The White Ladies of Worcester A Romance of the Twelfth Century

CHAPTER XXIII

THE MID­NIGHT AR­RIVAL

Hugh d'Ar­gent sat speech­less, re­turn­ing the Bish­op's steady gaze.

No fear was in his face; on­ly a great sur­prise.

Present­ly in­to the eyes of both there crept a look which was half-​smile, half-​wist­ful sor­row, but whol­ly trust­ful; a look to which, as yet, the Bish­op alone held the key.

“So you know, my lord,” said Hugh d'Ar­gent.

“Yes, my son; I know.”

“Since this morn­ing?”

“Nay, then! Since the first day you ar­rived with your sto­ry; ask­ing such care­ful ques­tions, care­less­ly. But be not wroth with your­self, Hugh. Faith­ful to the hilt, have you been. On­ly--no true lover was ev­er a diplo­mat! Mat­ters which mean more than life, can­not be dis­sem­bled by true hearts from keen eyes.”

“Then why all the talk con­cern­ing Seraphine?” de­mand­ed the Knight.

“Seraphine, my son, has served a use­ful pur­pose in var­ious con­ver­sa­tions. Nev­er be­fore, in the whole of her lit­tle shal­low, self­ish life has Seraphine been so dis­in­ter­est­ed­ly help­ful. That you sat here just now, think­ing me wit­less be­yond be­lief, just when I most de­sired not to ap­pear to know too much, I owe to the swollen coun­te­nance of Seraphine.”

“My lord,” ex­claimed the Knight, over­come with shame. “My lord! How knew you----”

“Peace, lad! Fash not thy­self over it. Is it not a part of my sa­cred of­fice to fol­low in the foot­steps of my Mas­ter and to be a dis­cern­er of the thoughts and in­tents of the heart? Al­so, re­spect­ing, yea, ap­prov­ing your rea­sons for ret­icence, I would have let you de­part not sus­pect­ing my knowl­edge of that which you wished to con­ceal, were it not that we must now face this fact to­geth­er:--Since pen­ning that mes­sage of ap­par­ent fi­nal­ity, the Pri­oress has tried her wings.”

A rush of be­wil­dered joy flood­ed the face of the Knight.

“Rev­erend Fa­ther!” he said, “think you that means hope for me?”

Symon of Worces­ter con­sid­ered this ques­tion care­ful­ly, sit­ting in his favourite at­ti­tude, his lips com­pressed against his fin­ger-​tips.

At length; “I think it means just this,” he said. “A con­flict, in her, be­tween the men­tal and the phys­ical; be­tween rea­son and in­stinct; thought and feel­ing. The calm, col­lect­ed mind sent you that rea­soned mes­sage of fi­nal re­fusal. The sen­tient body, vi­brant with bound­ing life, in­stinc­tive­ly pre­pares it­self for the pos­si­bil­ity of the ride with you to War­wick. This gives equal bal­ance to the scale. But a third fac­tor will be called in, fi­nal­ly to de­cide the mat­ter. By that she will abide; and nei­ther you nor I, nei­ther earth nor hell, nei­ther things past, things present, nor things to come, could avail to move her.”

“And that third fac­tor?” ques­tioned the Knight.

“Is the Spir­itu­al,” replied the Bish­op, solemn­ly, with up­lift­ed face.

"With that, there came over the Knight a sud­den sense of com­punc­tion. He be­gan for the first time to see the mat­ter as it must ap­pear to the Bish­op and the nun. His own ob­sti­nate and de­ter­mined self-​seek­ing shamed him.

“You have been very good to me, my lord,” he said humbly. “You have been most kind and most gen­er­ous, when in­deed you had just cause to be an­gry.”

The Bish­op low­ered his eyes from the rafters, and bent them in ques­tion­ing gaze up­on Hugh d'Ar­gent.

“An­gry, my son? And where­fore should I be an­gry?”

“That I should have sought, and should still be seek­ing, to tempt the Pri­oress to wrong-​do­ing.”

The Bish­op's ques­tion­ing gaze took on a bright­ness which al­most be­came the light of sub­lime con­tempt.

“_You_--tempt _her_?” he said. “Tempt her to wrong-​do­ing! The man lives not, who could suc­ceed in that! She will not come to you un­less she knows it to be right to come, and be­lieves it to be wrong to stay. If I thought you were tempt­ing her, think you I would stand aside and watch the con­flict? Nay! But I stand aside and wait while she--of pur­er, clear­er vi­sion, and walk­ing near­er Heav­en than you or I--dis­cerns the right, and, choos­ing it, re­jects the wrong. Should she be sat­is­fied that life with you is in­deed God's will for her--and I tell you hon­est­ly, it will take a mir­acle to bring this about--she will come to you. But she will not come to you un­less, in so do­ing, she is choos­ing what to her is the hard­er part.”

“The hard­er part!” ex­claimed the Knight. “You for­get, my lord, she loves me.”

“Do I for­get?” replied the Bish­op. “Have you found me giv­en to for­get­ting? The very fact that she loves you, is the heav­iest fac­tor against you--just now. To such wom­en there comes ev­er the in­stinc­tive feel­ing, that that which would be sweet must be wrong, and the hard path of re­nun­ci­ation the on­ly right one. They climb not Zion's mount to reach the crown. They turn and wend their way through Geth­se­mane to Cal­vary, sure that thus alone can they at last in­her­it. And what can we say? Are they not fol­low­ing in the foot­steps of the Son of God? I fear my na­ture turns an­oth­er way. I in­cline to fol­low King David, or Solomon in all his glo­ry, chant­ing glad Songs of As­cent, from the Palace on Mount Zion to the Tem­ple on Mount Mo­ri­ah. All things har­mo­nious, in sound, form, or colour, seem to me good and, there­fore, right. But long years in Italy have soaked me in the wor­ship of the beau­ti­ful, in­ex­tri­ca­bly in­ter­min­gled with the ado­ra­tion of the Di­vine. I mis­trust mine own judg­ment, and I fear me”--said the Prelate, whose gen­tle char­ity had won so many to re­li­gion--“I great­ly fear me, I am far from be­ing Christ­like. But I recog­nise the spir­it of self-​cru­ci­fix­ion, when I see it. And the warn­ing that I give you, is not be­cause I for­get, but be­cause I re­mem­ber.”

As the last words fell in solemn ut­ter­ance from the Bish­op's lips, the si­lence with­out was bro­ken by the loud clang­ing of the out­er bell; fol­lowed by hur­ry­ing feet in the court­yard be­low, the flare of torch­es shin­ing up up­on the case­ments, and the un­bar­ring of the gate.

“It must be close on mid­night,” said Hugh d'Ar­gent; “a strange hour for an ar­rival.”

The ban­quet­ing hall, on the up­per floor of the Palace, had case­ments at the ex­treme end, fac­ing the door, which gave up­on the court­yard.

The Knight walked over to one of these case­ments stand­ing open, kneeled up­on the high win­dow-​seat, and looked down.

“A horse­man has rid­den in,” he said, “and rid­den fast. His steed is flecked with foam, and stands with spread­ing nos­trils, pant­ing. . . . The rid­er has passed with­in. . . . Your men, my lord, are lead­ing away the steed.” The Knight re­turned to his place. “Brave beast! Me­thinks they would do well to mix his warm mash with ale.”

Symon of Worces­ter made no re­ply.

He sat erect, with fold­ed hands, a slight flush up­on his cheeks, lis­ten­ing for foot­steps which must be draw­ing near.

They came.

The door, at the far end of the hall, opened.

The gaunt Chap­lain stood in the arch­way, mak­ing obei­sance.

“Well?” said the Bish­op, dis­pens­ing with the usu­al for­mal­ities.

“My lord, your mes­sen­ger has re­turned, and re­quests an au­di­ence with­out de­lay.”

“Bid him en­ter,” said the Bish­op, grip­ping the arms of the chair, and lean­ing for­ward.

The Chap­lain, half-​turn­ing, beck­oned with up­lift­ed hand; then stood aside, as rapid feet ap­proached.

A young man, clad in a brown rid­ing-​suit, dusty and trav­el-​stained, ap­peared in the door­way. Not paus­ing for any monk­ish salu­ta­tions or gen­uflec­tions, he strode some half-​dozen paces up the hall; then swung off his hat, stopped short with his spurs to­geth­er, and bowed in sol­dier­ly fash­ion to­ward the great fire­place.

Thrust­ing his hand in­to his breast, he drew out a pack­et, heav­ily sealed.

“I bring from Rome,” he said--and his voice rang through the cham­ber--“for my Lord Bish­op of Worces­ter, a let­ter from His Ho­li­ness the Pope.”

The Knight sprang to his feet. The Bish­op rose, a no­ble fig­ure in crim­son and gold, and the dig­ni­ty of his high of­fice straight­way en­veloped him.

In com­plete si­lence, he stretched out his right hand for the let­ter.

The dusty trav­eller came for­ward quick­ly, knelt at the Bish­op's feet, and placed the mis­sive in his hands.

As the Bish­op lift­ed the Pope's let­ter and, stoop­ing his head, kissed the pa­pal seal, the Knight kneeled on one knee, his hand up­on his sword-​hilt, his eyes bent on the ground.

So for a mo­ment there was si­lence. The sovereign­ty of Rome, stretch­ing a mighty arm across the seas, as­sert­ed its pow­er in the En­glish hall.

Then the Bish­op placed the let­ter up­on a small ta­ble at his right hand, seat­ed him­self, and signed to both men to rise.

“How has it fared with you, Roger?” he asked, kind­ly.

“Am I in time, Rev­erend Fa­ther?” ex­claimed the youth, ea­ger­ly. "I act­ed on your or­ders. No ex­pense was spared. I char­tered the best ves­sel I could find, and had set sail with­in an hour of gal­lop­ing in­to the port. We made a good pas­sage, and be­ing for­tu­nate in se­cur­ing re­lays of hors­es along the route, I was in Rome twen­ty-​four hours soon­er than we had reck­oned. I rode in at sun­set; and, your name and seal pass­ing me on ev­ery­where, your let­ter, my lord, was in the Holy Fa­ther's hands ere the glow had fad­ed from the dis­tant hills.

"I was right roy­al­ly en­ter­tained by Car­di­nal Fer­rari; and, truth to tell, a soft couch and silken quilts were wel­come, af­ter many nights of rough lodg­ing, in the way­side inns of Nor­mandy and Italy. More­over, hav­ing gal­loped ahead of time, I felt free to take a long night's re­pose.

"But next morn­ing, soon af­ter the pi­geons be­gan to coo and cir­cle, I was called and bid to has­ten. Then, while I broke my fast with many strange and tasty dish­es, seat­ed in a mar­ble court, with foun­tains play­ing and vines o'er­hang­ing, the Car­di­nal re­turned, he hav­ing been sum­moned al­ready to the bed­cham­ber of the Pope, where the re­ply of His Ho­li­ness lay, ready sealed.

"Where­upon, my lord, I lost no time in set­ting forth, pick­ing up on my re­turn jour­ney each mount there where I had left it, un­til I gal­loped in­to the port where our ves­sel wait­ed.

“Then, alas, came de­lay, and glad in­deed was I, that I had not been tempt­ed to linger in Rome; for the winds were con­trary; some days passed be­fore we could set sail; and when at last I pre­vailed up­on the mariners to ven­ture, a great storm caught us in mid-​chan­nel, threat­en­ing to rend the sails to rib­bons and, lift­ing us high, hurl us all to perdi­tion. Help­less and des­per­ate, for the sailors had lost all con­trol, I vowed that if the storm might abate and we come safe to har­bour I would--when I suc­ceed to my fa­ther's lands in Glouces­ter­shire--give to the wor­thy Ab­bot of an Abbey ad­join­ing our es­tate, a mead­ow, con­cern­ing which he and his monks have long bro­ken the tenth com­mand­ment and oth­er com­mands as well, a trout stream run­ning through it, and the dear­est de­light of the Ab­bot be­ing fat trout for sup­per; and of the monks, to lie on their bel­lies tick­ling the trout as they hide in the cool holes un­der the banks of the stream. But when my fa­ther finds the monks thus poach­ing, he comes up be­hind them, and up they get quick­ly--or try to! So, in mid-​chan­nel, re­mem­ber­ing my sins, I re­mem­bered run­ning to tell my fa­ther that if he came quick­ly he would find the good Broth­ers flat on their bel­lies, sleeves rolled back, heads hang­ing over the wa­ter, toes well tucked in­to the turf, deeply in­tent up­on tick­ling. Then I would run by a short cut, hide in the hazels, and watch while my fa­ther stalked up through the mead­ow, caught and be­laboured the poach­ers. My de­ri­sive young laugh­ter seemed now to howl and shriek through the rig­ging. So I vowed that if the storm abat­ed and we came safe to port, the monks should be giv­en that mead­ow. Up­on which the storm did abate, and to port we came--and what my fa­ther will say, I know not! Fear­ing vex­ation to you, my lord, from this un­to­ward de­lay, on land­ing I rode as fast as mine own good horse could car­ry me. Am I in time?”

The Bish­op smiled as he looked in­to the blue eyes and open coun­te­nance of young Roger de Berchelai, a youth whol­ly de­vot­ed to his ser­vice. Here was an­oth­er who re­mem­bered in pic­tures, and Symon of Worces­ter loved the gal­lop, and rush, and breeze of the sea, which had swept through the cham­ber, in the ea­ger young voice of his en­voy.

“Yes, my son,” said the Bish­op. “You have re­turned, not mere­ly in time, but with two days to spare. Was there ev­er fleeter mes­sen­ger! In­deed my choice was well made and my trust well placed. Now you must sup and then take a much-​need­ed rest, dear lad; and to-​mor­row tell me if you had need to spend more than I gave you.”

Rais­ing his voice, the Bish­op called his Chap­lain; where­upon that sin­is­ter fig­ure at once ap­peared in the door­way.

The Bish­op gave or­ders con­cern­ing the en­ter­tain­ing of the young Es­quire of Berchelai; then added; “And let the chapel be light­ed, Fa­ther Bene­dict. So soon as the au­ro­ra ap­pears in the east, I shall cel­ebrate mass, in thanks­giv­ing for the bless­ing of a let­ter from the Holy Fa­ther, and for the safe re­turn of my mes­sen­ger. I shall not need your pres­ence nor that of any of the brethren, save those whose watch it chances to be. . . . _Benedicite_.”

“_Deus_,” re­spond­ed Fa­ther Bene­dict, bow­ing low.

Young Roger, gay and glad, knelt and kissed the Bish­op's ring; then, ris­ing, flung back a strand of fair hair which fell over his fore­head, and said: “A bath, my lord, would be even more wel­come than sup­per and bed. It shames me to have come in such trav­el-​stained plight in­to your pres­ence, and that of this no­ble knight,” with a bow to Hugh d'Ar­gent.

“Nay,” said Hugh, smil­ing in friend­ly re­sponse. “Trav­el-​stains gained in such fash­ion, are more to be de­sired than silks and fine linen. I would I could go to rest this night know­ing I had ac­com­plished as much.”

“Go and have thy bath, boy,” said the Bish­op. “This will give my monks time to tick­le, catch, and cook, trout for thy sup­per! Ah, thou young ras­cal! But that field is _Cor­ban_, re­mem­ber. Sup well, rest well, and the bless­ing of the Lord be with thee.”

The brown rid­ing-​suit van­ished through the arch­way.

Fa­ther Bene­dict's lean hand pulled the door to.

The Bish­op and the Knight were once more alone.