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

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.