The White Ladies of Worcester A Romance of the Twelfth Century

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.