The White Ladies of Worcester A Romance of the Twelfth Century

CHAPTER XXVII

THE WOM­AN AND HER CON­SCIENCE

“For Hugh?” said the Pri­oress. And then again, in low tones of in­cred­ulous amaze­ment, “For Hugh! What know you of Hugh, my lord?”

The Bish­op looked stead­fast­ly at the Pri­oress, and replied with ex­ceed­ing grav­ity and earnest­ness:

“I know that in break­ing your solemn troth to him, you are break­ing a very no­ble heart; and that in leav­ing his home des­olate, you are rob­bing him not on­ly of his hap­pi­ness but al­so of his faith. Men are apt to rate our holy re­li­gion, not by its the­ories, but by the way in which it causeth us to act in our deal­ings with them. If you con­demn Hugh to sit be­side his hearth, through the long years, a lone­ly, child­less man, you take the Madon­na from his home; if you take your love from him, I great­ly fear lest you should al­so rob him of his be­lief in the love of God. I do not say that these things should be so; I say that we must face the fact that thus they are. And re­mem­ber--be­tween a man and wom­an of no­ble birth, each with a stain­less es­cutcheon, each be­liev­ing the oth­er to be the soul of hon­our, a bro­ken troth is no light mat­ter.”

“I did not break my troth,” said the Pri­oress, “un­til I be­lieved that Hugh had bro­ken his. I had suf­fered sore an­guish of heart and hu­mil­ia­tion of spir­it, over the news of his mar­riage with his cousin Al­fri­da, ere I re­solved to re­nounce the world and en­ter the clois­ter.”

“But Hugh did not wed his cousin, nor any oth­er wom­an,” said the Bish­op. “He was true to you in ev­ery thought and act, even af­ter he al­so had passed through sore an­guish of heart by rea­son of your sup­posed mar­riage with an­oth­er suit­or.”

“I learned the truth but a few days since,” said the Pri­oress. “For sev­en long years I thought Hugh false to me. For sev­en long years I be­lieved him the hus­band of an­oth­er wom­an, and schooled my­self to for­get ev­ery mem­ory of past ten­der­ness.”

“You were both de­ceived,” said the Bish­op. “You have both passed through deep wa­ters. You each owe it to the oth­er to make all pos­si­ble repa­ra­tion.”

“For sev­en holy years,” said the Pri­oress, firm­ly, “I have been the bride of Christ.”

“Do you love Hugh?” asked the Bish­op.

There was si­lence in the cham­ber.

The Pri­oress de­sired, most fer­vent­ly, to take her stand as one dead to all earth­ly loves and de­sires. Yet each time she opened her lips to re­ply, a fresh pic­ture ap­peared in the mir­ror of her men­tal vi­sion, and closed them.

She saw her­self, with hand out­stretched, clasp­ing Hugh's as they kneeled to­geth­er be­fore the shrine of the Madon­na. She could feel the rush of puls­ing life flow from his hand to the palm of hers, and so up­ward to her poor numbed heart, mak­ing it beat its wings like a caged bird.

She felt again the strength and com­fort of the strong arm on which she leaned, as slow­ly through the dark­ness she and Hugh paced in si­lence, side by side.

She re­mem­bered each time when obe­di­ence had seemed strange­ly sweet, and she had loved the man­ly abrupt­ness of his com­mands.

She saw Hugh, in the ring of yel­low light cast by the lantern, kneel­ing at her feet. She felt his hair, thick and soft, be­tween her fin­gers.

And then--she re­mem­bered that shud­der­ing sob, and the in­stant break­ing down of ev­ery bar­ri­er. He was hers, to com­fort; she was his, to soothe his pain. Then--the exquisite mo­ment of yield­ing; the re­lief of the clasp of his strong arms; the pass­ing away of the suf­fer­ing of long years, as she felt his lips on hers, and sur­ren­dered to the hunger of his kiss.

Then--one last pic­ture--when loy­al to her wish, felt rather than ex­pressed, he had freed her, and passed, with­out fur­ther word or touch, up in­to that dim grey light like a pearly dawn at sea--passed, and been lost to view; she saw her­self left in ut­ter lone­li­ness, the heavy door locked by her own turn­ing of the key, he on one side, she on the oth­er, for ev­er; she saw her­self ly­ing be­neath the ground, in dark­ness and des­ola­tion, her face in the damp dust where his feet had stood.

“Do you love Hugh?” again de­mand­ed the Bish­op.

And the Pri­oress lift­ed eyes full of suf­fer­ing, re­proach, and pain, but al­so full of courage and truth, to his face, and an­swered sim­ply: “Alas, my lord, I do.”

The si­lence there­after fol­low­ing was tense with con­flict. The Bish­op turned his eyes to the fig­ure of the Re­deemer up­on the cross, self-​sac­ri­fice per­son­ified, while the Pri­oress mas­tered her emo­tion.

Then: “'Love nev­er faileth,'” said the Bish­op gen­tly.

But the Pri­oress had re­gained com­mand over her­self, and the gen­tle words were to her a chal­lenge. She donned, forth­with, the breast­plate of holy re­solve, and drew her sword.

“My Lord Bish­op, you have wrung from me a con­fes­sion of my love; but in so do­ing, you have wrung from me a con­fes­sion of sin. A nun may not yield to such love as Hugh d'Ar­gent still de­sires to win from me. With long hours of prayer and vig­il, have I sought to purge my soul from the stain of a weak yield­ing--even for 'a mo­ment'--to the mas­ter­ful in­sis­tence of this man, who forced him­self, by the sub­terfuge of a sac­ri­le­gious mas­quer­ade, in­to the sa­cred precincts of our Nun­nery. I know not whom he bribed”--con­tin­ued the Pri­oress, flash­ing an in­dig­nant glance of sus­pi­cion at the Bish­op.

“'Love think­ing no evil,'” mur­mured Symon of Worces­ter.

“But I do know, that some­body in high au­thor­ity must have con­nived at his plot­ting, or he could not have found him­self alone in the crypt at the hour of Ves­pers, in such wise as to as­sume our dress and, min­gling with the re­turn­ing pro­ces­sion, gain en­trance to the clois­ters. And some­body must still be aid­ing and abet­ting his plans, or he could not be, as he him­self told me he would be, dai­ly in the crypt alone, dur­ing the hour when we pass to and from the cleresto­ry. It angers me, my lord, to think that one who should, in this, be on my side, taketh part against me.”

“'Is not eas­ily pro­voked,'” quot­ed the Bish­op.

“In fact I am tempt­ed, my lord,” said the Pri­oress, ris­ing to her feet, tall and in­dig­nant, “I am al­most tempt­ed, my Lord Bish­op, to for­get the rev­er­ence which I owe to your high of­fice----”

“'Doth not be­have it­self un­seem­ly,'” mur­mured Symon of Worces­ter, putting on his biret­ta.

The Pri­oress turned her back up­on the Bish­op, and walked over to the win­dow. She was so an­gry that she felt the tears sting­ing be­neath her eye­lids; yet at the same time she ex­pe­ri­enced a most in­con­gru­ous de­sire to kneel down be­side that beau­ti­ful and dig­ni­fied fig­ure, rest her head against the Bish­op's knees, and pour out the cru­el tale of con­flicts, un­cer­tain­ties and striv­ings, temp­ta­tions and hard-​won vic­to­ries, which, had late­ly made up the sum of her nights and days. He had been her trust­ed friend and coun­sel­lor dur­ing all these years. Yet now she knew him ar­rayed against her, and she feared him more than she feared Hugh. Hugh wres­tled with her feel­ings; and, on the plane of the sens­es, she knew her will would tri­umph. But the Bish­op wres­tled with her men­tal­ity; and be­hind his calm gen­tle­ness was a strength of in­tel­lect which, if she yield­ed at all, would seize and hold her, as steel fin­gers in a vel­vet glove.

She re­turned to her seat, com­posed but de­ter­mined.

“Rev­erend Fa­ther,” she said, “I pray you to par­don my too swift in­dig­na­tion. To you I look to aid me in this time of dif­fi­cul­ty. I grieve for the sor­row and dis­ap­point­ment to a brave and no­ble knight, a loy­al lover, and a most faith­ful heart. But I can­not re­ward faith with un-​faith. If I broke my sa­cred vows in or­der to give my­self to him, I should not bring a bless­ing to his home. Bet­ter an emp­ty hearth than a hearth where broods a curse. Be­sides, we nev­er could live down the scan­dal caused. I should be anath­ema to all. The Pope him­self would doubt­less ex­com­mu­ni­cate us. It would mean end­less sor­row for me, and dan­ger for Hugh. On these grounds, alone, it can­not be.”

Then the Bish­op drew from his sash a fold­ed sheet of vel­lum.

“My daugh­ter,” he said, "when Hugh came to me with his grievous tale of treach­ery and loss, he re­fused to give me the name of the wom­an he sought, say­ing on­ly that he be­lieved she was to be found among the White Ladies of Worces­ter. When I asked her name he an­swered: 'Nay, I guard her name, as I would guard mine hon­our. If I fail to win her back; if she with­hold her­self from me, so that I ride away alone; then must I ride away leav­ing no shad­ow of re­proach on her fair fame. Her name will be for ev­er in my heart,' said Hugh, 'but no word of mine shall have left it, in the mind of any man, linked with a bro­ken troth or a for­sak­en lover.' I tell you this, my daugh­ter, lest you should mis­judge a very loy­al knight.

“But no true lover was ev­er a diplo­mat. Hugh had not talked long with me, be­fore you stood clear­ly re­vealed. A few care­ful ques­tions set­tled the mat­ter, be­yond a doubt. Where­upon, my dear Pri­oress----”

The Bish­op paused. It be­came sud­den­ly dif­fi­cult to pro­ceed. The clear eyes of the Pri­oress were up­on him.

“Where­upon, my lord?”

“Where­upon I re­alised--an ear­ly dream of mine seemed promised a pos­si­ble ful­fil­ment. I knew Hugh as a lad-- It is a ver­ita­ble pas­sion with me that all things should at­tain un­to their full per­fec­tion-- In short, I sent a mes­sen­ger to Rome, bear­ing a care­ful ac­count of the whole mat­ter, in a pri­vate let­ter from my­self to His Ho­li­ness the Pope. Last evening, my mes­sen­ger re­turned, bring­ing a let­ter from the Holy Fa­ther, with this en­closed.”

The Bish­op held out the fold­ed doc­ument.

The Pri­oress rose, took it from him, and un­fold­ed it.

As she read the open­ing lines, the amaze­ment on her face quick­ly gath­ered in­to a frown.

“What!” she said. “The name and rank I re­signed on en­ter­ing this Or­der! Who dares to write or speak of me as 'Mo­ra, Count­ess of Norelle'?”

“Mere­ly His Ho­li­ness the Pope, and the Bish­op of Worces­ter,” said the Bish­op meek­ly, in an un­der­tone, not mean­ing the Pri­oress to hear; and, in­deed, she ig­nored this an­swer, her words hav­ing been an an­gry ejac­ula­tion, rather than a ques­tion.

But there was worse to come.

“Dis­pen­sa­tion!” ex­claimed the Pri­oress.

“Ab­so­lu­tion!” she cried, a lit­tle fur­ther on.

And at last, read­ing rapid­ly, in tones of un­con­trol­lable anger and in­dig­na­tion: “'Em­pow­ers Symon, Lord Bish­op of Worces­ter, or any priest he may ap­point, to unite in the holy sacra­ment of mar­riage the Knight-​Cru­sad­er, Hugh d'Ar­gent, and Mo­ra de Norelle, some­time Pri­oress of the White Ladies of Worces­ter.' _Some­time_ Pri­oress? In very truth, they have dared so to write it! SOME­TIME Pri­oress! It will be well they should un­der­stand she is Pri­oress NOW--not some time or any time, but NOW and HERE!”

She turned up­on the Bish­op.

“My lord, the Church seems to be bring­ing its pow­ers to bear on the side of the World, the Flesh, and the Dev­il, leav­ing a wom­an and her con­science to stand alone and bat­tle un­aid­ed with the grim forces ar­rayed against her. But you shall see that she knows how to deal with any weapon of the ad­ver­sary which hap­pens to fall in­to her hands.”

Up­on which the Pri­oress rent the man­date from top to bot­tom, then across and again across; flung the pieces up­on the floor, and set her foot up­on them.

“Thus I an­swer,” she cried, “your at­tempt, my lord, to in­duce the Pope to re­lease me from vows which I hold to be eter­nal­ly sa­cred and bind­ing. And if you are bent up­on di­vorc­ing a nun from her Heav­en­ly Union, and mak­ing her to be­come the chat­tel of a man, you must seek her else­where than in the Con­vent of the White Ladies of Worces­ter, my Lord Bish­op!”

So spoke the an­gry Pri­oress, mak­ing the qui­et cham­ber to ring with her scorn and in­dig­na­tion.

The Bish­op had made no at­tempt to pre­vent the tear­ing of the doc­ument. When she flung it up­on the floor, plac­ing her foot up­on the frag­ments, he mere­ly looked at them re­gret­ful­ly, and then back up­on her face, back in­to those eyes which flamed on him in fu­ri­ous in­dig­na­tion. And in his own there was a look so sor­row­ful, so deeply wound­ed, and yet with­al so ten­der­ly un­der­stand­ing, that it quelled and calmed the anger of the Pri­oress.

Her eyes fell slow­ly, from the serene sad­ness of that qui­et face, to the sil­ver cross, stud­ded with ori­en­tal amethysts, at his breast; to the sash girdling his pur­ple cas­sock; to the hand rest­ing on his knees; to the stone in his ring, from which the rich colour had fad­ed, leav­ing it pale and clear, like a large teardrop on the Bish­op's fin­ger; to his shoes, with their strange Ital­ian buck­les; then along the floor to her own an­gry foot, tread­ing up­on the torn frag­ments of that pre­cious doc­ument, pro­cured, at such pains and cost, from His Ho­li­ness at Rome.

Then, sud­den­ly, the Pri­oress fal­tered, weak­ened, fell up­on her knees, with a de­spair­ing cry, clasped her hands up­on the Bish­op's knees, and laid her fore­head up­on them.

“Alas,” she sobbed, “what have I done! In my pride and ar­ro­gance, I have spo­ken ill to you, my lord, who have ev­er shewn me most con­sid­er­ate kind­ness; and in a mo­ment of ill-​judged re­sent­ment, I have com­mit­ted sac­ri­lege against the Holy Fa­ther, rend­ing the deed which bears his sig­na­ture. Alas, woe is me! In striv­ing to do right, I have done most grievous wrong; in seek­ing not to sin, lo, I have sinned be­yond be­lief!”

The Pri­oress wept, her head up­on her hands, clasped and rest­ing up­on the Bish­op's knees.

Symon of Worces­ter laid his hand very gen­tly up­on that bowed head, and as he did so his eyes sought again the fig­ure of the Christ up­on the cross. The Pri­oress would have been star­tled in­deed, had she lift­ed her head and seen those eyes--hereto­fore shrewd, search­ing, kind­ly, or twin­kling and gay,--now full of an un­fath­omable pain. But, sob­bing with her face hid­den, the Pri­oress was con­scious on­ly of her own suf­fer­ings.

Present­ly the Bish­op be­gan to speak.

“We did not mean to over­rule your judg­ment, or to force your in­cli­na­tion, my daugh­ter. If we ap­pear to have done so, the blame is mine alone. This man­date is drawn up en­tire­ly along the lines of my sug­ges­tion, ow­ing to my in­flu­ence with His Ho­li­ness, and based up­on par­tic­ulars fur­nished by me. Now let me read to you the pri­vate let­ter from the Holy Fa­ther to my­self, giv­ing fur­ther im­por­tant con­di­tions.”

The Bish­op drew forth and un­fold­ed the let­ter from Rome, and very slow­ly, that each syl­la­ble might car­ry weight, he read it aloud.

As the gra­cious and kind­ly words fell up­on the Pri­oress's ear, com­mand­ing that no un­due pres­sure should be brought to bear up­on her, and in­sist­ing that it must be en­tire­ly by her own wish, if she re­signed her of­fice and availed her­self of this dis­pen­sa­tion from her vows, she felt hum­bled to the dust at thought of her own vi­olence, and of the in­jus­tice of her an­gry words.

Her weep­ing be­came so heart­bro­ken, that the Bish­op again laid his left hand, with kind­ly com­fort­ing touch, up­on her bowed head.

As he read the Pope's most par­tic­ular in­junc­tions as to the man­ner in which she must leave the Nun­nery and take her place in the world once more, so as to pre­vent any pub­lic scan­dal, she fell silent from sheer as­ton­ish­ment, hold­ing her breath to lis­ten to the fi­nal clause em­pow­er­ing the Bish­op to an­nounce with­in the Con­vent, when her ab­sence be­came known, that she had been moved on by him, se­cret­ly, with the knowl­edge and ap­proval of the Pope, to a place where she was re­quired for high­er ser­vice.

“High­er ser­vice,” said the Pri­oress, her face still hid­den. “_High­er_ ser­vice? Can it be that the Holy Fa­ther re­al­ly speaks of the re­turn to earth­ly love and mar­riage, the plea­sures of the world, and the joys of home life, as 'high­er ser­vice'?”

The grief, the ut­ter dis­il­lu­sion, the dis­mayed ques­tion in her tone, moved the Bish­op to com­punc­tion.

“Mine was the phrase, to be­gin with, my daugh­ter,” he ad­mit­ted. “I used it to the Holy Fa­ther, and I con­fess that, in us­ing it, I did mean to con­vey that which, as you well know. I have long be­lieved, that wife­hood and moth­er­hood, if worthi­ly per­formed, may rank high­er in the Di­vine re­gard than vows of celiba­cy. But, in adopt­ing the ex­pres­sion, the Holy Fa­ther, we may rest as­sured, had no thought of un­der­valu­ing the monas­tic life, or the high po­si­tion with­in it to which you have at­tained. I should rather take it that he was mere­ly ac­cept­ing my as­sur­ance that the new vo­ca­tion to which you were called would, in your par­tic­ular case, be high­er ser­vice.”

The Pri­oress, lift­ing her head, looked long in­to the Bish­op's face, with­out mak­ing re­ply.

Her eyes were drowned in tears; dark shad­ows lay be­neath them. Yet the light of a high re­solve, un­con­quer­able with­in her, shone through this veil of sor­row, as when the sun, be­hind it, breaks through the mist, vic­to­ri­ous, chas­ing by its clear beams the baf­fling fog.

See­ing that look, the Bish­op knew, of a sud­den, that he had failed; that the Knight had failed; that the all-​pow­er­ful pro­nounce­ment from the Vat­ican had failed.

The wom­an and her con­science held the field.

Hav­ing con­quered her own love, hav­ing mas­tered her own nat­ural yearn­ing for her lover, she would over­come with ease all oth­er as­sailants.

In two days' time Hugh would ride away alone. Un­less a mir­acle hap­pened, Mo­ra would not be with him.

The Bish­op faced de­feat as he looked in­to those clear eyes, fear­less even in their sor­row­ful hu­mil­ity.

“Oh, child,” he said, “you love Hugh! Can you let him ride forth alone, ac­com­pa­nied on­ly by the grim spec­tres of un­faith and of de­spair? His hope, his faith, his love, all cen­tre in you. An­oth­er Pri­oress can be found for this Nun­nery. No oth­er bride can be found for Hugh d'Ar­gent. He will have his own be­trothed, or none.”

Still kneel­ing, the Pri­oress threw back her head, look­ing up­ward, with clasped hands.

“Rev­erend Fa­ther,” she said, “I will not go to the man I love, trail­ing bro­ken vows, like chains, be­hind me. There could be no har­mo­ny in life's mu­sic. Whene'er I moved, where'er I trod, I should hear the con­stant clank­ing of those chains. No man can set me free from vows made to God. But----”

The Pri­oress paused, look­ing past the Bish­op at the gra­cious fig­ure of the Madon­na. She had re­mem­bered, of a sud­den, how Hugh had knelt there, say­ing: “Blessèd Vir­gin . . . help this wom­an of mine to un­der­stand that if she break her troth to me, hold­ing her­self from me, now, when I am come to claim her, she sends me out to an emp­ty life, to a hearth be­side which no wom­an will sit, to a home for­ev­er des­olate.”

“But?” said the Bish­op, lean­ing for­ward. “Yes, my daugh­ter? But?”

“But if our blessèd La­dy her­self vouch­safed me a clear sign that my first du­ty is to Hugh, if she ab­solved me from my vows, mak­ing it ev­ident that God's will for me is that, leav­ing the Clois­ter, I should wed Hugh and dwell with him in his home; then I would strive to bring my­self to do this thing. But I can take re­lease from none save from our Lord, to Whom those vows were made, or from our La­dy, who knoweth the heart of a wom­an, and whose grace hath been with me all through the striv­ings and con­flicts of the years that are past.”

The Bish­op sighed. “Alas,” he said; “alas, poor Hugh!”

For that our La­dy should vouch­safe a clear sign, would have to be a mir­acle; and, though he would not have ad­mit­ted it to the Pri­oress, the Bish­op be­lieved, in his se­cret heart, that the age of mir­acles was past.

One so fixed in her de­ter­mi­na­tion, so per­sis­tent in her as­ser­tion, so loud in her as­sev­er­ation, would scarce be like­ly to hear the in­ward whis­per­ings of Di­vine sug­ges­tion.

There­fore, should our La­dy in­ter­vene with clear guid­ance, that in­ter­ven­tion must be mirac­ulous. And the Bish­op sigh­ing, said: “Alas, poor Hugh!”

His eye fell up­on the frag­ments of rent vel­lum on the floor. He held out his hand.

The Pri­oress gath­ered up the frag­ments, and placed them in the Bish­op's out­stretched hand.

“Alas, my lord,” she said, “you were wit­ness of my grievous sin in thus rend­ing the gra­cious mes­sage of His Ho­li­ness. Will it please you to ap­point me a penance, if such an act can in­deed be ex­pi­at­ed?”

"The sin, my daugh­ter, as I will present­ly ex­plain, is scarce­ly so great as you think it. But, such as it is, it arose from a lack of calm­ness and of that men­tal equipoise which sails un­ruf­fled through a sea of con­tra­dic­tion. The ir­ri­tabil­ity which re­sults in dis­plays of sud­den tem­per is so for­eign to your na­ture that it points to your hav­ing passed through a time of very spe­cial strain, both men­tal and phys­ical; prob­ably over­long vig­ils and fast­ings, while you wres­tled with this anx­ious prob­lem up­on which so much, in the fu­ture, de­pends.

"As you ask me for penance, I will give you two: one which will set right your ill-​con­sid­ered ac­tion; the oth­er which will help to rem­edy the cause of that ac­tion.

"The first is, that you place these frag­ments to­geth­er and, tak­ing a fresh piece of vel­lum, make a care­ful copy of this writ­ing which you de­stroyed.

“The sec­ond is that, in or­der to re­gain the usu­al equipoise of your men­tal at­ti­tude, you ride to-​day, for an hour, in the riv­er mead­ow. My white pal­frey, Iconok­lastes, shall be in the court­yard at noon. Yes­ter­day, my daugh­ter, you rode for plea­sure. To-​day you will ride for penance; and in­ci­den­tal­ly”--an ir­re­press­ible lit­tle smile crept round the cor­ners of the Bish­op's mouth, and twin­kled in his eyes--“in­ci­den­tal­ly, my daugh­ter, you will work off a cer­tain stiff­ness from which you must be suf­fer­ing, af­ter the un­wont­ed ex­er­cise. Ah me!” said the Bish­op, “that is ev­er the Di­vine method. Pun­ish­ments should be re­me­di­al, as well as de­ter­rent. There is much stiff­ness of mind of which we must be rid be­fore we can stoop to the por­tal of God's 'whoso­ev­er' and, pass­ing through the nar­row gate, en­ter the King­dom of Heav­en as lit­tle chil­dren.”

The Bish­op rose, and giv­ing his hand to the Pri­oress raised her to her feet.

“My lord,” she said, “as ev­er you are most kind to me. Yet I fear you have been too le­nient for my own peace of mind. To have de­stroyed in anger the man­date of His Ho­li­ness----”

“Nay, my daugh­ter,” said the Bish­op. “The man­date of His Ho­li­ness, in­scribed up­on parch­ment, from which hangs the great seal of the Vat­ican, is safe­ly placed among my most pre­cious doc­uments. You have but de­stroyed the re­sult of an hour's care­ful work. I rose be­times this morn­ing to make this copy. I should not have al­lowed you to tear it, had not the writ­ing been my own. But I took pains to re­pro­duce ex­act­ly the pe­cu­liar style of let­ter­ing they use in Rome, and you will do the same in your copy.”

Turn­ing, the Bish­op knelt for a few mo­ments in prayer be­fore the Madon­na. He could not have ex­plained why, but some­how the on­ly hope for Hugh seemed to be con­nect­ed with this spot.

Yet it was hard­ly re­as­sur­ing that, when he lift­ed grave and anx­ious eyes, our La­dy gen­tly smiled, and the sweet Babe looked mer­ry.

Ris­ing, the Bish­op turned, with un­wont­ed stern­ness, to the Pri­oress.

“Re­mem­ber,” he said, “Hugh rides away to-​mor­row night; rides away, nev­er to re­turn.”

Her stead­fast eyes did not fal­ter.

“He had bet­ter have rid­den away five days ago, my lord. He had my an­swer, and I bade him go. By stay­ing he has but pro­longed his sus­pense and my pain.”

“Yes,” said the Bish­op slow­ly, “he had bet­ter have rid­den away; or, bet­ter still, have nev­er come up­on this fruit­less quest.”

He moved to­ward the door.

The Pri­oress reached it be­fore him.

With her hand up­on the latch: “Your bless­ing, Rev­erend Fa­ther,” en­treat­ed the Pri­oress, rather breath­less­ly.

“_Benedicite_,” said the Bish­op, with up­lift­ed fin­gers, but with eyes avert­ed; and passed out.