The White Ladies of Worcester A Romance of the Twelfth Century

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.”