of her arm +toward the road, "watched, until the dark woods swallowed him. And +here"--with a sweep toward the turret--"here, we parted." + +She turned; then caught her breath. + +Leaning against the wall with folded arms, stood Hugh. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIV + +"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 beloved," 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 blessed 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 blessed 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 beloved," 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 beloved," 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. + + + + +CHAPTER XLV + +THE SONG OF THE THRUSH + +The morning sun already poured into her room, when Mora opened her +eyes, waking suddenly with that complete wide-awakeness which follows +upon profound and dreamless slumber. + +Even as she woke, her heart said: "Our bridal day! The day I give +myself to Hugh! The day he leads me home." + +She stretched herself at full length upon the couch, her hands crossed +upon her breast, and let the delicious joy of her love sweep over her, +from the soles of her feet to the crown of her head. + +The world without lay bathed in sunshine; her heart within was flooded +by the radiance of this new and perfect realisation of her love for +Hugh. + +She lay quite still while it enveloped her. + +Ten days ago, our Lady had given her to Hugh. + +Eight days ago, the Bishop, voicing the Church, had done the same. + +But to-day she--she herself--was going to give herself to her lover. + +This was the true bridal! For this he had waited. And the reward of +his chivalrous patience was to be, that to-day, of her own free will +she would say; "Hugh, my husband, take me home." + +She smiled to remember how, riding forth from the city gates of +Warwick, she had planned within herself that, once safely established +in her own castle, she would abide there days, weeks, perhaps even, +months! + +She stretched her arms wide, then flung them above her head. + +"Take me home," she whispered. "Hugh, my husband, take me home." + +A thrush in the coppice below, whistled in liquid notes: "_Do it now! +Do it now! Do it now!_" + +Laughing joyously, Mora leapt from her bed and looked out upon a sunny +summer's day, humming with busy life, fragrant with scent of flowers, +thrilling with songs of birds. + +"What a bridal morn!" she cried. "All nature says 'Awake! Arise!' Yet +I have slept so late. I must quickly prepare myself to find and to +greet my lover." + +"_Do it now!_" sang the thrush. + + +Half an hour later, fresh and fragrant as the morn, Mora left her +chamber and made her way to the great staircase. + +Hearing shouting in the courtyard, and the trampling of horses' feet, +she paused at a casement, and looked down. + +To her surprise she saw the well-remembered figure of Brother Philip, +mounted; with him three other horsemen wearing the Bishop's livery, and +Martin Goodfellow leading Hugh's favourite steed, ready saddled. + +Much perplexed, she passed down the staircase, and out on to the +terrace where she had bidden them to prepare the morning meal. + +From the terrace she looked into the banqueting hall, and her +perplexity grew; for there Hugh d'Argent, booted and spurred, ready for +a journey, strode up and down. + +For two turns she watched him, noting his knitted brows, and the heavy +forward thrust of his chin. + +Then, lifting his eyes as he swung round for the third time, he saw +her, outside in the sunlight; such a vision of loveliness as might well +make a man's heart leap. + +He paused in his rapid walk, and stood as if rooted to the spot, making +no move toward her. + +For a moment, Mora hesitated. + +"_Do it now!_" sang the thrush. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVI + +"HOW SHALL I LET THEE GO?" + +Mora passed swiftly into the banqueting hall. + +"Hugh," she said, and came to him. "Hugh, my husband, this is our +bridal day. Will you take me to our home?" + +His eyes, as they met hers, were full of a dumb misery. + +Then a fierce light of passion, a look of wild recklessness, flashed +into them. He raised his arms, to catch her to him; then let them fall +again, glancing to right and left, as if seeking some way of escape. + +But, seeing the amazement on her face, he mastered, by a mighty effort, +his emotion, and spoke with calmness and careful deliberation. + +"Alas, Mora," he said, "it is a hard fate indeed for me on this day, of +all days, to be compelled to leave thee. But in the early morn there +came a letter which obliges me, without delay, to ride south, in order +to settle a matter of extreme importance. I trust not to be gone +longer than nine days. You, being safely established in your own home, +amongst your own people, I can leave without anxious fears. Moreover, +Martin Goodfellow will remain here representing me, and will in all +things do your bidding." + +"From whom is this letter, Hugh, which takes you from me, on such a +day?" + +"It is from a man well known to me, dwelling in a city four days' +journey from here." + +"Why not say at once: 'It is from the Bishop, written from his Palace +in the city of Worcester'?" + +Hugh frowned. + +"How knew you that?" he asked, almost roughly. + +"My dear Knight, hearing much champing of horses in my courtyard, I +looked down from a casement and saw a lay-brother well known to me, and +three other horsemen wearing the Bishop's livery. What can Symon of +Worcester have written which takes you from me on this day, of all +days?" + +"That I cannot tell thee," he made answer. "But he writes, without +much detail, of a matter about which I must know fullest details, +without loss of time. I have no choice but to ride and see the Bishop, +face to face. It is not a question which can be settled by writing nor +could it wait the passing to and fro of messengers. Believe me, Mora, +it is urgent. Naught but exceeding urgency could force me from thee on +this day." + +"Has it to do with my flight from the Convent?" she asked. + +He bowed his head. + +"Will you tell me the matter on your return, Hugh?" + +"I know not," he answered, with face averted. "I cannot say." Then +with sudden violence: "Oh, my God, Mora, ask me no more! See the +Bishop, I must! Speak with him, I must! In nine days at the very +most, I will be back with thee. Duty takes me, my beloved, or I would +not go." + +Her mind responded instinctively to the word "duty," "Go then, dear +Knight," she said. "Settle this business with Symon of Worcester. I +have no desire to know its purport. If it concerns my flight from the +Convent, surely the Pope's mandate is all-sufficient. But, be it what +it may, in the hands of my faithful Knight and of my trusted friend, +the Bishop, I may safely leave it. I do but ask that, the work +accomplished, you come with all speed back to me." + +With a swift movement he dropped on one knee at her feet. + +"Send me away with a blessing," he said. "Bless me before I go." + +She laid her hands on the bowed head. + +"Alas!" she cried, "how shall I let thee go?" + +Then, pushing her fingers deeper into his hair and bending over him, +with infinite tenderness: "How shall thy wife bless thee?" she +whispered. + +He caught his breath, as the fragrance of the newly gathered roses at +her bosom reached and enveloped him. + +"Bless me," he said, hoarsely, "as the Prioress of the White Ladies +used to bless her nuns, and the Poor at the Convent gate." + +"Dear Heart," she said, and smiled. "That seems so long ago!" Then, as +with bent head he still waited, she steadied her voice, lifting her +hands from off him; then laid them back upon his head, with reverent +and solemn touch. "The Lord bless thee," she said, "and keep thee; and +may our blessed Lady, who hath restored me to thee, bring thee safely +back to me again." + +At that, Hugh raised his head and looked up into her face, and the +misery in his eyes stirred her tenderness as it had never been stirred +by the vivid love-light or the soft depths of passion she had +heretofore seen in them. + +Her lips parted; her breath came quickly. She would have caught him to +her bosom; she would have kissed away this unknown sorrow; she would +have smothered the pain, in the sweetness of her embrace. + +But bending swiftly he lifted the hem of her robe and touched it with +his lips; then, rising, turned and left her without a word; without a +backward look. + +He left her standing there, alone in the banqueting hall. And as she +stood listening, with beating heart, to the sound of his voice raised +in command; to the quick movements of his horse's hoofs on the paving +stones, as he swung into the saddle; to the opening of the gates and +the riding forth of the little cavalcade, a change seemed to have come +over her. She ceased to feel herself a happy, yielding bride, a +traveller in distant lands, after long journeyings, once more at home. + +She seemed to be again Prioress of the White Ladies. The calm fingers +of the Cloister fastened once more upon her pulsing heart. The dignity +of office developed her. + +And wherefore? + +Was it because, when her lips had bent above him in surrendering +tenderness, her husband had chosen to give her the sign of reverent +homage accorded to a prioress, rather than the embrace which would have +sealed her surrender? + +Or was it because he had asked her to bless him as she had been wont to +bless the Poor at the Convent gate? + +Or was it the unconscious action of his mind upon hers, he being +suddenly called to face some difficulty which had arisen, concerning +their marriage, or the Bishop's share in her departure from the Nunnery? + +The clang of the closing gates sounded in her ears as a knell. + +She shivered; then remembered how she had shivered at sound of the +turning of the key in the lock of the crypt-way door. How great the +change wrought by eight days of love and liberty. She had shuddered +then at being irrevocably shut out from the Cloister. She shuddered +now because the arrival of a messenger from the Bishop, and something +indefinable in Hugh's manner, had caused her to look back. + +She stood quite still. None came to seek her. She seemed to have +turned to stone. + +It was not the first time this looking back had had a petrifying effect +upon a woman. She remembered Lot's wife, going forward led by the +gentle pressure of an angel's hand, yet looking back the moment that +pressure was removed. + +She had gone forward, led by the sweet angel of our Lady's gracious +message. Why should she look back? Rather would she act upon the +sacred precept: "Forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching +forth unto those things which are before"--this, said the apostle Saint +Paul, was the one thing to do. Undoubtedly now it was the one and only +thing for her to do; leaving all else which might have to be done, to +her husband and to the Bishop. + +"This one thing I do," she said aloud; "this one thing I do." And +moving forward, in the strength of that resolve, she passed out into +the sunshine. + +"_Do it now!_" sang the thrush, in the rowan-tree. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVII + +THE BISHOP IS TAKEN UNAWARES + +Symon of Worcester, seated before a table in the library, pondered a +letter which had reached him the evening before, brought by a messenger +from the Vatican. + +It was a call to return to the land he loved best; the land of sunshine +and flowers, of soft speech and courteous ways; the land of heavenly +beauty and seraphic sounds; and, moreover, to return as a Cardinal of +Holy Church. + +His acceptance or refusal must be penned before night. The messenger +expected to start upon his return journey early on the morrow. + +Should he go? Or should he stay? + +Was all now well for Mora? Or did she yet need him? + +Surely never had Cardinal's hat hung poised for such a reason! How +little would the Holy Father dream that a question affecting the +happiness or unhappiness of a woman could be a cause of hesitancy. + +Presently, with a quick movement, the Bishop lifted his head. The +library was far removed from the courtyard; but surely he heard the +clatter of horses' hoofs upon the raving stones. + +He had hardly hoped for Brother Philip's return until after sunset; +yet--with fast riding---- + +If the Knight's answer were in all respects satisfactory--If Mora's +happiness was assured--why, then---- + +He sounded the silver gong. + +His servant entered. + +"What horsemen have just now ridden into the courtyard, Jasper?" + +"My lord, Brother Philip has this moment returned, and with him----" + +"Bid Brother Philip to come hither, instantly." + +"May it please you, my lord----" + +"Naught will please me," said the Bishop, "but that my commands be +obeyed without parley or delay." + +Jasper's obeisance took him through the door. + +The Bishop bent over the letter from Rome, shading his face with his +hand. + +He could scarcely contain his anxiety; but he did not wish to give +Brother Philip occasion to observe his tremulous eagerness to receive +the Knight's reply. + +He heard the door open and close, and a firm tread upon the floor. It +struck him, even then, that the lay-brother had not been wont to enter +his presence with so martial a stride, and he wondered at the ring of +spurs. But his mind was too intently set upon Hugh d'Argent's letter, +to do more than unconsciously notice these things. + +"Thou art quickly returned, my good Philip," he said, without looking +round. "Thou has done better than my swiftest expectations. Didst +thou give my letter thyself into the hands of Sir Hugh d'Argent, and +hast thou brought me back an answer from that most noble Knight?" + +Wherefore did Brother Philip make no reply? + +Wherefore did his breath come sharp and short--not like a stout +lay-brother who has hurried; but, rather, like a desperate man who has +clenched his teeth to keep control of his tongue? + +The Bishop wheeled in his chair, and found himself looking full into +the face of Hugh d'Argent--Hugh, haggard, dusty, travel-stained, with +eyes, long strangers to sleep, regarding him with a sombre intensity. + +"You!" exclaimed the Bishop, surprised out of his usual gentle calm. +"You? Here!" + +"Yes, I," said the Knight, "I! Does it surprise you, my Lord Bishop, +that I should be here? Would it not rather surprise you, in view of +that which you saw fit to communicate to me by letter, that I should +fail to be here--and here as fast as horse could bring me?" + +"Naught surprises me," said the Bishop, testily. "I have lived so long +in the world, and had to do with so many crazy fools, that human +vagaries no longer have power to surprise me. And, by our Lady, Sir +Knight, I care not where you are, so that you have left safe and well, +her peace of mind undisturbed, the woman whom I--acting as mouthpiece +of the Pope and Holy Church--gave, not two weeks ago, into your care +and keeping." + +The Knight's frown was thunderous. + +"It might be well, my Lord Bishop, to leave our blessed Lady's name out +of this conversation. It hath too much been put to shameful and +treacherous use. Mora is safe and well. How far her peace of mind can +be left undisturbed, I am here to discover. I require, before aught +else, the entire truth." + +But the Bishop had had time to recover his equanimity. He rose with +his most charming smile, both hands out-stretched in gracious welcome. + +"Nay, my dear Knight, before aught else you require a bath! Truly it +offends my love of the beautiful to see you in this dusty plight." He +struck upon the gong. "Also you require a good meal, served with a +flagon of my famous Italian wine. You did well to come here in person, +my son. If naught hath been said to Mora, no harm is done; and +together we can doubly safeguard the matter. I rejoice that you have +come. But the strain of rapid travelling, when anxiety drives, is +great. . . . Jasper, prepare a bath for Sir Hugh d'Argent in mine own +bath-chamber; cast into it some of that fragrant and refreshing powder +sent to me by the good brethren of Santa Maria Novella. While the +noble Knight bathes, lay out in the ante-chamber the complete suit of +garments he was wearing on the day when the sudden fancy seized him to +have a swim in our river. I conclude they have been duly dried and +pressed and laid by with sweet herbs? . . . Good. That is well. Now, +my dear Hugh, allow Jasper to attend you. He will give his whole mind +to your comfort. Send word to Brother Philip, Jasper, that I will +speak with him here." + +The Bishop accompanied the Knight to the door of the library; watched +him stride along the gallery, silent and sullen, in the wake of the +hastening Jasper; then turned and walked slowly back to the table, +smiling, and gently rubbing his hands together as he walked. + +He had gained time, and he had successfully regained his sense of +supremacy. Taken wholly by surprise, he had not felt able to cope with +this gaunt, dusty, desperately determined Knight. But the Knight would +leave more than mere travel stains behind, in the scented waters of the +bath! He would reappear clothed and in his right mind. A good meal +and a flagon of Italian wine would further improve that mind, mellowing +it and rendering it pliable and easy to convince; though truly it +passed comprehension why the Knight should need convincing, or of what! +Even more incomprehensible was it, that a man wedded to Mora, not two +weeks since, should of his own free will elect to leave her. + +The Bishop turned. + +Brother Philip stood in the doorway, bowing low. + +"Come in, my good Philip," said the Bishop; "come in, and shut the +door. . . . I must have thy report with fullest detail; but, time +being short, I would ask thee to begin from the moment when the +battlements of Castle Norelle came into view." + + + + +CHAPTER XLVIII + +A STRANGE CHANCE + +On the fourth day of her husband's absence, Mora climbed to the +battlements to watch the glories of a most gorgeous sunset. + +Also she loved to find herself again there where she and Hugh had spent +that wonderful hour in the moonlight, when she had told him of the +vision, and afterwards had given him the promise that on the morrow he +should take her to his home. + +She paused in the low archway at the top of the winding stair, +remembering how she had turned a moment there, to whisper: "I love +thee." Ah, how often she had said it since: "Dear man of mine, I love +thee! Come back to me safe; come back to me soon; I love thee!" + +That he should have had to leave her just as her love was ready to +respond to his, had caused that love to grow immeasurably in depth and +intensity. + +Also she now realised, more fully, his fine self-control, his +chivalrous consideration for her, his noble unselfishness. From the +first, he had been so perfect to her; and now her one desire was that, +if her love could give it, he should have his reward. + +Ah, when would he come! When would he come! + +She could not keep from shading her eyes and looking along the road to +the point where it left the fir wood, though this was but the fourth +day since Hugh's departure--the day on which, by fast riding and long +hours, he might arrive at Worcester--and the ninth was the very +earliest she dared hope for his return. + +How slowly, slowly, passed the days. Yet they were full of a quiet joy +and peace. + +From the moment when she had stepped out into the sunshine, resolved to +go steadily forward without looking back, she had thrown herself with +zest and pleasure into investigating and arranging her house and estate. + +Also, on the second day an idea had come to her with her first waking +thoughts, which she had promptly put into execution. + +Taking Martin Goodfellow with her she had ridden over to Hugh's home; +had found it, as she expected, greatly needing a woman's hand and mind, +and had set to work at once on those changes and arrangements most +needed, so that all should be in readiness when Hugh, returning, would +take her home. + +Under her direction the chamber which should be hers was put into +perfect order; her own things were transported thither, and all was +made so completely ready, that at any moment she and Hugh could start, +without need of baggage or attendants, and ride together home. + +This chamber had two doors, the one leading down a flight of steps on +to a terrace, the other opening directly into the great hall, the +central chamber of the house. + +Mora loved to stand in this doorway, looking into the noble apartment, +with its huge fireplace, massive carved chairs on either side of the +hearth, weapons on the walls, trophies of feats of arms, all those +things which made it home to Hugh, and to remember that of this place +he had said in his petition to our Lady: "Take pity on a lonely home, a +desolate hearth . . . and send her to me." + +No longer should it be lonely or desolate. Aye, and no longer should +his faithful heart be hungry. + +On this day she had been over for the third time, riding by the road, +because she and Martin both carried packages of garments and other +things upon their saddles; but returning by a shorter way through the +woods, silent and mossy, most heavenly cool and green. + +This journey had served to complete her happy preparations. So now, +should Hugh arrive, even at sunset, and be wishful to ride on without +delay, she could order the saddling of Icon, and say: "I am ready, dear +Knight; let us go." + +She stood on the Castle wall, gazing at the blood-red banners of the +sunset, flaming from the battlements of a veritable city of gold; then, +shading her eyes, turned to look once again along the road. + +And, at that moment, out from the dark fir wood there rode a horseman, +alone. + + +For one moment only did her heart leap in the wild belief that Hugh had +returned. The next instant she knew this could not be he; even before +her eyes made out a stranger. + +She watched him leave the road, and turn up the winding path which led +to the Castle gate; saw the porter go to the grating in answer to a +loud knocking without; saw him fetch old Zachary, who in his turn sent +for Martin Goodfellow; upon which the gates were opened wide, and the +stranger rode into the courtyard. + +Whereupon Mora thought it time that she should descend from the +battlements and find out who this unexpected visitor might be. + +At the head of the great staircase, she met Martin. + +"Lady," he said, "there waits a man below who urgently desires speech +with Sir Hugh. Learning from us that the Knight hath ridden south, and +is like to be away some days longer, he begs to have word with you, +alone; yet refuses to state his business or to give his name. Master +Zachary greatly hopeth that it may be your pleasure that we bid the +fellow forthwith depart, telling him--if he so will--to ride back in +six days' time, when the worshipful Knight, whom he desires to see, +will have returned." + +Mora knitted her brows. It did not please her that Zachary and Martin +Goodfellow should arrange together what she should do. + +"Describe him, Martin," she said. "What manner of man is he?" + +"Swarthy," said Martin, "and soldierly; somewhat of a dare-devil, but +on his best behaviour. Zachary and I would suggest----" + +"I will see him," said Mora, beginning to descend the stairs. "I will +see him in the banqueting hall, and alone. You, Martin, can wait +without, entering on the instant if I call. Tell Zachary to bid them +prepare a meal of bread and meat, with a flagon of wine, or a pot of +good ale, which I may offer to this traveller, should he need +refreshment." + +She was standing in the banqueting hall, on the very spot where Hugh +had kneeled at their parting, when the swarthy fellow, soldierly, yet +somewhat of a dare-devil, entered. + +Most certainly he was on his best behaviour. He doffed his cap at +first sight of her, advanced a few paces, then stood still, bowing low; +came forward a few more paces, then bowed again. + +She spoke. + +"You wished to see my husband, Friend, and speak with him? He is away +and hardly can return before five days, at soonest. Is your business +with Sir Hugh such as I can pass on to him for you, by word of mouth?" + +She hoped those bold, dark eyes did not perceive how she glowed to +speak for the first time, to another, of Hugh as her husband. + +He answered, and his words were blunt; his manner, frank and soldierly. + +"Most noble Lady, failing the Knight, whom I have ridden far to find, +my business may most readily be told to you. + +"Years ago, on a Syrian battle-field it was my good fortune, in the +thick of the fray, to find myself side by side with Sir Hugh d'Argent. +The Infidels struck me down; and, sorely wounded, I should have been at +their mercy, had not the noble Knight, seeing me fall, wheeled his +horse and, riding back, hewn his way through to me, scattering mine +assailants right and left. Then, helping me to mount behind him, +galloped with me back to camp. Whereupon I swore, by the holy Cross at +Lucca, that if ever the chance came my way to do a service to Sir Hugh +of the Silver Shield, I would travel to the world's end to do it. + +"Ten nights ago, I chanced to be riding through a wood somewhere +betwixt Worcester and Warwick. A band of lawless fellows coming by, I +and my steed drew off the path, taking cover in a thicket. But a +solitary horseman, riding from Worcester, failed to avoid them. Within +sight of my hiding-place he was set upon, made to dismount, stripped +and bidden to return on foot to the place from whence he came. I could +do naught to help him. We were two, to a round dozen. The robbers +took the money from his wallet. Within it they found also a letter, +which they flung away as worthless. I marked where it fell, close to +my hiding-place. + +"When the affray was over, their victim having fled and the lawless +band ridden off, I came forth, picked up the letter and slipped it into +mine own wallet. So soon as the sun rose I drew forth the letter, +when, to my amaze, I found it addressed to my brave rescuer, the Knight +of the Silver Shield and Azure Pennant. It appeared to be of +importance as, failing Warwick Castle, six halting places, all on the +northward road, were named on the outside; also it was marked to be +delivered with most urgent haste. + +"It seemed to me that now had come my chance, to do this brave Knight +service. Therefore have I ridden from place to place, following; and, +after some delay, I find myself at length at Castle Norelle, only to +hear that he to whom I purposed to hand the letter has ridden south by +another road. Thus is my endeavour to serve him rendered fruitless." + +"Nay, Friend," said Mora, much moved by this recital. "Not fruitless. +Give me the letter you have thus rescued and faithfully attempted, to +deliver. My husband returns in five days. I will then hand him the +letter and tell him your tale. Most grateful will he be for your good +service, and moved by your loyal remembrance." + +The swarthy fellow drew from his wallet a letter, heavily sealed, and +inscribed at great length. He placed it in Mora's hands. + +Her clear eyes dwelt upon his countenance with searching interest. It +was wonderful to her to see before her a man whose life Hugh had saved, +so far away, on an Eastern battle-field. + +"In my husband's name, I thank you, Friend," she said. "And now my +people will put before you food and wine. You must have rest and +refreshment before you again set forth." + +"I thank you, no," replied the stranger. "I must ride on, without +delay. I bid you farewell, Lady; and I do but wish the service, which +a strange chance has enabled me to render to the Knight, had been of +greater importance and had held more of risk or danger." + +He bowed low, and departed. A few moments later he was riding out at +the gates, and making for the northward road. + +Had Brother Philip chanced to be at hand, he could not have failed to +note that the swarthy stranger was mounted upon the fastest nag in the +Bishop's stable. + +For a life of lawlessness, rapine, and robbery, does not debar a man +from keeping an oath sworn, out of honest gratitude, in cleaner, better +days. + +Left alone, Mora passed on to the terrace and, in the clearer light, +examined this soiled and much inscribed missive. + +To her amazement she recognised the well-known script of Symon, Bishop +of Worcester. How many a letter had reached her hands addressed in +these neat characters. + +Yet Hugh had left her, and gone upon this ride of many days to +Worcester in order to see the Bishop, because he had received a letter +telling him, without sufficient detail, a matter of importance. +Probably the letter she now held in her hands should have reached him +first. Doubtless had he received it, he need not have gone. + +Pondering this matter, and almost unconscious that she did so, Mora +broke the seals. Then paused, even as she began to unfold the +parchment, questioning whether to read it or to let it await Hugh's +return. + +But not long did she hesitate. It was upon a matter which closely +concerned her. That much Hugh had admitted. It might be imperative to +take immediate action concerning this first letter, which by so strange +a mishap had arrived after the other. Unless she mastered its +contents, she could not act. + +Ascending the turret stairway, Mora stepped again on to the battlements. + +The golden ramparts in the west had faded; but a blood-red banner still +floated above the horizon. The sky overhead was clear. + +Sitting upon the seat on which she had sat while telling Hugh of old +Mary Antony's most blessed and wondrous vision, Mora unfolded and read +the Bishop's letter. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIX + +TWICE DECEIVED + +The blood-red banner had drooped, dipped, and vanished. + +The sky overhead had deepened to purple, and opened starry eyes upon +the world beneath. Each time the silent woman, alone upon the +battlements, lifted a sorrowful face to the heavens, yet another bright +eye seemed to spring wide and gaze down upon her. + +At length the whole expanse of the sky was studded with stars; the +planets hung luminous; the moon, already waning, rose large and golden +from behind the firs, growing smaller and more silvery as she mounted +higher. + +Mora covered her face with her hands. The summer night was too full of +scented sweetness. The stars sang together. The moon rode triumphant +in the heavens. In this her hour of darkness she must shut out the +brilliant sky. She let her face sink into her hands, and bowed her +head upon her knees. + +Blow after blow had fallen upon her from the Bishop's letter. + +First that the Bishop himself was plotting to deceive her, and seemed +to take Hugh's connivance for granted. + +Then that she had been hoodwinked by old Mary Antony, on the evening of +Hugh's intrusion into the Nunnery; that this hoodwinking was known to +the Bishop, and appeared but to cause him satisfaction, tempered by a +faint amusement. + +Then the overwhelming news that Mary Antony's vision had been an +imposition, devised and contrived by the almost uncannily shrewd wits +of the old woman; and that the Bishop advised the Knight to praise +heaven for those wits, and to beware lest any chance word of his should +lead her--Mora--to doubt the genuineness of the vision, and to realise +that she had been hocussed, hoodwinked, outwitted! In fact the Bishop +and her husband were to become, and to continue indefinitely, parties +to old Antony's deception. + +She now understood the full significance of the half-humorous, +half-sceptical attitude adopted by the Bishop, when she recounted to +him the history of the vision. No wonder he had called Mary Antony a +"most wise and prudent babe." + +But even as her anger rose, not only against the Bishop, but against +the old woman she had loved and trusted and who had so deceived her, +she came upon the news of the death of the aged lay-sister and the +account of her devoted fidelity, even to the end. + +Mary Antony living, was often a pathetic figure; Mary Antony dead, +disarmed anger. + +And, after all, the old lay-sister and her spurious vision faded into +insignificance in view of the one supreme question: What course would +Hugh take? Would he keep silence and thus tacitly become a party to +the deception; or would he, at all costs, tell her the truth? + +It was evidence of the change her love had wrought in her, that this +one point was so paramount, that until it was settled, she could not +bring herself to contemplate other issues. + +She remembered, with hopeful comfort, his scrupulous honesty in the +matter of Father Gervaise. Yet wherefore had he gone to consult with +the Bishop unless he intended to fall in with the Bishop's suggestions? + +Not until she at last sought her chamber and knelt before the shrine of +the Madonna, did she realise that her justification in leaving the +Convent was gone, if there had been no vision. + +"Blessed Virgin," she pleaded, with clasped hands uplifted; "I, who +have been twice deceived--tricked into entering the Cloister, and +tricked into leaving it--I beseech thee, by the sword which pierced +through thine own soul also, grant me now a vision which shall be, in +very deed, a VISION OF TRUTH." + + + + +CHAPTER L + +THE SILVER SHIELD + +The Bishop sat at the round table in the centre of the banqueting hall, +sipping water from his purple goblet while the Knight dined. + +They were not alone. Lay-brethren, with sandalled feet, moved +noiselessly to and fro; and Brother Philip stood immovable behind the +Reverend Father's chair. + +The Bishop discoursed pleasantly of many things, watching Hugh the +while, and blessing the efficacy of the bath. It had, undoubtedly, +cleansed away much beside travel-stains. + +The thunder-cloud had lifted from the Knight's brow; his eyes, though +tired, were no longer sombre; his manner was more than usually +courteous and deferential, as if to atone for the defiant brusquerie of +his first appearance. + +He listened in absolute silence to the Bishop's gentle flow of +conversation; but this was a trait the Bishop had observed in him +before; and, after all, a lapse into silence could be easily understood +when a man had travelled far, on meagre fare, and found himself seated +at a well-spread board. + +Yet the Knight ate but sparingly of the good cheer, so lavishly +provided; and the famous Italian wine, he scarce touched at all. + +The meal over, the Bishop dismissed Brother Philip and the attendant +monks, and, rising, went to his chair near the hearth, motioning the +Knight to the one opposite. + +Thus they found themselves seated again as they had sat on the night of +the arrival of the Pope's messenger; save that now no fire burned upon +the hearth; no candles were lighted on the table. Instead, the summer +sunshine poured in through open casements. + +"Well, my dear Hugh," said the Bishop, "suppose you now tell me the +reason which brings you hither. It must surely be a matter of grave +importance which could cause so devoted a lover and husband to leave +his bride, and go a five days' journey from her, within two weeks of +the bridal day." + +"I have come, my lord," said the Knight, speaking slowly and with +evident effort, "to learn from your lips the entire truth concerning +that vision which caused the Prioress of the White Ladies to hold +herself free to renounce her vows, leave her Nunnery, and give herself +in marriage where she had been betrothed before entering the Cloister." + +"Tut!" said the Bishop. "The White Ladies have no Prioress. Mother +Sub-Prioress doth exercise the functions of that office until such time +as the Prior and myself shall make a fresh appointment. We are not +here to talk of prioresses, my son, but of that most noble and gracious +lady who, by the blessing of God and our Lady's especial favour, is now +your wife. See to it that you continue to deserve your great good +fortune." + +The Knight made no protest at the mention of our Lady; but his left +hand moved to the medallion hanging by a gold chain from his neck, +covered it and clasped it firmly. + +The Bishop paused; but finding that the Knight had relapsed into +silence, continued: + +"So you wish the entire history of the inspired devotion of the old +lay-sister, Mary Antony--may God rest her soul." Both men crossed +themselves devoutly, as the Bishop named the Dead. "Shall I give it +you now, my son, or will you wait until the morrow, when a good night's +rest shall fit you better to enjoy the recital?" + +"My lord," said Hugh, "ere this sun sets, I hope to be many miles on my +homeward way." + +"In that case," said the Bishop, "I must tell you this moving story, +without further delay." + +So, beginning with her custom of counting the White Ladies by means of +the dried peas, the Bishop gave the Knight the whole history of Mary +Antony's share in the happenings in the Nunnery on the day of his +intrusion, and those which followed; laying especial stress on her +devotion to Mora, and her constant prayers to our Lady to sharpen her +old wits. + +The Bishop had undoubtedly intended to introduce into the recital +somewhat more of mysticism and sublimity than the actual facts +warranted. But once launched thereon, his sense of humour could not be +denied its full enjoyment in this first telling of the entire tale. +Full justice he did to the pathos, but he also shook with mirth over +the ludicrous. As he quoted Mary Antony, the old lay-sister's odd +manner and movements could be seen; her mumbling lips, and cunning +wink. And here was Mother Sub-Prioress, ferret-faced and peering; and +here Sister Mary Rebecca, long-nosed, flat-footed, eager to scent out +and denounce wrong doing. And at last the Bishop told of his talk with +Mora in the arbour of golden roses; and lo, there was Mora, devout, +adoring, wholly believing. "Thou hast hid these things from the wise +and prudent and hast revealed them unto babes"; and here, the Bishop +himself, half amused, half incredulous: "An ancient babe! Truly, a +most wise and prudent babe." Then the scene outside the Prioress's +cell when the Bishop unlocked the door; the full confession and the +touching death of old Mary Antony. + +To it all the Knight listened silently, shading his face with his right +hand. + +"Therefore, my son," concluded Symon of Worcester, "when on a sudden I +remembered our conversation on the lawn, and that I had told you of my +belief that the old lay-sister knew of your visit to the Convent and +had seen you in Mora's cell, I hastened to send you a warning, lest you +should, unwittingly, mention this fact to Mora, and raise a doubt in +her mind concerning the genuineness of the vision, thus destroying her +peace, and threatening her happiness and your own. Hath she already +told you of the vision?" + +Still shielding his face the Knight spoke, very low: + +"The evening before the messenger arrived, bringing your letter, my +lord, Mora told me of the vision." + +"Said you aught concerning my words to you?" + +"So soon as she mentioned the name of Mary Antony, I said that I seemed +to recall that you, my lord, had told me she alone knew of my visit to +the Convent. But Mora at once said nay, that it was she herself who +had told me so, even while I stood undiscovered in her cell; but that +afterward the lay-sister had confessed herself mistaken. This seemed +to me to explain the matter, therefore I said no more; nor did I, for a +moment, doubt the truth and wonder of the vision." + +"For that, the saints be praised," said the Bishop. "Then no harm is +done. You and I, alone, know the entire story; and you and I, who +would safeguard Mora's happiness with our lives, must see to it that +she never has cause for misgivings." + +Hugh d'Argent lifted his head, and looked full at the Bishop. + +"My lord," he said, "had there been no vision, no message from our +Lady, no placing by her of Mora's hand in mine, think you she would +have left the Nunnery and come to me?" + +"Nay, dear lad, that I know she would not. On that very morning, as I +told you, she set her foot upon the Pope's mandate, and would accept no +absolving from her vows. Naught would suffice, said she, but a direct +vision and revelation from our Lady herself." + +"But," said the Knight, slowly, "was there a vision, my lord? Was +there a revelation? Was there a spoken message or a given sign?" + +The Bishop met the earnest eyes, full of a deep searching. He stirred +uneasily; then smiled, waving a deprecatory hand. + +"Between ourselves, my dear Hugh--though even so, it is not well to be +too explicit--between ourselves of course nothing--well--miraculous +happened, beyond the fact that our Lady most certainly sharpened the +wits of old Antony. Therefore is it, that you undoubtedly owe your +wife to those same wits, and may praise our Lady for sharpening them." + +Then it was that the Knight rose to his feet. + +"And I refuse," he said, "to owe my wife to sacrilege, fraud, and +falsehood." + +The Bishop leaned forward, gripping with both hands the arms of his +chair. His face was absolutely colourless; but his eyes, like blue +steel, seemed to transfix the Knight, who could not withdraw his regard +from those keen points of light. + +The Bishop's whisper, when at length he spoke, was more alarming than +if he had shouted. + +"Fool!" he said. "Ungrateful, unspeakable fool! What mean you by such +words?" + +"Call me fool if you will, my Lord Bishop," said the Knight, "so long +as I give not mine own conscience cause to call me knave." + +"What mean you by such words?" persisted the Bishop. "I mean, my lord, +that if the truth opened out an abyss which plunged me into hell, I +would sooner know it than attempt to enter Paradise across the flimsy +fabric of a lie." + +Now during many days, Symon of Worcester had worked incessantly, +suffered much, accomplished much, surrendered much, lost much. Perhaps +it is hardly to be wondered at, that, at this juncture, he lost his +temper. + +"By Saint Peter's keys!" he cried, "I care not, Sir Knight, whether you +drop to hell or climb to Paradise. But it is my business to see to it +that you do not disturb the peace of mind of the woman you have wed. +Therefore I warn you, that if you ride from here set upon so doing, you +will not reach your destination alive." + +The Knight smiled. The film of weariness lifted as if by magic from +his eyes, and they shone bright and serene. + +"I cannot draw my sword upon threats, my Lord Bishop; but let those +threats take human shape, and by Saint George, I shall find pleasure in +rendering a good account of them. With this same sword I once did hew +my way through a score of Saracens. Think you a dozen Worcester +cut-throats could keep me from reaching my wife?" + +Something in the tone with which the Knight spoke these final words +calmed the Bishop; something in the glance of his eye quelled the angry +Prelate. In the former he recognised a depth of love such as he had +not hitherto believed possible to Hugh d'Argent; in the latter, calm +courage, nay, a serene joy at the prospect of danger, against which his +threats and fury could but break themselves, even as stormy waves +against the granite rocks of the Cornish coast. + +The Bishop possessed that somewhat rare though valuable faculty, the +ability to recognise instantly, and instantly to accept, the +inevitable. Also when he had made a false move, he knew it, and was +preparing to counteract it almost before his opponent had perceived the +mistake. + +So rarely was the Bishop angry, that his anger now affected him +physically, with a sickening sense of faintness. With closed eyes, he +leaned his head against the back of the chair. His face, always white +and delicate, now appeared as if carved in ivory. His lips fell apart, +but no breath issued from them. Except for a slight twitching of the +eyelids, the Bishop's countenance was lifeless. + +Startled and greatly alarmed, Hugh looked around for some means whereby +he might summon help, but could see none. + +Hastening to the table, he poured wine into the Venetian goblet, +brought it back, and moistened the Bishop's lips. Then kneeling on one +knee loosed the cold fingers from their grip. + +Presently the Bishop opened his eyes--no longer points of blue steel, +but soft and dreamy like a mist of bluebells on distant hills. He +looked, with unseeing gaze, into the anxious face on a level with his +own; then turned his eyes slowly upon the ruby goblet which the Knight +had lifted from the floor and was trying to hold to his lips. + +Waving it away, the Bishop slipped the finger and thumb of his left +hand into his sash, and drew out a small gold box of exquisite +workmanship, set with emeralds. + +At this he gazed for some time, as if uncertain what to do with it; +then touched a spring and as the lid flew open, sat up and took from +the box a tiny white tablet. This he dropped into the wine. + +The Knight, watching with anxious eyes, saw it rapidly dissolve as it +sank to the bottom. + +But all consciousness of the tablet, the wine, or the kneeling Knight, +appeared to have instantly faded from the Bishop's mind. He lay back +gazing dreamily at a banner which, for no apparent reason, stirred and +wafted to and fro, as it hung from an oaken beam, high up among the +rafters. + +"Wherefore doth it waft?" murmured the Bishop, thereby adding greatly +to the Knight's alarm. "Wherefore?--Wherefore?--Wherefore doth it +waft?" + +"Drink this, Reverend Father," urged the Knight. "I implore you, my +dear lord, raise yourself and drink." + +"Methinks there must be a draught," mused the Bishop. + +"Yea, truly," said the Knight, "of your famous Italian wine. Father, I +pray you drink." + +"Among the rafters," said the Bishop. But he sat up, took the goblet +from the Knight's hand, and slowly sipped its contents. + +Almost at once, a faint tinge of colour shewed in his cheeks and on his +lips; his eyes grew bright. He smiled at the Knight, as he placed the +empty goblet on the table beside him. + +"Ah, my dear Hugh," he said, extending his hand; "it is good to find +you here. Let us continue our conversation, if you are sufficiently +rested and refreshed. I have much to say to you." + +In the reaction of a great relief, Hugh d'Argent seized the extended +hand and fervently kissed the Bishop's ring. + +It was the reverent homage of a loyal heart. Symon of Worcester, as +with a _Benedicite_ he graciously acknowledged it, suffered a slight +twinge of conscience; almost as unusual an experience as the ebullition +of temper. He took up the conversation exactly at that point to which +it best suited him to return, namely, there where he had made the first +false step. + +"Therefore, my dear Hugh, I have now given you in detail the true +history of the vision, making it clear that we owe it, alas! to earthly +devotion, rather than to Divine interposition--though indeed the one +may well be the means used by the other. It remains for us to +consider, and to decide upon, the best line to take with Mora in order +to safeguard most surely her peace of mind, and permanently to secure +her happiness." + +"I have considered, Reverend Father," said the Knight, simply; "and I +have decided." + +"What have you decided to do, my son?" questioned Symon of Worcester, +in his smoothest tones. + +"To make known to Mora, so soon as I return, the entire truth." + +The Bishop cast his eyes upward, to see whether the banner still waved. + +It did. + +Undoubtedly there must be a current of air among the rafters. + +"And what effect do you suppose such a communication will have, my son, +upon the mind of your wife?" + +"I am not called to face suppositions, Reverend Father; I am simply +confronted by facts." + +"Precisely, my son, precisely," replied the Bishop, pressing his +finger-tips together, and raising them to his lips. "Yet even while +dealing with causes, it is well sometimes to consider effects, lest +they take us wholly unawares. Do you realise that, as your wife felt +justified in leaving the Nunnery and wedding you, solely by reason of +our Lady's miraculously accorded permission, when she learns that that +permission was not miraculous, she will cease to feel justified?" + +"I greatly fear it," said the Knight. + +"Do you yourself now consider that she was not justified?" + +"Nay!" answered the Knight, with sudden vehemence. "Always, since I +learned how we had been tricked by her sister, I have held her to be +rightfully mine. Heaven knew, when she made her vows, that I was +faithful, and she therefore still my betrothed. Heaven allowed me to +discover the truth, and to find her--alive, and still unwed. To my +thinking, no Divine pronouncement was required; and when the Holy +Father's mandate arrived bringing the Church's sanction, why then +indeed naught seemed to stand between us. But Mora thought otherwise." + +A tiny gleam came into the Bishop's eyes; an exceedingly refined +edition of the look of cunning which used to peep out of old Mary +Antony's. + +"Have you ever heard tell, my son, that two negatives make an +affirmative? Think you not that, in something the same way, two +deceptions may make a truth. Mora was deceived into entering the +Convent, and deceived into leaving it; but from out that double +deception arises the great truth that she has, in the sight of Heaven, +been all along yours. The first deception negatives the second, and +the positive fact alone remains that Mora is wedded to you, is yours to +guard and shield from sorrow; and those whom God hath joined together, +let no man put asunder." + +Hugh d'Argent passed his hand across his brow. + +"I trust the matter may appear thus to Mora," he said. + +The banner still wafted, gently. The Bishop gave himself time to +ponder whence that draught could come. + +Then: "It will not so appear," he said. "My good Hugh, when your wife +learns from you that she was tricked by Mary Antony, she will go back +in mind to where she was before the spurious vision, and will feel +herself to be still Prioress of the White Ladies." + +"I have so felt her, since the knowledge reached me," agreed the Knight. + +The efficacy of the soothing drug taken by the Bishop was strained to +its utmost. + +"And what then do you propose to do, my son, with this wedded Prioress? +Do you expect her to remain with you in your home, content to fulfil +her wifely duties?" + +"I fear," said the Knight sadly, "that she will leave me." + +"And I am certain she will leave you," said the Bishop. + +"It was largely this fear for the future which brought me at once to +you, my lord. If Mora desires, as you say, to consider herself as she +was, before she was tricked into leaving the Convent, will you arrange +that she shall return, unquestioned, to her place as Prioress of the +White Ladies of Worcester?" + +"Impossible!" said the Bishop, shortly. "It is too late. We can have +no Madonna groups in Nunneries, saving those carven in marble or stone." + +To which there followed a silence, lasting many minutes. + +Then the Knight said, with effort, speaking very low: "It is _not_ too +late." + +Instantly the keen eyes were searching his face. A line of crimson +leapt to the Bishop's cheek, as if a whip-lash had been drawn across it. + +Presently: "Fool!" he whispered, but the word savoured more of pitying +tenderness than of scorn. Alas! was there ever so knightly a fool, or +so foolish a knight! "What was the trouble, boy? Didst find that +after all she loved thee not?" + +"Nay," said Hugh, quickly, "I thank God, and our Lady, that my wife +loves me as I never dreamed that such as I could be loved by one so +perfect in all ways as she. But--at first--all was so new and strange +to her. It was wonder enough to be out in the world once more, free to +come and go; to ride abroad, looking on men and things. I put her +welfare first. . . . Nay, it was easy, loving her as I loved, also +greatly desiring the highest and the best. Father, I wanted what you +spoke of as the Madonna in the Home. Therefore--'twas I who made the +plan--we agreed that, the wedding having of necessity been so hurried, +the courtship should follow, and we would count ourselves but +betrothed, even after reaching Castle Norelle, for just so many days or +weeks as she should please; until such time as she herself should tell +me she was wishful that I should take her home. But--each day of the +ride northward had been more perfect than that which went before; each +hour of each day, sweeter than the preceding. Thus it came to pass +that on the very evening of our arrival at Mora's home, after parting +for the night at the door of her chamber, we met again on the +battlements, where years before we had said farewell; and there, seated +in the moonlight, she told me the wonder of our Lady's grace in the +vision; and, afterwards, in words of perfect tenderness, the even +greater wonder of her love, and that she was ready on the morrow to +ride home with me. So we parted in a rapture so deep and pure, that +sleep came, for very joy of it. But early in the morning I was wakened +by a rapping at my door, and there stood Brother Philip, holding your +letter, Reverend Father." + +"Alas!" said the Bishop. "Would that I had known she would have +whereby to explain away thy memory of that which I had said." + +Yet the Bishop spoke perfunctorily; he spoke as one who, even while +speaking, muses upon other matters. For, within his secret soul, he +was fighting the hardest temptation yet faced by him, in the whole +history of his love for Mora. + +By rapid transition of mind, he was back on the seat in the garden of +the White Ladies' Nunnery, left there by Mary Antony while she went to +fetch the Reverend Mother. He was looking up the sunny lawn toward the +cloisters, from out the shade of the great beech tree. Presently he +saw the Prioress coming, tall and stately, her cross of office gleaming +upon her breast, her sweet eyes alight with welcome. And at once they +were talking as they always talked together--he and she--each word +alive with its very fullest meaning; each thought springing to meet the +thought which matched it. + +Next he saw himself again on that same seat, looking up the lawn to the +sunlit cloisters; realising that never again would the Prioress come to +greet him; facing for the first time the utter loneliness, the +irreparable loss to himself, of that which he had accomplished for Hugh +and Mora. + +The Bishop's immeasurable loss had been Hugh's infinite gain. And now +that Hugh seemed bent upon risking his happiness, the positions were +reversed. Would not his loss, if he persisted, be the Bishop's gain? + +How easy to meet her on the road, a few miles from Worcester; to +proceed, with much pomp and splendour, to the White Ladies' Nunnery; to +bid them throw wide the great gates; to ride in and, then and there, +reinstate Mora as Prioress, announcing that the higher service upon +which the Holy Father had sent her had been duly accomplished. Picture +the joy in the bereaved Community! But, above and beyond all, picture +what it would mean to have her there again; to see her, speak with her, +sit with her, when he would. No more loneliness of soul, no more +desolation of spirit; and Mora's conscience at rest; her mind content. + +But at that, being that it concerned the woman he loved, the true soul +of him spoke up, while his imaginative reason fell silent. + +Never again could the woman who had told Hugh d'Argent, in words of +perfect tenderness, the wonder of her love, and that she was ready on +the morrow to ride home with him, be content in the calm of the +Cloister. + +If Hugh persisted in this folly of frankness and disturbed her peace, +she might leave him. + +If the Bishop made the way easy, she might return to the Nunnery. + +But all the true life of her would be left behind with her lover. + +She would bring to the Cloister a lacerated conscience, and a broken +heart. + +Surely the two men who loved her, if they thrust away all thought of +self, and thought only of her, could save her this anguish. + +At once the Bishop resolved to do his part. + +"My dear Hugh," he said, "you did well to come to me in order to +consult over these plans before taking the irrevocable step which +should set them in motion. I, alone, could reinstate your wife as +Prioress of the White Ladies; moreover my continued presence here would +be essential, to secure her comfort in that reinstatement. And I shall +not be here. I am shortly leaving Worcester, leaving this land and +returning to my beauteous Italy. The Holy Father has been pleased to +tell me privately of high preferment shortly to be offered me. I have +to-day decided to accept it. I return to Italy a Cardinal of Holy +Church." + +Hugh rose to his feet and bowed. An immense scorn blazed in his eyes. + +"My Lord High Cardinal, I congratulate you! That a cardinal's hat +should tempt you from your cathedral, from this noble English city, +from your people who love you, from the land of your birth, may perhaps +be understood. But that, for the sake of Church preferment, however +high, you should willingly depart, leaving Mora in sorrow, Mora in +difficulty, Mora needing your help----" + +The Knight paused, amazed. The Bishop, who seldom laughed aloud, was +laughing. Yet no! The Bishop, who never wept, seemed near to weeping. + +The scales fell from Hugh's eyes, even before the Bishop spoke. He +realised a love as great as his own. + +"Ah, foolish lad!" said Symon of Worcester; "bent upon thine own ways, +and easy to deceive. When I spoke of going, I said it for her sake, +hoping the prospect of my absence might hold you from your purpose. +But now truly am I convinced that you are bent upon risking your own +happiness, and imperilling hers. Therefore will I devise some means of +detaining the Holy Father's messenger, so that my answer need not be +given until two weeks are past. You will reach Mora, at longest, five +days from this. As soon as she decides what she will do, send word to +me by a fast messenger. Should she elect to return to the Nunnery, +state when and where, upon the road, I am to meet her. Her habit as +Prioress, and her cross of office, I have here. The former you +returned to me, from the hostel; the latter I found in her cell. You +must take them with you. If she returns, she must return fully robed. +If, on the other hand, she should decide to remain with you; if--as may +God grant--she is content, and requires no help from me, send me this +news by messenger. I can then betake myself to that fair land to which +I first went for her sake; left for her sake, and to which I shall most +gladly return, if her need of me is over. The time I state allows a +four days' margin for vacillation." + +"My lord," said the Knight, humbly, "forgive the wrong I did you. +Forgive that I took in earnest that which you meant in jest; or rather, +I do truly think, that which you hoped would turn me from my purpose. +Alas, I would indeed that I might rightly be turned therefrom." + +"Hugh," said the Bishop, eagerly, "you deemed her justified in coming +to you, apart from any vision." + +"True," replied the Knight, "but I cannot feel justified in taking her, +and all she would give me, knowing she gives it, with a free heart, +because of her faith in the vision. Moments of purest joy would be +clouded by my secret shame. Being aware of the deception, I too should +be deceiving her; I, whom she loves and trusts." + +"To withhold a truth is not to lie," asserted the Bishop. + +"My lord," replied Hugh d'Argent, rising to his feet and standing +erect, his hand upon his sword, "I cannot reason of these things; I +cannot define the difference between withholding a truth and stating a +lie. But when mine Honour sounds a challenge, I hear; and I ride out +to do battle--against myself, if need be; or, if it must so be, against +another. On Eastern battle-fields, in Holy War, I won a name known +throughout all the camp, known also to the enemy: 'The Knight of the +Silver Shield.' Our name is Argent, and we ever have the right to +carry a pure silver shield. But I won the name because my shield was +always bright; because not once in battle did it fall in the dust; +because it never was allowed to tarnish. So bright it was, that as I +rode, bearing it before me, reflecting the rays of the sun, it dazzled +and blinded the enemy. My lord, I cannot tarnish my silver shield by +conniving at falsehood, or keeping silence when mine Honour bids me +speak." + +Looking at the gallant figure before him, the Bishop's soul responded +to the noble words, and he longed to praise them and applaud. But he +thought of Mora's peace of mind, Mora's awakened heart and dawning +happiness. For her sake he must make a final stand. + +"My dear Hugh," he said, "all this talk, of a silver shield and of the +challenge of honour, is well enough for the warrior on the +battle-field. But the lover has to learn the harder lesson; he has to +give up Self, even the Self which holds honour dear. When you polished +your silver shield, keeping it so bright, what saw you reflected +therein? Why, your own proud face. Even so, now, you fear the +faintest tarnish on your sense of honour, but you will keep that silver +shield bright at Mora's expense, riding on proudly alone in your glory, +reflecting the sun, dazzling all beholders, while your wife who loved +and trusted you, Mora, who told you the sweet wonder of her love in +words of deepest tenderness, lies desolate in the dark, with a +shattered life, and a broken heart. Hugh, I would have you think of +the treasure of her golden heart, rather than of the brightness of your +own selfish, silver shield." + +"Selfish!" cried the Knight. "Selfish! Is it selfish to hold honour +dear? Is it selfish to be ashamed to deceive the woman one loves? +Have I, who have so striven in all things to put her welfare first, +been selfish towards my wife in this hour of crisis?" + +He sat down, heavily; leaned his elbows on his knees, and dropped his +head into his hands. + +This attitude of utter dejection filled the Bishop with thankfulness. +Was he, in the very moment when he had given up all hope of winning, +about to prove the victor? + +"Perilously selfish, my dear Hugh," he said. "But, thank Heaven, no +harm has yet been done. Listen to me and I will shew you how you may +keep your honour safely untarnished, yet withhold from Mora all +knowledge which might cause her disquietude of mind, thus securing her +happiness and your own." + + + + +CHAPTER LI + +TWO NOBLE HEARTS GO DIFFERENT WAYS + +On that same afternoon, an hour before sunset, the two men who loved +Mora faced one another, for a final farewell. + +The Bishop had said all he had to say. Without interruption, his words +had flowed steadily on; eloquent, logical, conciliatory, persuasive. + +At first he had talked to the top of the Knight's head, to the clenched +hands, to the arms outstretched across the table. + +He had wondered what thoughts were at work beneath the crisp thickness +of that dark hair. He had wished the rigid attitude of tense despair +might somewhat relax. He had used the most telling inflexions of his +persuasive voice in order to bring this about, but without success. He +had wished the Knight would break silence, even to rage or to disagree. +To that end he had cast as a bait an intentional slip in a statement of +facts; and, later on, a palpable false deduction in a weighty argument. +But the Knight had not risen to either. + +After a while Hugh had lifted his head, and leaned back in his chair; +fixing his eyes, in his turn, upon the banner hanging from the rafters. + +It had ceased to wave gently to and fro. Probably Father Benedict had +closed the trap-door, concealed behind an upright beam, through which +he was wont to peer down into the banqueting hall below, in order to +satisfy himself that all was well and that the Reverend Father needed +naught. + +Let it be here recorded that this exceeding vigilance, on the part of +Father Benedict, met with but scant reward. For, having deduced a +draught, and its reason, from the slight stirring of the banner during +his conversation with the Knight, the Bishop gave certain secret +instructions to Brother Philip, with the result that the next time the +Chaplain peered down upon a private conference he found, at its close, +the door by which he had gained access to the roof chamber barred on +the outside, and, forcing it, he was in no better case, the ladder +which connected it with another disused chamber below having been +removed. Thereafter Father Benedict watched the Bishop, and his guest, +partake of three meals, before he could bring himself to make known his +predicament, and beg to be released. And, even then, the Bishop was +amazingly slow in locating the place from which issued the agitated +voice imploring assistance. Several brethren were summoned to help; so +that quite a little crowd stood gazing up at the pallid countenance of +Father Benedict, framed in the trap-door as, lying upon his very empty +stomach, he called down replies to the Bishop's questions; vainly +striving to give a plausible reason for the peculiar situation in which +he was discovered. + +But, to return to the interview which brought about this later +development. + +The Knight had lifted his head, yet had still remained silent and +impassive. + +Where at length the Bishop had paused, awaiting comment of some kind, +Hugh d'Argent, removing his eyes from the rafters, had asked: + +"When, my lord, do you propose to meet the Prioress, should my wife, +upon learning the truth, elect to return to the Nunnery?" + +Thus had the Bishop been forced to realise that the flow of his +eloquence, the ripple of his humour, the strong current of his +arguments, the gentle lapping of his tenderness, the breakers of his +threats, and the thunderous billows of his denunciations, had alike +expended themselves against the rock of the Knight's unshakable +resolve, and left it standing. + +Whereupon, in silence, the Bishop had risen, and had led the way to the +library. + +Here they now faced one another in final farewell. + +Each knew that his loss would be the other's gain; his gain, the +other's irreparable loss. + +Yet, at that moment, each thought only of Mora's peace of soul. They +did but differ in their conception of the way in which that peace might +best be preserved and maintained. + +"I must take her cross of office, my Lord Bishop," said the Knight, +with decision. + +The Bishop went to a chest, standing in one corner of the room, opened +it, and bent over it, his back to Hugh d'Argent; then, slipping his +hand into his bosom drew therefrom a cross of gold gleaming with +emeralds. Shutting down the massive lid of the chest, he returned, and +placed the cross in the outstretched hand of the Knight. + +"I entrust it to you, my dear Hugh, only on one condition: that it +shall without fail return to me in two weeks' time. Should you decide +to tell your wife the true history of the vision, I must see this cross +of office upon her breast when I meet her riding back to Worcester, +once more Prioress of the White Ladies. If, on the other hand, wiser +counsel prevails, and you decide not to tell her, you must, by swift +messenger, at once return it to me in a sealed packet." + +"I shall tell her," said the Knight. "If she elects to leave me, you +will see the cross upon her breast, my lord. If she elects to stay, +you shall receive it by swift messenger." + +"She will leave you," said the Bishop. "If you tell her, she will +leave you." + +"She loves me," said the Knight; and he said it with a tender +reverence, and such a look upon his face, as a man wears when he speaks +of his faith in God. + +"Hugh," said the Bishop, sadly; "Hugh, my dear lad, you have but little +experience of the heart of a nun. The more she loves, the more +determined will she be to leave you, if you yourself give her reason to +think her love unjustified. The very thing which is now a cause of +bliss will instantly become a cause for fear. She will flee from joy, +as all pure hearts flee from sin; because, owing to your folly, her joy +will seem to her to be sinful. My son!"--the Bishop stretched out his +hands; a passion of appeal was in his voice--"God and Holy Church have +given you your wife. If you tell her this thing, you will lose her." + +"I must take with me the dress she left behind," said the Knight, "so +that, should she decide to go, she may ride back fully robed." + +The Bishop went again to the chest, raised the heavy lid, and lifted +out the white garments rolled together. At sight of them both men fell +silent, as in presence of the dead; and the Knight felt his heart grow +cold with apprehension, as he received them from the Bishop's hand. + +They passed together through the doorway leading to the river terrace, +and so down the lawn, under the arch, and into the courtyard. + +There Brother Philip waited, mounted, while another lay-brother held +the Knight's horse. + +As they came in sight of the horses: "Philip will see you a few miles +on your way," said the Bishop. + +"I thank you, Father," replied the Knight, "but it is not needful. The +good Brother has had many long days in the saddle." + +"It is most needful," said the Bishop. "Let Philip ride beside you +until you have passed through the Monk's Wood, and are well on to the +open ground beyond. There, if you will, you may bid him turn back." + +"Is this to ensure the safety of the Worcester cut-throats, my lord?" + +The Bishop smiled. + +"Possibly," he said. "Saracens may be hewn in pieces, with impunity. +But we cannot allow our Worcester lads rashly to ride to such a fate. +Also, my dear Hugh, you carry things of so great value that we must not +risk a scuffle. These are troublous times, and dangers lurk around the +city. Three miles from here you may dismiss Brother Philip, and ride +forward alone." + +Arrived at the horses, the Knight put away safely, that which he +carried, into his saddle-bag. Then he dropped on one knee, baring his +head for the Bishop's blessing. + +Symon of Worcester gave it. Then, bending, added in low tones: "And +may God and the blessed Saints aid thee to a right judgment in all +things." + +"Amen," said Hugh d'Argent, and kissed the Bishop's ring. + +Then he mounted; and, without one backward look, rode out through the +Palace gates, closely followed by Brother Philip. + + + + +CHAPTER LII + +THE ANGEL-CHILD + +Symon of Worcester turned, walked slowly across the courtyard, made his +way to the parapet above the river, and stood long, with bent head, +watching the rapid flow of the Severn. + +His eyes rested upon the very place where the Knight had cleft the +water in his impulsive dive after the white stone, made, by the +Bishop's own words, to stand to him for his chances of winning the +Prioress. + +Yet should that sudden leap be described as "impulsive"? The Bishop, +ever a stickler for accuracy in descriptive words, considered this. + +Nay, not so much "impulsive" as "prompt." Even as the warrior who, +having tested his trusty sword, knowing its readiness in the scabbard +and the strength of his own right arm, draws, on the instant, when +surprised by the enemy. Prompt, not impulsive. A swift action, based +upon an assured certainty of power, and a steadfast determination, of +long standing, to win at all costs. + +The Bishop's hand rested upon the parapet. The stone in his ring held +neither blue nor purple lights. Its colour had paled and faded. It +shone--as the Prioress had once seen it shine--like a large tear-drop +on the Bishop's finger. + +Deep dejection was in the Bishop's attitude. With the riding away of +the Knight, something strong and vital seemed to have passed out of his +life. + +A sense of failure oppressed him. He had not succeeded in bending Hugh +d'Argent to his will, neither had he risen to a frank appreciation of +the loyal chivalry which would not enjoy happiness at the expense of +honour. + +While his mind refused to accept the Knight's code, his soul yearned to +rise up and acclaim it. + +Yet, working to the last for Mora's peace of mind, he had maintained +his tone of scornful disapproval. + +He would never again have the chance to cry "Hail!" to the Silver +Shield. The deft fingers of his sophistry had striven to loosen the +Knight's shining armour. How far they had succeeded, the Bishop could +not tell. But, as he watched the swiftly moving river, he found +himself wishing that his task had been to strengthen, rather than to +weaken; to gird up and brace, rather than subtly to unbuckle and +disarm. Yet by so doing, would he not have been ensuring his own +happiness, bringing back the joy of life to his own heart, at the +expense of the two whom he had given to be each other's in the Name of +the Divine Trinity? + +If Hugh persisted in his folly, he would lose his bride, yet would the +Bishop meet and reinstate the Prioress with a clear conscience, having +striven to the very last to dissuade the Knight. + +If, on the other hand, Hugh, growing wiser as he rode northward, +decided to keep silence, why then the sunny land he loved, and the +Cardinal's office, for Symon, Bishop of Worcester. + +But meanwhile, two weeks of uncertainty; and the Bishop could not abide +uncertainty. + +He turned from the river and began to pace the lawn slowly from end to +end, his head bent, his hands clasped behind him. + +Each time he reached the wall between the garden and the courtyard, he +found himself confronted by two rose trees, a red and a white, climbing +so near together that their branches intertwined, crimson blooms +resting their rich petals against the fragrant fairness of their white +neighbours. + +Presently these roses became symbolic to the Bishop--the white, of the +fair presence of the Prioress; the red, of the high honour awaiting him +in Rome. + +He was seized by the whimsical idea that, were he to close his eyes, +beseech the blessed Saint Joseph to guide his hand, take three steps +forward, and pluck the first blossom his fingers touched, he might put +an end to this tiresome uncertainty. + +But he smiled at the childishness of the fancy. It savoured of the old +lay-sister, Mary Antony, playing with her peas and confiding in her +robin. Moreover the Bishop never did anything with his eyes shut. He +would have slept with them open, had not Nature decreed otherwise. + +Once again he paced the full length of the lawn, his hands clasped +behind his back, his eyes looking beyond the river to the distant hills. + +"Will she come, or shall I go? Shall I depart, or will she return?" + +As he turned at the parapet, a voice seemed to whisper with insistence: +"A white rose for her pure presence in the Cloister. A red rose for +Rome." + +And, as he reached the wall again, the bright eyes of a little maiden +peeped at him through the archway. + +He stood quite still and looked at her. + +Never had he seen so lovely an elf. A sunbeam had made its home in +each lock of her tumbled hair. Her little brown face had the soft +bloom of a ripe nectarine; her eyes, the timid glance of a startled +fawn. + +The Bishop smiled. + +The bright eyes lost their look of fear, and sparkled responsive. + +The Bishop beckoned. + +The little maid stole through the archway; then, gaining courage flew +over the turf, and stood between the Bishop and the roses. + +"How camest thou here, my little one?" questioned Symon of Worcester, +in his softest tones. + +"The big gate stood open, sir, and I ran in." + +"And what is thy name, my little maid?" + +"Verity," whispered the child, shyly, blushing to speak her own name. + +"Ah," murmured the Bishop. "Hath Truth indeed come in at my open gate?" + +Then, smiling into the little face lifted so confidingly to his: "Dost +thou want something, Angel-child, that I can give thee?" + +One little bare, brown foot rubbed itself nervously over the other. +Five little brown, bare toes wriggled themselves into the grass. + +"Be not afraid," said the Bishop. "Ask what thou wilt and I will give +it thee, unto the half of my kingdom. Yea, even the head of Father +Benedict, in a charger." + +"A rose," said the child, eagerly ignoring the proffered head of Father +Benedict and half the Bishop's kingdom. "A rose from that lovely tree! +Their pretty faces looked at me over the wall." + +The Bishop's lips still smiled; but his eyes, of a sudden, grew grave. + +"Blessed Saint Joseph!" he murmured beneath his breath, and crossed +himself. + +Then, bending over the little maid, he laid his hand upon the tumbled +curls. + +"Truly, my little Verity," he said, "thou shalt gather thyself a rose, +and thou shall gather one for me. I leave thee free to make thy +choice. See! I clasp my hands behind me--thus. Then I shall turn and +walk slowly up the lawn. So soon as my back is turned, pluck thou two +roses. Fly with those little brown feet after me, and place one of the +roses--whichever thou wilt--in my hands. Then run home thyself, with +the other. Farewell, little Angel-child. May the blessing of +Bethlehem's purple hills be ever thine." + +The Bishop turned and paced slowly up the lawn, head bent, hands +clasped behind him. + +The small bare feet made no sound on the turf. But before the Bishop +was half-way across the lawn, the stem of a rose was thrust between his +fingers. As they closed over it, a gay ripple of laughter sounded +behind him, fading fleetly into the distance. + +The Angel-child had made her choice, and had flown with her own rose, +leaving the Bishop's destiny in his clasped hands. + +Without pausing or looking round, he paced onward, gazing for a while +at the sparkling water; then beyond it, to the distant woods through +which the Knight was riding. + +Presently he turned, still with his hands behind him, passed to the +garden-door, left standing wide, and entered the library. + +But not until he kneeled before the shrine of Saint Joseph did he move +forward his right hand, and bring into view the rose placed therein by +Verity. + +It was many years since the Bishop had wept. He had not thought ever +to weep again. Yet, at sight of the rose, plucked for him by the +Angel-child, something gave way within him, and he fell to weeping +helplessly. + +Saint Joseph, bearded and stalwart, seemed to look down with compassion +upon the bowed head with its abundant silvery hair. + +Even thus, it may be, had he himself wept when, after his time of hard +mental torture, the Angel of the Lord appeared unto him, saying: "Fear +not." + +After a while the Bishop left the shrine, went over to the deed chest, +and laid the rose beside the white stone. + +"There, my dear Hugh," he murmured; "thy stone, and my rose. Truly +they look well together. Each represents the triumph of firm resolve. +Yet mine will shortly fade and pass away; while thine, dear lad, will +abide forever." + +The Bishop seated himself at his table, and sounded the silver gong. + +A lay-brother appeared. + +"_Benedicite_," said the Bishop. "Request Fra Andrea Filippo at once +to come hither. I must have speech with him, without delay." + + + + +CHAPTER LIII + +ON THE HOLY MOUNT + +On the ninth day since Hugh's departure, the day when fast riding might +make his return possible before nightfall, Mora rose early. + +At the hour when she had been wont to ring the Convent bell, she was +walking swiftly over the moors and climbing the heather-clad hills. + +She had remembered a little chapel, high up in the mountains, where +dwelt a holy Hermit, held in high repute for his saintliness of life, +his wisdom in the giving of spiritual counsel, and his skill in +ministering to the sick. + +It had come to Mora, as she prayed and pondered during the night, that +if she could make full confession to this holy man, he might be able to +throw some clear beam of light upon the dark tangle of her perplexity. + +This hope was strongly with her as she walked. + +"Lighten my darkness! Lead me in a plain path!" was the cry of her +bewildered soul. + +It seemed to her that she had two issues to consider. First: the +question as to whether Hugh, guided by the Bishop, would keep silence; +thus making himself a party to her deception. Secondly: the position +in which she was placed by the fact that she had left the Convent, +owing to that deception. But, for the moment the first issue was so +infinitely the greater, that she found herself thrusting the second +into the background, allowing herself to be conscious of it merely as a +question to be faced later on, when the all-important point of Hugh's +attitude in the matter should be settled. + +She walked forward swiftly, one idea alone possessing her: that she +hastened toward possible help. + +She did not slacken speed until the chapel came into view, its grey +walls glistening in the morning light, a clump of feathery rowan trees +beside it; at its back a mighty rock, flung down in bygone centuries +from the mountain which towered behind it. From a deep cleft in this +rock sprang a young oak, dipping its fresh green to the roof of the +chapel; all around it, in every crack and cranny, parsley fern, +hare-bells on delicate, swaying stalks, foxgloves tall and straight, +and glorious bunches of purpling heather. + +Nearby was the humble dwelling of the Hermit. The door stood ajar. + +Softly approaching, Mora lifted her hand, and knocked. + +No voice replied. + +The sound of her knock did but make evident the presence of a vast +solitude. + +Pushing open the door, she ventured to look within. + +The Hermit's cell was empty. The remains of a frugal meal lay upon the +rough wooden table. Also an open breviary, much thumbed and worn. At +the further end of the table, a little pile of medicinal herbs heaped +as if shaken hastily from the wallet which lay beside them. Probably +the holy man, even while at an early hour he broke his fast, had been +called to some sick bedside. + +Mora turned from the doorway and, shading her eyes, scanned the +landscape. + +At first she could see only sheep, slowly moving from tuft to tuft as +they nibbled the short grass; or goats, jumping from rock to rock, and +suddenly disappearing in the high bracken. + +But soon, on a distant ridge, she perceived two figures and presently +made out the brown robe and hood of the Hermit, and a little, barefoot +peasant boy, running to keep up with his rapid stride. They vanished +over the crest of the hill, and Mora--alone in this wild +solitude--realised that many hours might elapse ere the Hermit returned. + +This check to the fulfilment of her purpose, instead of disappointing +her, flooded her heart with a sudden sense of relief. + +The interior of the Hermit's cell had recalled, so vividly, the +austerities of the cloistered life. + +The Hermit's point of view would probably have been so completely from +within. + +It would have been impossible that he should comprehend the wonder--the +growing wonder--of these days, since she and Hugh rode away from +Warwick, culminating in that exquisite hour on the battlements when she +had told him of the vision, whispered her full surrender, and yet +he--faithful and patient even then--had touched her only with his +glowing eyes. + +How could a holy Hermit, dwelling alone among great silent hills, +realise the tremendous force of a strong mutual love, the glow, the +gladness, the deep, sweet unrest, the call of soul to soul, the throb +of hearts, filling the purple night with the soft beat of angels' wings? + +How could a holy Hermit understand the shock to Hugh, how fathom the +maddening torment of suspense, the abyss of hope deferred, into which +the Bishop's letter must have plunged him, coming so soon after he had +said: "I ask no higher joy, than to watch the breaking of the day which +gives thee to my home"? But the breaking of the day had brought the +stern necessity which took him from her. + +Yet why? How much was in that second letter? Was it less detailed +than the first? Had Hugh ridden south to learn the entire truth? Or +had he ridden south to arrange with the Bishop for her complete and +permanent deception? + +Standing on this mountain plateau--the morning breeze blowing about +her, the sun mounting triumphant in the heavens "as a bridegroom coming +out of his chamber," and all around the scent of heather, the hum of +bees, the joyful trill of the soaring lark; her own body bounding with +life after the swift climb--it seemed to Mora impossible that Hugh +should withstand the temptation to hold to his happiness, at all costs. +And how could a saintly Hermit judge him as mercifully as she--the +woman who loved him--knew that he should be judged? + +She felt thankful for the good man's absence, yet baffled in her need +for help. + +Looking back toward the humble dwelling, she perceived a rough device +of carved lettering on a beam over the doorway. She made out Latin +words, and going nearer she, who for years had worked so continuously +at copying and translating, read them without difficulty. + +"WITH HIM, IN THE HOLY MOUNT," was inscribed across the doorway of the +Hermit's dwelling. + +Mora repeated the words, and again repeated them; and, as she did so +there stole over her the sense of an Unseen Presence in this solitude. + +"With Him, in the Holy Mount." + +She turned to the chapel. Over that doorway also were carven letters. +Moving closer, she looked up and read them. + +"AND WHEN THEY HAD LIFTED UP THEIR EYES, THEY SAW NO MAN, SAVE JESUS +ONLY." + +Mora opened the door and entered the tiny chapel. At first, coming in +from the outer brightness it seemed dark; but she had left the door +standing wide, and light poured in behind her. + +Then she lifted up her eyes and saw; and seeing, understood the meaning +of the legend above the entrance. + +In that little chapel was one Figure, and one Figure only. No pictured +saints were there. No image of our Lady. No crucifix hung on the wall. + +But, in a niche above the altar, stood a wondrous figure of the Christ; +not dying, not dead; not glorified and ascending; but the Christ as +very man, walking the earth in human form, yet calmly, unmistakably, +triumphantly Divine. The marble form was carved by the same hand as +the Madonna which the Bishop had brought from Rome, and placed in +Mora's cell at the Convent. It had been his gift to his old friend the +Hermit. At first sight of it, Mora remembered hearing it described by +the Bishop himself. Then the beauty of the sculpture took hold upon +her, and she forgot all else. + +It lived! The face wore a look of searching tenderness; on the lips, a +smile of loving comprehension; in the out-stretched hands, an attitude +of infinite compassion. + +Mora fell upon her knees. Instinctively she recalled the earnest +injunction of Father Gervaise to his penitents that, when kneeling +before the crucifix, they should repeat: "He ever liveth to make +intercession for us." And, strangely enough, there came back with this +the remembrance of the wild voice of Mary Seraphine, shrieking, when +told to contemplate the dying Redeemer: "I want life--not death!" + +Here was Life indeed! Here was the Saviour of the world, in mortal +guise, the Word made manifest. + +Mora lifted her eyes and read the words, illumined in letters of gold +around the arch of the niche, gleaming in the sunlight above the +patient head of the Man Divine. + +"IN ALL POINTS TEMPTED LIKE AS WE ARE, YET WITHOUT SIN." + +And higher still, above the arch: + +"A GREAT HIGH PRIEST. . . . PASSED INTO THE HEAVENS." + +In the silence and stillness of that utter solitude, she who had so +lately been Prioress of the White Ladies kneeled and worshipped. + +The Unseen Presence drew nearer. + +She closed her eyes to the sculptured form. + +The touch of her Lord was upon her heart. + +She had prayed in her cell that His pierced feet nailed to the wood +might become as dear to her as the Baby feet on the Virgin Mother's +knees. In her anguish of cloistered sorrow, that prayer had been +granted. + +But out in the world of living men and things, she needed more. She +needed Feet that walked and moved, passed in and out of house and home; +paused by the hearth; went to the wedding feast; moved to the fresh +closed grave; Feet that had sampled the dust of life's highway; Feet +that had trod rough places, yet never tripped nor stumbled. + +"Tempted in all points." . . . Then here was One Who could understand +Hugh's hard temptation; Who could pity, if Hugh fell. Here was One Who +would comprehend the breaking of her poor human heart if, loving Hugh +as she now loved, she yet must leave him. + +"A great High Priest." . . . What need of any other priest, while +"with Him in the Holy Mount"? Passed into the heavens, yet ever living +to make intercession for us. + +Deep peace stole into her heart, as she knelt in absorbed communion in +this sacred place, where, for the first time, in her religious life, +she had found herself with "Jesus only." + +"Ah, blessed Lord!" she cried at length, "Thou Who knowest the heart of +a man, and canst divine the heart of a woman, grant unto me this day a +true vision; a vision which shall make clear to me, without any +possibility of doubt, what is Thy will for me." + + + + +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 blessed Lady's heart; or, prostrating herself +before the crucifix, gaze upon those pierced 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 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, 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 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. + +"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 blessed 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 blessed 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 +blessed 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 beloved. 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 blessed 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 blessed +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 blessed 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. + + + + +CHAPTER LVII + +"I CHOOSE TO RIDE ALONE" + +Mora escaped from the restraining arms of old Debbie, and appeared at +the top of the steps leading down to the courtyard. + +Framed in the doorway, in her green riding dress, she stood for a +moment, surveying the scene before her. + +The two men bound for Worcester, bearing her packet to the Bishop, had +just ridden out at the great gates. Through the gates, still standing +open, she could see them guiding their horses down the hill and taking +the southward road. + +The porter was attempting to close the gates, but a stable lad hindered +him, pointing to Icon, whom a groom was leading, ready saddled, to and +fro, before the door; Icon, with proudly arched neck and swishing tail, +as conscious of his snowy beauty as when, in the river meadow at +Worcester, he found himself the centre of an admiring crowd of nuns. + +At sight of his flowing mane, powerful forequarters, and high stepping +action, Mora was irresistibly reminded of the scene in the courtyard at +the Nunnery, when the Bishop rode in on his favourite white palfrey, +she standing at the top of the steps to receive him. Never again would +she stand so, to receive the Bishop; never again would Icon proudly +carry him. The Bishop had given her to Hugh and Icon to her. A faint +sense of compunction stirred within her. Perhaps at that moment she +came near to realising something of what both gifts had cost the Bishop. + +Bending her head, she looked across the courtyard and under the +gateway. The messengers were riding fast. Even as she looked, they +disappeared into the pine wood. + +Her letter to Symon was well on its way. She remembered with comfort +and gladness certain things she had written in that letter. + +Then--as the pine wood swallowed the messengers--with a joyous bound of +reaction her whole mind turned to Hugh. + +Three steps below her, a page waited, holding a dagger which she had +been wont to wear, when riding in the forests. She had sent it out to +be sharpened. She took it from him, tested its point, slipped it into +the sheath at her belt, smiled upon the boy, descended the remaining +steps, and laid her hand upon Icon's mane. + +Then it was that Mistress Deborah's agitated signals from within the +doorway, took effect upon old Zachary. + +Coming forward, he bared his white head, and adventured a humble +expostulation. + +"My lady," he said, "it is not safe nor well that you should ride +alone. A few moments' delay will suffice Beaumont to saddle a horse +and be ready to attend you." + +She mounted before she made answer. + +She kept her imperious temper well in hand, striving to remember that +to old Debbie and Zachary she seemed but the child they had loved and +watched over from infancy, of a sudden grown older. They had not known +the Prioress of the White Ladies. + +Bending from the saddle, her hand on Icon's mane: + +"I go to my husband, Zachary," she said, "and I choose to ride alone." + +Then gathering up the reins, she turned Icon toward the gates and so +rode across the courtyard, looking, neither back to where Mistress +Deborah alternately wrung her hands and shook her fist at Zachary; nor +to right or left, where Mark and Beaumont, standing with doffed caps +waited till she should have passed, to yield to the full enjoyment of +Mistress Deborah's gestures, and of Master Zachary's discomfiture. + +She rode forth looking straight before her, over the pointed ears of +Icon. She was riding to Hugh, and, they who stood by must not see the +love-light in her eyes. + +Grave and serene, her head held high, she paced the white palfrey +through the gates. And if the porter marked a wondrous shining in her +eyes--well, the sun began to slant its rays, and she rode straight +toward the west. + +Zachary mounted the steps and hastened across the hall, followed by +Deborah. + +Mark thereupon enacted Mistress Deborah, and Beaumont, Master Zachary; +while the page sat down on the steps to laugh. + +The porter clanged to the gates. + +The day's work was done. + + + + +CHAPTER LVIII + +THE WARRIOR HEART + +As Mora turned off the highway, and pressed Icon deep into the glades, +she cried over and over aloud, for there was none to hear: "I go to my +husband, and I choose to ride alone." + +How wondrous it seemed, this going to him; a second giving, a deeper +surrender, a fuller yielding. + +When she went to him in the crypt, her body had recoiled, her spirit +had shrunk, shamed, humbled, and unwilling. Her mind alone, governed +by her will, had driven her along the path of her resolve, holding her +upon the stretcher, until too late to cry out or to return. + +Now--how different! Free as air, alone, uncoerced, even unexpected, +she left her own home, and her own people, to ride, unattended, +straight to the arms of the man who had won her. + +A wild joy seized and shook her. + +The soft, mysterious glades, beneath vast, leafy domes, seemed +enchanted ground. The hoofs of Icon thudded softly on the moss. The +stillness seemed alive with whispering life. Rabbits sat still to +peep, then whisked and ran. Great birds rose suddenly, on whirring +wings. Tiny birds, fearless, stayed on their twigs and sang. + +There was scurrying among ferns and rocks, telling of bright, watchful +eyes; of life, safeguarding itself, unseen. Yet all these varied +sounds, Nature disturbed in the shady haunts which were her rightful +home, did but emphasize the vast stillness, the utter solitude, the +complete remoteness from human dwelling-place. + +Shining through parted boughs and slowly moving leaves, the sunlight +fell, in golden bars or shifting yellow patches, on the glade. + +The joy which thrilled his rider, seemed to communicate itself to Icon. +He galloped over the moss on the broad rides, and would scarce be +restrained when passing between great rocks, or turning sharply into an +unseen way. + +Mora rode as in a dream. "I ride to my husband," she cried to the +forest, "and I choose to ride alone!" And once she sang, in an +irrepressible burst of praise: "_Jesu dulsis memoria_!" Then, when she +fell silent: "_Dulsis_! _Dulsis_!" carolled unseen choristers in leafy +clerestories overhead. And each time Icon heard her voice, he laid +back his ears and cantered faster. + +Not far from her journey's end, the way lay through a deep gorge in the +very heart of the pine wood. + +Here the sun's rays could scarce penetrate; the path became rough and +slippery; a hidden stream oozed up between loose stones. + +Icon picked his way, with care; yet even so, he slipped, recovered, and +slipped again. + +With a sudden rush, some wild animal, huge and heavy, went crashing +through the undergrowth. + +Stealthy footsteps seemed to keep pace with Icon's, high up among the +tree trunks. + +Yet this valley of the shadow held no terrors for the woman whose heart +was now so blissfully at rest. + +Having left behind forever the dark vale of doubt and indecision, she +mounted triumphant on the wings of trust and certainty. + +"I ride to my husband," she whispered, as if the words were a charm +which might bring the sense of his strong arms about her, "and I choose +to ride alone." + +With a gentle caress on the arch of his snowy neck, and with soft words +in the anxiously pointing ears, she encouraged the palfrey to go +forward. + +At length they rounded a great grey rock jutting out into the path, and +the upward slope of a mossy glade came into view. + +With a whinny of pleasure, Icon laid back his ears and broke into a +swift canter. + +Up the glade they flew; out into the sunshine; clear into the open. + +Here was the moor! Here the highroad, at last! And there in the +distance, the grey walls of Hugh's castle; the portals of home. + + * * * * * * + +It was the Knight's trusted foster-brother, Martin Goodfellow, amazed, +yet smiling a glad welcome, who held Icon's bridle as Mora dismounted +in the courtyard. + +She fondled the palfrey's nose, laying her cheek against his neck. For +the moment it became imperative that she should hide her happy eyes +even from this faithful fellow, in whom she had learned to place entire +confidence. + +"Icon, brave and beautiful!" she whispered. "Thou hast carried me here +where I longed to be. Thy feet were well-nigh as swift as my desire." + +Then she turned, speaking quickly and low. + +"Martin, where is my husband? Where shall I find Sir Hugh?" + +"My lady," said Martin, "I saw him last in the armoury." + +"The armoury?" she questioned. + +"A chamber opening out of the great hall, facing toward the west, with +steps leading down into the garden." + +"Even as my chamber?" + +"The armoury door faces the door of your chamber, Countess. The width +of the hall lies between." + +"Can I reach my chamber without entering the hall, or passing the +armoury windows? I would rid me of my travel-stains, before I make my +presence known to Sir Hugh." + +"Pass round to the right, and through the buttery; then you reach the +garden and the steps up to your chamber from the side beyond the +armoury." + +"Good. Tell no one of my presence, Martin. I have here the key of my +chamber. Has Sir Hugh asked for it?" + +"Nay, my lady; nor guessed how often we rode hither. We reached the +castle scarce two hours ago. The Knight bathed, and changed his dusty +garments; then dined alone. After which he went into the armoury." + +"When did you see him last, Martin?" + +"Two minutes ago, lady. I come this moment from the hall." + +"What was he doing, Martin?" + +Martin Goodfellow hesitated. He knew something of love, and as much as +an honest man may know, of women. He shrewdly suspicioned what she +would expect the Knight to be doing. He was sorely tempted to give a +fancy picture of Sir Hugh d'Argent, in his lovelorn loneliness. + +He looked into the clear eyes bent upon him; glanced at the firm hand, +arrested for a moment in its caress of Icon's neck; then decided that, +though the truth might probably be unexpected, a lie would most +certainly be unwise. + +"Truth to tell," said Martin Goodfellow, "Sir Hugh was testing his +armour, and sharpening his battle-axe." + + +As Mora passed into the dim coolness of the buttery, she was conscious +of a very definite sense of surprise. She had pictured Hugh in his +lonely home, nursing his hungry heart, beside his desolate hearth. She +had seen herself coming softly behind him, laying a tender hand upon +those bowed shoulders; then, as he lifted eyes in which dull despair +would quickly give place to wondering joy, saying: "Hugh, I am come +home." + +But now, as she passed through the buttery, Mora had to realise that +yet again she had failed to understand the man she loved. + +It was not in him, to sit and brood over lost happiness. If she failed +him finally, he was ready in this, as in all else, to play the man, +going straight on, unhindered by vain regret. + +Once again her pride in him, in that he was finer than her own +conceptions, quickened her love, even while it humbled her, in her own +estimation, to a place at his feet. + +A glory of joy was on her face as, making her way through to the +terrace, now bathed in sunset light, she passed up to the chamber she +had prepared during Hugh's absence. + +All was as she had left it. + +Fastening the door by which she had entered from the garden, she +noiselessly opened that which gave on to the great hall. + +The hall was dark and deserted, but the door into the armoury stood +ajar. + +A shaft of golden sunshine streamed through the half-open door. + +She heard the clang of armour. She could not see Hugh, but even as she +stood in her own doorway, looking across the hall, she heard his voice, +singing, as he worked, snatches of the latest song of Blondel, the +King's Minstrel. + +With beating heart, Mora turned and closed her door, making it fast +within. + + + + +CHAPTER LIX + +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 beloved 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 blessed, 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, blessed 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 beloved, 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. + + + + +CHAPTER LX + +THE CONVENT BELL + +The slanting rays of the setting sun lay, in golden bands, upon the +flags of the Convent cloister. + +Complete silence reigned. + +The White Ladies had returned from Vespers. Each, in the solitude of +her own cell, was spending, in prayer and meditation, the hour until +the Refectory bell should ring. + +The great door into the cloisters stood wide. + +Mother Sub-Prioress appeared in the far distance, moving down the +passage. As she passed between the long line of closed doors, she +turned her face quickly from side to side, pausing occasionally to +listen, ear laid against the panelling. + +Presently she stepped from the cool shadow into the sunny brightness of +the cloister. + +She did not blink, as old Mary Antony used to blink. Her small eyes +peered from out her veil as sharply in sunshine as in shadow. + +Yet was there something curiously furtive about Mother Sub-Prioress, +when she entered the cloister. Listening at the doors in the cell +passage, she had been merely official, acting with a precise celerity +which bespoke long practice. Now she hesitated; looked around as if to +make sure she was not observed, and obviously held, with her left hand, +something concealed. + +Moving along the cloister, she seated herself upon the stone slab in +the archway overlooking the lawn and the pieman's tree; then drew forth +from beneath her scapulary, the worn leathern wallet which had belonged +to the old lay-sister, Mary Antony. + +At the same moment there came a gentle flick of wings, and the robin +alighted on the stone coping, not three feet from the elbow of Mother +Sub-Prioress. + +Very bright-eyed, and tall on his legs, was Mary Antony's little vain +man. With his head on one side, he looked inquiringly at Mother +Sub-Prioress; and Mother Sub-Prioress, from out the curtain of her +veil, frowned back at him. + +There was a solemn quality in the complete silence. No naughty tales +of bakers' boys or piemen. No gay chirps of expectation. Receiving +cheese from Mother Sub-Prioress, bestowed for conscience' sake, partook +of the nature of a sacred ceremony. Yet the robin had come for his +cheese, and the Sub-Prioress had come to give it to him. + +Presently she slowly opened the wallet, took therefrom some choice +morsels, and strewed them on the coping. + +"Here, bird," she said, grimly; "I cannot let thee miss thy cheese +because the foolish old creature who taught thee to look for it, comes +this way no more. Take it and begone!" + +This was the daily formula. + +The "jaunty little layman," undismayed--though the look was austere, +and the voice, forbidding--hopped gaily nearer, pecking eagerly. No +gaping mouths now waited his return. His nestlings were grown and +flown. At last he could afford to feast himself. + +Mother Sub-Prioress turned her back upon the coping and stared at the +archway opposite. She had no wish to see the bird's enjoyment. + +Then a strange thing happened. + +Having pecked up all he wanted, the robin turned his bright eye upon +the motionless figure, seated so near him, wrapped in the aloofness of +an impenetrable silence. + +Excepting in her dying moments, Mary Antony's much loved little bird +had never adventured nearer to her than to hop along the coping, +pecking at her fingers when, to test his boldness, she reached out and +with them covered the cheese. + +Yet now, with a gentle flick of wings, lo, he alighted on the knee of +Mother Sub-Prioress! Then, while she scarce dared breathe, for wonder +and amaze, hopped to her arm and pecked gently at her veil. + +Whereupon something broke in the cold heart of Mother Sub-Prioress. +Tears ran slowly down the thin face. She would not stir nor lift her +hand to wipe them away, and they fell in heavy drops upon her folded +fingers. + +At length she spoke, in a broken whisper. + +"Oh, thou little winged thing," she said, "who so easily could'st fly +from me! Dost thou use those wings of liberty to draw yet nearer? In +this place of high walls and narrow cells, they who have not full +freedom, use to the full what freedom they possess, to turn, at my +approach and fly from me. Not one if she could choose, would choose to +come to me. . . . Is there any honour so great as that of being feared +by all? Is there any loneliness so great as by all to be hated? That +honour, little bird, is mine; also that loneliness. Who then hath sent +thee thus to essay to take both from me?" + +Heavy tears continued to fall upon the clasped hands; the worn face was +distorted by mental suffering. The frozen soul of Mother Sub-Prioress +having melted, the iron of self-knowledge was entering into it, causing +the dull ache of a pain unspeakable. Yet she dared not sob, lest the +heaving of her bosom should frighten away the little bird perched so +lightly on her arm. + +This evidence of the trust in her of a little living thing, was the one +rope to which Mother Sub-Prioress clung in those first moments, during +which the black waters of remorse and despair passed over her head--a +rope made of frail enough strands, God knows: bright eyes alert, small +clinging feet, a pair of folded wings. Yet do the frailest threads of +love and trust, make a safer rope to which to cling when shipwreck +threatens the heart, than the iron chains of obligation and duty. + +Presently a sordid doubt seized upon Mother Sub-Prioress. Had the +robin finished the cheese, and come to her thus, merely to ask for more? + +Very slowly she ventured to turn her head, until the stone coping at +her elbow came into her range of vision. + +Then a glow of pride and happiness warmed her heart. Three--four--five +fragments remained! Not for greed or favour had this little wild thing +of his own free will drawn near. + +For what, then? . . . + +Mother Sub-Prioress whispered the answer; and as she whispered it, her +tears fell afresh; but now they were tears without bitterness; a +healing fount seemed to well up within her softening heart. + +For love? Yea, verily! For love of her, those small brown wings had +brought him near, those bright eyes were unafraid. + +"For love of me," she whispered. "For love of me." + +When at length he chirped and flew, she still sat motionless, listening +as he sang his evening song high up in the pieman's tree. + +Then she rose and swept the untouched fragments back into the wallet. +There was triumph in the action. + +"For love!" she said. "Not of that which I brought and gave, but of +that which he thought me to be." + +Slowly she left the cloister, moving, with bent head, until she reached +the open door of the empty chamber which had been the Reverend Mother's. + +Before long this chamber would be hers. At noon she had received word +from the Bishop that it was his intention to appoint her to be +Prioress, for the years which yet remained of the Reverend Mother's +term of office. + +She had experienced a sinister pleasure in being thus promoted to this +high office by the Bishop, owing to the certainty that had the usual +election by ballot taken place, her name would not have been inscribed +by a single member of the Community. + +Yet now, in this strangely softened mood, she began wistfully to desire +that there might be looks of pleasure and satisfaction on at least a +few faces, when the announcement should be made on the morrow. + +Mother Sub-Prioress passed into the cell, and closed the door. + +She was drawn, by the glow of the sunset, to the oriel window. But on +her way thither she found herself unexpectedly arrested before the +marble group of the Virgin and Child. + +Mother Sub-Prioress never could see a naked babe without experiencing a +feeling of irritation against those who had failed to provide it with +suitable clothing. Possibly this was why she had hurriedly looked the +other way if her eye chanced to fall upon the beautiful sculpture in +the Prioress's cell. + +Now, for the first time, she really saw it. + +She stood and gazed; then knelt, and tried to understand. + +The tenderness reached her heart and shook it. The encircling arms, +the loving breast, the watchful mother-eyes; the exquisite human love, +called forth by the necessity, the dependence, the helplessness of a +little child. + +And were there not souls equally helpless, and hearts just as dependent +upon sympathy and tenderness? + +The Prioress had understood this, and had ruled by love. + +But Mother Sub-Prioress had ever preferred the briers and the burning. + +She recalled a conversation she had had a day or two before with the +Prior and the Chaplain, when they came to consult with her concerning +the future of the Community, and her possible appointment. In speaking +of the late Prioress, the Prior had said: "She ever seemed as one +apart, who walked among the stars; yet full, to overflowing, of the +milk of human kindness and the gracious balm of sympathy." He had then +asked Mother Sub-Prioress if she felt able to follow in her steps. To +which Mother Sub-Prioress, vexed at the question, had answered, tartly: +Nay; that she knew no Milky Way! Whereupon Father Benedict, a sudden +gleam of approval on his sinister face, had interposed, addressing the +Prior: "Nay, verily! Our excellent Sub-Prioress knows no Milky Way! +She is the brier, which hath sharply taught the tender flesh of each. +She is the bed of nettles from which the most weary moves on to rest +elsewhere. She is the fearsome burning, from which the frightened +brands do snatch themselves!" + +These words, spoken in approbation, had been meant to please; and at +first she had been flattered. Then the look upon the kind face of the +Prior, had given her the sense of being shut up with Father Benedict in +a fearsome Purgatory of their own making--nay rather, in a hell, where +pity, mercy, and loving-kindness were unknown. + +Perhaps this was the hour when the change of mind in Mother +Sub-Prioress really had its beginning, for Father Benedict's terrible +yet true description of her methods and her rule, now came forcefully +back to her. + +Putting out a trembling hand, she touched the little foot of the Babe. + +"Give me tenderness," she said, and an agony of supplication was in her +voice; also a rain of tears softened the hard lines of her face. + +Our blessed Lady smiled, and the sweet Babe looked merry. + + +Mother Sub-Prioress passed to the window. The sun, round and blood +red, as at that very moment reflected in Hugh d'Argent's shield, was +just about to dip below the horizon. When next it rose, the day would +have dawned which would see her Prioress of the White Ladies of +Worcester. + +She turned to the place where the Prioress's chair of state stood +empty. During the walk to and from the Cathedral, she had planned to +come alone to this chamber, and seat herself in the chair which would +so soon be hers. But now a new humbleness restrained her. + +Falling upon her knees before the empty chair, she lifted clasped hands +heavenward. + +"O God," she said, "I am not worthy to take Her place. My heart is +hard and cold; my tongue is ofttimes cruel; my spirit is censorious. +But I have learned a lesson from the bird and a lesson from the Babe; +and that which I know not teach Thou me. Create in me a new heart, O +God, and renew a right spirit within me. Grant unto me to follow in +Her gracious steps, and to rule, as She ruled, by that love which never +faileth." + +Then, stooping to the ground, she kissed the place where the feet of +the Prioress had been wont to rest. + + +The sun had set behind the distant hills, when Mother Sub-Prioress rose +from her knees. + +An unspeakable peace filled her soul. She had prayed, by name, for +each member of the Community; and as she prayed, a gift of love for +each had been granted to her. + +Ah, would they make discovery, before the morrow, that instead of the +brier had come up the myrtle tree? + +With this hope filling her heart, Mother Sub-Prioress hastened along +the passage, and rang the Convent bell. + + * * * * * * + +And at that moment, Mora stood within her chamber, looking over +terrace, valley, and forest to where the sun had vanished below the +horizon, leaving behind a deep orange glow, paling above to clear blue +where, like a lamp just lit, hung luminous the evening star. + +Hugh's arms were still wrapped about her. As they stood together at +the casement, she leaned upon his heart. His strength enveloped her. +His love infused a wondrous sense of well-being, and of home. + +Yet of a sudden she lifted her head, as if to listen. + +"What is it," questioned Hugh, his lips against her hair. + +"Hush!" she whispered. "I seem to hear the Convent bell." + +His arms tightened their hold of her. + +"Nay, my beloved," he said. "There is no place for echoes of the +Cloister, in the harmony of home." + +She turned and looked at him. + +Her eyes were soft with love, yet luminous with an inward light, that +moment kindled. + +"Dear Heart," she said--hastening to reassure him, for an anxious +question was in his look--"I have come home to thee with a completeness +of glad giving and surrender, such as I did not dream could be, and +scarce yet understand. But Hugh, my husband, to one who has known the +calm and peace of the Cloister there will always be an inner sanctuary +in which will sound the call to prayer and vigil. I am not less thine +own--nay, rather I shall ever be free to be more wholly thine because, +as we first stood together in our chamber, I heard the Convent bell." + +One look she gave, to make sure he understood; then swiftly hid her +face against his breast. + +Hugh spoke his answer very low, his lips close to her ear. + +But his eyes--with that light in them, which her happy heart scarce yet +dared see again--were lifted to the evening star. + + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The White Ladies of Worcester +by Florence L. 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