The White Ladies of Worcester A Romance of the Twelfth Century

CHAPTER XXIV

THE POPE'S MAN­DATE

The Bish­op and Hugh d'Ar­gent were once more alone. It was char­ac­ter­is­tic of both that they sat for some min­utes in un­bro­ken si­lence.

Then the Bish­op put out his hand, took up the pack­et from Rome, and looked at the Knight.

Hugh d'Ar­gent rose, walked over to the case­ment, and leaned out in­to the still, sum­mer night.

He could hear the Bish­op break­ing the seals of the Pope's let­ter.

Be­low in the court­yard, all was qui­et. The great gates were barred. He won­dered whether the steam­ing horse had been well rubbed down, clothed, and giv­en a warm mash mixed with ale.

He could hear the Bish­op un­fold­ing the parch­ment, which crack­led.

The moon, in her first quar­ter, rode high in the heav­ens. The tow­ers of St. Mary's church looked black against the sky.

The Palace stood on the same side of the Cathe­dral as the main street of the city, in the di­rect route to the Fore­gate, the Tithing, and the White Ladies' Nun­nery at Whyt­stone. How strange to re­mem­ber, that be­neath him lay that mile-​long walk in dark­ness; that just un­der the Palace, so near the Cathe­dral, she and he, pac­ing to­geth­er, had known the end of their strange pil­grim­age to be at hand. Yet then----

He could hear the Bish­op turn­ing the parch­ment.

How freely the sil­very moon sailed in this stormy sky, like a no­ble face look­ing calm­ly out, and ev­er out again, from amid per­plex­ities and doubts.

In two nights' time, the moon would be well-​nigh full. Would he be rid­ing to War­wick alone, or would she be be­side him?

As the Bish­op had said, he had de­scribed her as rid­ing all day, like a bird, on the moors. Yet now he loved best to pic­ture her rid­ing forth up­on Icon in­to the riv­er mead­ow, her veil stream­ing be­hind her; “on her face the light of a pur­pose­ful ra­di­ance.”

Ah, would she come? Would she come, or would she stay? Would she stay, or would she come?

The moon was now hid­den by a cloud; but he could see the edge of the cloud sil­ver­ing.

If the moon sailed forth free, be­fore he had count­ed to twelve, she would come.

He be­gan to count, slow­ly.

At nine, the moon was still hid­den; and the Knight's heart failed him.

But at ten, the Bish­op called: “Hugh!” and turn­ing from the case­ment the Knight an­swered to the call.

The Bish­op held in his hands the Pope's let­ter, and al­so a le­gal-​look­ing doc­ument, from which seals de­pend­ed.

“This doth close­ly con­cern you, my son,” said the Bish­op, with some emo­tion, and placed the parch­ment in the Knight's hands.

Hugh d'Ar­gent could have mas­tered its con­tents by the light of the wax ta­per burn­ing be­side the Bish­op's chair. But some in­stinct he could not have ex­plained, caused him to car­ry it over to the ta­ble in the cen­tre of the hall, where­on four wax can­dles still burned. He stood to read the doc­ument, with his back to the Bish­op, his head bent close to the flame of the can­dles.

Once, twice, thrice, the Knight read it, be­fore his be­wil­dered brain took in its full im­port. Yet it was clear and un­mis­tak­able--a dis­pen­sa­tion, signed and sealed by the Pope, re­leas­ing Mo­ra, Count­ess of Norelle, from all vows and promis­es tak­en and made when she en­tered the Nun­nery of the White Ladies of Worces­ter, at Whyt­stone, in the parish of dairies, and lat­er on when she be­came Pri­oress of that same Nun­nery; and fur­ther­more stat­ing that this full ab­so­lu­tion was grant­ed be­cause it had been brought to the knowl­edge of His Ho­li­ness that this no­ble la­dy had en­tered the clois­tered life ow­ing to a wicked and ma­li­cious plot de­signed to wrest her cas­tle and es­tates from her, and al­so to part her from a valiant Knight, at that time fight­ing in the Holy Wars, to whom she was be­trothed.

Fur­ther­more the deed em­pow­ered Symon, Bish­op of Worces­ter or any priest he might ap­point, to unite in mar­riage the Knight Cru­sad­er, Hugh d'Ar­gent, and Mo­ra de Norelle, some­time Pri­oress of the White Ladies of Worces­ter.

The Knight walked back to the hearth and stood be­fore the Bish­op, the parch­ment in his hand.

“My Lord Bish­op,” he said, “do I dream?”

Symon of Worces­ter smiled. "Nay, my son. Sure­ly no dream of thine was ev­er signed by His Ho­li­ness, nor bore sus­pend­ed from it the great seal of the Vat­ican! The doc­ument you hold will be suf­fi­cient an­swer to all ques­tions, and will en­sure your wife's po­si­tion at Court and her stand­ing in the out­er world--should she elect to re-​en­ter it.

"But whether she shall do this, or no, is not a mat­ter up­on which the Church would give a de­ci­sive or even an au­thor­ita­tive pro­nounce­ment; and the Holy Fa­ther adds, in, his let­ter to me, fur­ther im­por­tant in­struc­tions.

"First­ly: that it must be the Pri­oress's own wish and de­ci­sion, apart from any un­due pres­sure from with­out, to re­sign her of­fice and to ac­cept this dis­pen­sa­tion, free­ing her from her vows.

"Sec­ond­ly; that she must leave the Nun­nery and the neigh­bour­hood, se­cret­ly; if it be pos­si­ble, ap­pear­ing in her new po­si­tion, as your wife, with­out much ques­tion be­ing raised as to whence she came.

“Third­ly: that when her ab­sence be­comes known in the Nun­nery, I am au­tho­rized solemn­ly to an­nounce that she has been moved on by me, se­cret­ly, with the knowl­edge and ap­proval of the Holy Fa­ther, to a place where she was re­quired for high­er ser­vice.”

The Bish­op smiled as he pro­nounced the fi­nal words. There was tri­umph in his eye.

The Knight still looked as if he felt him­self to be dream­ing; yet on his face was a great glad­ness of ex­pec­ta­tion.

“And, my lord,” he ex­claimed joy­ous­ly, “what news for her! Shall you send it, in the morn, or your­self take it to her?”

The Bish­op's lips were pressed against his fin­ger-​tips.

“I know not,” he an­swered, slow­ly; “I know not that I shall ei­ther take or send it.”

“But, my lord, sure­ly! It will set­tle all doubts, solve all ques­tions, re­move all dif­fi­cul­ties----”

“Tut! Tut! Tut!” ex­claimed the Bish­op. “Good heav­ens, man! Dare I wed you to a wom­an you know so lit­tle? Not for one in­stant, in­to her con­sid­er­ation of the mat­ter, will have en­tered any ques­tion as to what Church or State might say or do. For her the ques­tion stands up­on sim­pler, truer, lines, not in­volved by rule or dog­ma: 'Is it right for me, or wrong for me? Is it the will of God that I should do this thing?'”

“But if you tell her, my lord, of the Holy Fa­ther's dis­pen­sa­tion and per­mis­sion; what will she then say?”

“What will she then say?” Symon of Worces­ter soft­ly laughed, as at some­thing which stirred an ex­ceed­ing ten­der mem­ory. “She will prob­ably say: 'You amaze me, my lord! In­deed, my lord, you amaze me! His Ho­li­ness the Pope may rule at Rome; _you_, my Lord Bish­op, rule in the cities of this dio­cese; but _I_ rule in this Nun­nery, and while I rule here, such a thing as this shall nev­er be!'”

The Bish­op gen­tly passed his hands the one over the oth­er, as was his habit when a rec­ol­lec­tion gave him keen men­tal plea­sure.

“That is what the Pri­oress would prob­ably say, my dear Knight, were I so fool­ish as to flaunt be­fore her this most price­less parch­ment. And yet--I know not. It may be wise to send it, or to show it with­out much com­ment, sim­ply in or­der that she may see the ef­fect up­on the mind of the Holy Fa­ther him­self, of a full knowl­edge of the com­plete facts of the case.”

“My lord,” said the Knight, with much earnest­ness, “how came that full knowl­edge to His Ho­li­ness in Rome?”

“When first you came to me,” replied the Bish­op, "with this grievous tale of wrong and treach­ery, I knew that if you won your way with Mo­ra, we must be armed with high­est au­thor­ity for the mar­riage and for her re­turn to the world, or sor­row and much tri­al for her might fol­low, with, per­haps, dan­ger for you. There­fore I re­solved forth­with to lay the whole mat­ter, with­out loss of time, be­fore the Pope him­self. I know the Holy Fa­ther well; his open­ness of mind, his char­ity and kind­li­ness; his firm de­sire to do just­ly, and to love mer­cy. More­over, his friend­ship for me is such, that he would not light­ly refuse me a re­quest. Al­so he would, of his kind­ness, in­cline to be guid­ed by my judg­ment.

“Where­fore, no soon­er were all the facts in my pos­ses­sion, those you told me, those I al­ready knew, and those I did for my­self de­duce from both, than I sent for young Roger de Berchelai, whose wits and de­vo­tion I could safe­ly trust, gave him all he would need for board and lodg­ing, boats and steeds, that he might ac­com­plish the jour­ney in the short­est pos­si­ble time, and despatched him to Rome with a writ­ten ac­count of the whole mat­ter, un­der my pri­vate seal, to His Ho­li­ness the Pope.”

The Knight stood dur­ing this recital, his eyes fixed in search­ing ques­tion up­on the Bish­op's face.

Then: “My lord,” he said, “such kind­ness on your part, pass­es all un­der­stand­ing. That you should have borne with me while I told my tale, was much. That you should tac­it­ly have al­lowed me the chance to have speech with my be­trothed, was more. But that, all this time, while I was giv­ing you half-​con­fi­dence, and she no con­fi­dence at all, you should have been work­ing, spend­ing, plan­ning for us, risk­ing much if the Holy Fa­ther had tak­en your large­ness of heart and breadth of mind amiss! All this, you did, for Mo­ra and for me! That you were, as you tell me, a fre­quent guest in my child­hood's home, hold­ing my par­ents in warm es­teem, might ac­count for the ex­ceed­ing kind­ness of the wel­come you did give me. But this gen­eros­ity--this won­drous good­ness--I stand amazed, con­found­ed! That you should do so great a thing to make it pos­si­ble that I should wed the Pri­oress-- It pass­es un­der­stand­ing!”

When Hugh d'Ar­gent ceased speak­ing, Symon of Worces­ter did not im­me­di­ate­ly make re­ply. He sat look­ing in­to the fire, fin­ger­ing, with his left hand, the gold cross at his breast, and drum­ming, with the fin­gers of his right, up­on the carved li­on's head which formed the arm of his chair.

It seemed as if the Bish­op had, of a sud­den, grown restive un­der the Knight's grat­itude; or as if some train of thought had awak­ened with­in him, to which he did not choose to give ex­pres­sion, and which must be beat­en back be­fore he al­lowed him­self to speak.

At length, fold­ing his hands, he made an­swer to the Knight, still look­ing in­to the fire, a cer­tain air of de­tach­ment wrap­ping him round, as with an in­vis­ible yet im­pen­etra­ble shield.

"You over­whelm me, my dear Hugh, with your grat­itude. It had not seemed to me that my ac­tion in this mat­ter would de­mand ei­ther thanks or ex­pla­na­tion. There are oc­ca­sions when to do less than our best, would be to sin against all that which we hold most sa­cred. To my mind, the most use­ful def­ini­tion of sin, in the sa­cred writ­ings, is that of the apos­tle Saint James, most prac­ti­cal of all the in­spired writ­ers, when he said: 'To him that knoweth to do good, and doeth it not, to him it is sin.' I knew quite clear­ly the 'good' to be done in this case. There­fore no grat­itude is due to me for fail­ing to fall in­to the sin of omis­sion.

"Al­so, my son, many who seem to de­serve the grat­itude of oth­ers, would be found not to de­serve it, if the en­tire in­ward truth of mo­tive could be ful­ly re­vealed.

"With me it is well-​nigh a pas­sion that all good things should at­tain un­to full com­plete­ness.

“It may be I was bet­ter able to give full un­der­stand­ing to your tale be­cause, for love of a wom­an, I dwelt sev­en years in ex­ile from this land, fear­ing lest my great love for her, which came to me all un­sought, should--by be­com­ing known to her--lead her young heart, as yet fresh and un­awak­ened, to re­spond. There was nev­er any ques­tion of break­ing my vows; and I hold not with love-​friend­ships be­tween man and wom­an, there where mar­riage is not pos­si­ble. They are, at best, self­ish on the part of the man. They keep the wom­an from en­ter­ing in­to her king­dom. The crown of wom­an­hood is to bear chil­dren to the man she loves--to take her place in his home, as wife and moth­er. The man who can­not of­fer this, yet stands in the way of the man who can, is a poor and an un­wor­thy lover.”

The Bish­op paused, un­clasped his hands, with­drew his stead­fast re­gard from the fire, and sat back in his chair. The stone in his ring gleamed blue, the colour of for­get-​me-​nots be­side a mead­ow brook.

Present­ly he looked at the silent Knight. There was a kind­ly smile, in his eyes, rather than up­on his lips.

"It may be, my dear Hugh, that this heart dis­ci­pline of mine--of which, by the way, I have nev­er be­fore spo­ken--has made me quick to un­der­stand the suf­fer­ings of oth­er men. Al­so it may ex­plain the great de­sire I al­ways ex­pe­ri­ence to see a tru­ly no­ble wom­an come to the full com­ple­tion of her wom­an­hood.

“I re­turned to Eng­land not long af­ter your be­trothed had en­tered the clois­tered life in the Whyt­stone Nun­nery. I was ap­point­ed to this See of Worces­ter, which ap­point­ment gave me the spir­itu­al con­trol of the White Ladies. My friend­ship with the Pri­oress has been a source of in­ter­est, plea­sure, and true help­ful­ness to my­self and I trust to her al­so. I think I told you while we supped that, many years ago, I had known her at the Court when I was con­fes­sor to the Queen, and pre­cep­tor to her ladies. But no men­tion has ev­er been made be­tween the Pri­oress and my­self of any pre­vi­ous ac­quain­tance. I doubt whether she recog­nised, in the frail, white-​haired, old prelate who ar­rived from Italy, the vig­or­ous, beard­ed priest known to her, in her girl­hood's days, as”--the Bish­op paused and looked steadi­ly at the Knight--“as Fa­ther Ger­vaise.”

“Fa­ther Ger­vaise!” ex­claimed Hugh d'Ar­gent, lift­ing his hand to cross him­self as he named the Dead, yet ar­rest­ed in this in­stinc­tive move­ment by some­thing in those keen blue eyes. “Fa­ther Ger­vaise, my lord, per­ished in a stormy sea. The ship foundered, and none who sailed in her were seen again.”

The Knight spoke with con­vic­tion; yet, even as he spoke, the amaz­ing truth rushed in up­on him, and struck him dumb. Of a sud­den he knew why the Bish­op's eyes had in­stant­ly won his fear­less con­fi­dence. A trust­ed friend of his child­hood had looked out at him from their dear depths. Of­ten he had searched his mem­ory, since the Bish­op had claimed knowl­edge of him in his boy­hood, and had mar­velled that no rec­ol­lec­tion of Symon as a guest in his par­ents' home came back to him.

Now--in this mo­ment of rev­ela­tion--how clear­ly he could see the fig­ure of the fa­mous priest, in brown habit, cloak, and hood, a cord at his waist, with ton­sured head, full brown beard, and san­dalled feet, pac­ing the great hall, stand­ing in the ar­moury, or climb­ing the Cum­ber­land hills to vis­it the chapel of the Holy Mount and the her­mit who dwelt be­side it.

As is the way with child­hood's mem­ories, the small­est, most triv­ial de­tails leapt up vivid, crys­tal clear. The present was for­got­ten, the fu­ture dis­re­gard­ed, in the sud­den in­ti­mate dear­ness of that long-​ago past.

The Bish­op al­lowed time for this re­al­isa­tion. Then he spoke.

“True, the ship foundered, Hugh; true, none who sailed in her were seen again. And, if I tell you that one swim­mer, af­ter long buf­fet­ing, was flung up on a rocky coast, lay for many weeks sick un­to death in a fish­er­man's hum­ble cot, rose at last the frail shad­ow of his for­mer self, to find that his hair had turned white in that des­per­ate night, to find that none knew his name nor his es­tate, that--leav­ing Fa­ther Ger­vaise and his fail­ures at the bot­tom of the ocean--he could shave his beard, and make his way to Rome un­der any name he pleased; if I tell you all this, I trust you with a se­cret, Hugh, known to one oth­er on­ly, dur­ing all these years--His Ho­li­ness, the Pope.”

“Fa­ther!” ex­claimed the Knight, with deep emo­tion; “Fa­ther”-- Then, his voice broke. He dropped on one knee in front of the Bish­op, and clasped the bands stretched out to him.

What strange thing had hap­pened? One, great­ly loved and long mourned, had risen from the dead; yet she who had best loved and most mourned him, had her­self passed to the Realm of Shad­ows, and was not here to won­der and to re­joice.

“Fa­ther,” said Hugh, when he could trust his voice, “in her last words to me, my moth­er spoke of you. I went to her cham­ber to bid her sleep well, and to­geth­er we knelt be­fore the cru­ci­fix. 'Let us re­peat,' whis­pered my moth­er, 'those holy words of com­fort which Fa­ther Ger­vaise ev­er bid his pen­itents to say, as they kneeled be­fore the dy­ing Re­deemer.' 'Moth­er,' said I, 'I know them not.' 'Thou wert so young, my son,' she said, 'when Fa­ther Ger­vaise last was with us.' 'Tell me the words,' I said; 'I should like well to have them from thy lips.' So, lift­ing her eyes to the dead Christ, my moth­er said, with awe and rev­er­ence in her voice and a deep glad­ness on her face: 'He--ev­er--liveth--to make in­ter­ces­sion for us.' And, in the dawn of the new day, her spir­it passed.”

The Bish­op laid his hand up­on the Knight's bowed head. “My son,” he said, “of all the wom­en I have known, thy gen­tle moth­er bore the most beau­ti­ful and saint­ly char­ac­ter. I would there were more such as she, in our British homes.”

“Fa­ther,” said Hugh, bro­ken­ly, “knew you how much she had to bear? My fa­ther's fierce feuds with all, shut her up at last to ut­ter lone­li­ness. His anger against Holy Church and his con­tempt of Her priests, cost my moth­er the com­fort of your vis­its. His life-​long quar­rel with Earl Eu­stace de Norelle caused that our fam­ilies, though dwelling with­in a three hours' ride, were al­lowed no in­ter­course. Nev­er did I en­ter Cas­tle Norelle un­til I rode up from the South, with a mes­sage for Mo­ra from the King. And, to this day, Mo­ra has nev­er been with­in the court­yard of my home! When we were be­trothed, I dared not tell my par­ents--though Earl Eu­stace and his Count­ess both were dead--lest my fa­ther's wrath might reach Mo­ra, when I had gone. News of his death, chanc­ing to me in a far-​off land, brought me home. And tru­ly, it was home in­deed, at last! Peace and con­tent, where al­ways there had been tur­bu­lence and strain. Fa­ther, I tell you this be­cause I know my gen­tle moth­er feared you did not un­der­stand, and that you may have thought her love for you had failed.”

Symon of Worces­ter smiled.

“Dear lad,” he said, “I un­der­stood.”

“Ah why,” cried Hugh, with sud­den pas­sion, “why should a wom­an's whole life be spoiled, and oth­er lives be dark­ened and made sad, just by the an­gry, churl­ish, sullen whims of----”

“Hush, boy!” said the Bish­op, quick­ly. "You speak of your fa­ther, and you name the Dead. Some­thing dies in the Liv­ing, each time they speak evil of the Dead. I knew your fa­ther; and, though he loved me not, yet, to be hon­est, I must say this of him: Sir Hugo was a good man and true; up­right, and a man of hon­our. He car­ried his shield un­tar­nished. If he was feared by his friends, he was al­so feared by his foes. Brave he was and fear­less. One thing he lacked; and of­ten, alas, they who lack just one thing, lack all.

“Hugo d'Ar­gent knew not love for his fel­low-​men. To be a man, was to earn his frown; all things hu­man called forth his dis­dain. To view the same land­scape, breathe the same air, in fact walk the same earth as he, was to stand in his way, and raise his ire. Yet in his harsh, vexed man­ner he loved his wife, and loved his lit­tle son. Nor had he any self-​con­ceit. He re­alised in him­self his own worst foe. Lest we fall in­to this snare, it is well dai­ly to pray: 'O Lover of Mankind, grant un­to me tru­ly to love my fel­low-​men; to hon­our them, un­til they prove worth­less; to trust them, un­til they prove faith­less; and ev­er to ex­pect bet­ter of them, than I ex­pect of my­self; to think bet­ter of them, than I think of my­self.' Let us go through life, my son, search­ing for good in oth­ers, not for evil; we may miss the good, if we search not for it; the evil, alas, will find us, quite soon enough, un­sought.”

Sud­den­ly Hugh lift­ed his head.

“Fa­ther,” he said, “the star­ling! Mind you the star­ling with the bro­ken wing, which you and I found in the woods and car­ried home; and you did set his wing, and tamed him, and taught him to say 'Hugh'? Each time I brought him food, you said: 'Hugh! Hugh!' And soon the star­ling, see­ing me com­ing, al­so said: 'Hugh! Hugh!' Do you re­mem­ber, Fa­ther?”

“I do re­mem­ber,” said the Bish­op. “I see thee now, com­ing across the court­yard, bread and meat in thy hands--a lit­tle lad, bare­head­ed in the sun­shine, glow­ing with plea­sure be­cause the star­ling ran to meet thee, shout­ing 'Hugh!'”

“Then lis­ten, dear Fa­ther. (Ah, how of­ten have I wished to tell you this!) Soon af­ter you were gone, that star­ling rude­ly taught me a hard les­son. Gain­ing strength, one day he left the court­yard, ran through the but­tery, and wan­dered in the gar­den. I fol­lowed, whistling and watch­ing. It great­ly de­light­ed the bird to find him­self on turf. There had been rain. The grass was wet. Present­ly a rash worm, glid­ing from its hole, ad­ven­tured forth. The star­ling ran to the worm, call­ing it 'Hugh.' 'Hugh! Hugh!' he cried, and tugged it from the earth. 'Hugh! Hugh!' and pecked it, where help­less it lay squirm­ing. Then, shout­ing 'Hugh!' once more, gob­bled it down. I stood with heavy heart, for I had thought that star­ling loved me with a true, per­son­al love, when he ran at my ap­proach shout­ing my name. Yet now I knew it was the food I car­ried, he called 'Hugh'; it was the food, not me, he loved. Glad was I when, his wing grown strong, he flew away. It cut me to the heart to hear the worms, the grubs, the snails, the cater­pil­lars, all called 'Hugh'!”

The Bish­op smiled, then sighed. “Poor lit­tle ea­ger heart,” he said, “learn­ing so hard a les­son, all alone! Yet is it a les­son, lad, soon­er or lat­er learned in sad­ness by all gen­er­ous hearts. . . . And now, leav­ing the past, with all its mem­ories, let us re­turn to the present, and face the un­cer­tain fu­ture. Al­so, dear Knight, I must ask you to re­mem­ber, even when we are alone, that your old friend, Fa­ther Ger­vaise, in his brown habit, lies at the bot­tom of the ocean; yet that your new friend, Symon of Worces­ter, holds you and your in­ter­ests very near his heart.”

The Bish­op put out his hand.

Hugh seized and kissed it, know­ing this was his farewell to Fa­ther Ger­vaise.

Then he rose to his feet.

The Bish­op said noth­ing; but an in­de­fin­able change came over him. Again he ex­tend­ed his hand.

The Knight kneeled, and kissed the Bish­op's ring.

“I thank you, my lord,” he said, “for your great trust in me. I will not prove un­wor­thy.” With this he went back to his seat.

The Bish­op, lift­ing the fag­got-​fork, care­ful­ly stirred and built up the logs.

“What were we say­ing, my dear Knight, when we strayed in­to a side is­sue? Ah, I re­mem­ber! I was telling you of my ap­point­ment to the See of Worces­ter, and my be­lief that the Pri­oress failed to recog­nise in me, one she had known long years be­fore.”

The Bish­op put by the fag­got-​fork and turned from the fire.

"I found the promise of that ra­di­ant girl­hood more than ful­filled. She was changed; she shewed ob­vi­ous signs of hav­ing passed through the fur­nace; but pure gold can stand the fire. The strength of pur­pose, the no­ble out­look up­on life, the gra­cious ten­der­ness for oth­ers, had ma­tured and de­vel­oped. Even the nec­es­sary re­stric­tions of monas­tic life could not mod­ify the grand lines--both men­tal, and phys­ical--on which Na­ture had mould­ed her.

"I en­deav­oured to think no thoughts con­cern­ing her, oth­er than should be thought of a holy la­dy who has tak­en vows of celiba­cy. Yet, see­ing her so fit­ted to have made house home for a man, help­ing him up­ward, and to have been the moth­er of a fine race of sons and daugh­ters, I felt it grievous that in leav­ing the world for a rea­son which in no sense could be con­sid­ered a true vo­ca­tion, she should have cut her­self off from such pow­ers and pos­si­bil­ities.

“So passed the years in the calm ser­vice of God and of the Church; yet al­ways I seemed aware that a cri­sis would come, and that, when that cri­sis came, she would need me.”

The Bish­op paused and looked at the Knight.

Hugh's face was in shad­ow; but, as the Bish­op looked at him, the ru­bies on his breast glit­tered in the fire­light, as if some sud­den thought had set him strong­ly quiv­er­ing.

At sight of which, a flash of firm re­solve, like the swift draw­ing of a sword, broke o'er the Bish­op's calm­ness. It was quick and pow­er­ful; it seemed to di­vide asun­der soul and spir­it, joints and mar­row, and to dis­cern the thoughts and in­tents of the heart. And be­fore that two-​edged blade could sheathe it­self again, swift­ly the Bish­op spoke.

"There­fore, my dear Hugh, when you ar­rived with your tale of wrong and treach­ery, all un­con­scious­ly to your­self, ev­ery word you spoke of your be­trothed re­vealed her to the man who had loved her while you were yet a youth, with your spurs to win, and all life be­fore you.

"I saw in your ar­rival, and in the strange tale you told, a won­drous chance for her of that fuller de­vel­op­ment of life for which I knew her to be so per­fect­ly fit­ted.

"It had seemed in­deed the irony of fate that, while I had fled and dwelt in ex­ile lest my pres­ence should hold her back from mar­riage, the treach­ery of oth­ers should have driv­en her in­to a life of celiba­cy.

"There­fore while, with my tac­it con­sent, you went to work in your own way, I sent my mes­sen­ger to Rome bear­ing to the Holy Fa­ther a full ac­count of all, pe­ti­tion­ing a dis­pen­sa­tion from vows tak­en ow­ing to de­cep­tion, and ask­ing leave to unite in the holy sacra­ment of mar­riage these long-​sun­dered lovers, un­der­tak­ing that no scan­dal should arise there­from, ei­ther in the Nun­nery or in the City of Worces­ter.

“As you have seen, my mes­sen­ger this night re­turned; and we now find our­selves armed with the full sanc­tion of His Ho­li­ness, pro­vid­ing the Pri­oress, of her own free will, de­sires to re­nounce the high po­si­tion she has won in her holy call­ing, and to come to you.”

The qui­et voice ceased speak­ing.

The Knight rose slow­ly to his feet. At first he stood silent. Then he spoke with a calm dig­ni­ty which proved him wor­thy of the Bish­op's trust.

“I great­ly hon­our you, my lord,” he said; “and were our ages and con­di­tions oth­er than they are, so that we might fight for the wom­an we love, I should be proud to cross swords with you.”

The Bish­op sat look­ing in­to the fire. A faint smile flick­ered at the cor­ners of the sen­si­tive mouth. The fights he had fought for the wom­an he loved had been of stern­er qual­ity than the mere cross­ing of knight­ly swords.

Hugh d'Ar­gent spoke again.

“Pro­found­ly do I thank you, Rev­erend Fa­ther, for all that you have done; and even more, for that which you did not do. It was six years af­ter her first so­journ at the Court that I met Mo­ra, loved her, and won her; and well I know that the sweet love she gave to me was a love from which no man had brushed the bloom.”

Hugh paused.

Those kind­ly and very lu­mi­nous eyes were still bent up­on the fire. Was the Bish­op find­ing it hard to face the fact that his life's se­cret had now, by his own act, passed in­to the keep­ing of an­oth­er?

Hugh moved a pace near­er.

“And deeply do I love you, Rev­erend Fa­ther, for your won­drous good­ness to her, and--for her sake--to me. And I pray heav­en,” added Hugh d'Ar­gent sim­ply, “that if she come to me, she may nev­er know that she once won the love of so great­ly bet­ter a man than he who won hers.”

With which the Knight dropped up­on one knee, and humbly kissed the hem of the Bish­op's robe.

Symon of Worces­ter was great­ly moved.

“My son,” he said, “we are at one in de­sir­ing her hap­pi­ness and high­est good. For the rest, God, and her own pure heart, must guide her feet in­to the way of peace.”

The Bish­op rose, and went to the case­ment.

“The au­ro­ra breaks in the east. The dawn is near. Come with me, Hugh, to the chapel. We pray for His Ho­li­ness, giv­ing thanks for his gra­cious let­ter and man­date; we praise for the safe re­turn of my mes­sen­ger. But we will al­so of­fer up de­vout pe­ti­tion that the Pri­oress may have clear light at this part­ing of the ways, and that our en­ter­prise may be brought to a hap­py con­clu­sion.”

So, present­ly, in the dim­ly-​light­ed chapel, the Knight knelt alone; while, away at the high al­tar, re­mote, wrapt, ab­sorbed in the supreme act of his priest­ly of­fice, stood the Bish­op, cel­ebrat­ing mass.

Yet one anx­ious prayer as­cend­ed from the hearts of both.

And, in the pale dawn of that new day, the wom­an for whom both the Knight and the Bish­op prayed, kept vig­il in her cell, be­fore the shrine of the Madon­na.

“Blessèd Vir­gin,” she said; “thou who lovedst Saint Joseph, be­ing be­trothed to him, yet didst keep thy­self an holy shrine con­se­crate to the Lord and His need of thee--oh, grant un­to me strength to put from me this con­stant tor­ment at the thought of his suf­fer­ings to whom once I gave my troth, and to re­con­se­crate my­self whol­ly to the ser­vice of my Lord.”

Thus these three knelt, as a new day dawned.

And the Knight prayed: “Give her to me!”

And the Bish­op prayed: “Guide her feet in­to the way of peace.”

And the Pri­oress, with hands crossed up­on her breast and eyes up­lift­ed, said: “Cause me to know the way where­in I should walk; for I lift up my soul un­to Thee.”

The sil­ver streaks of the au­ro­ra paled be­fore soar­ing shafts of gold, bright her­alds of the ris­ing sun.

Then from the Con­vent gar­den trilled soft­ly the first notes, poignant but pass­ing sweet, of the robin's song.