The White Ladies of Worcester - Florence Louisa Barclay (best classic books of all time txt) 📗

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