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

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