The White Ladies of Worcester A Romance of the Twelfth Century

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE WHITE STONE

Old Mary Antony was at the gate, when the Bish­op rode out from the court­yard.

Thrust­ing the porter­ess aside, she pressed for­ward, stand­ing with anx­ious face up­lift­ed, as the Bish­op ap­proached.

He reined in Icon, and, bend­ing from the sad­dle, mur­mured: “Take care of her, Sis­ter Antony. I have left her in some dis­tress.”

“Hath she de­cid­ed aright?” whis­pered the old lay-​sis­ter.

“She al­ways de­cides aright,” said the Bish­op. “But she is so made that she will thrust hap­pi­ness from her with both hands un­less our La­dy should her­self of­fer it, by vi­sion or rev­ela­tion. I could wish thy gay lit­tle Knight of the Bloody Vest might in­deed fly with her to his nest and teach her a few sweet lessons, in the green pri­va­cy of some leafy par­adise. But I tell thee too much, wor­thy Moth­er. Keep a silent tongue in that shrewd old head of thine. Min­is­ter to her; and send word to me if I am need­ed. _Benedicite_.”

An hour lat­er, mount­ed up­on his black mare, Shu­lamite, the Bish­op rode to the high ground, on the north-​east, above the city, from whence he could look down up­on the riv­er mead­ow.

As he had done on the pre­vi­ous day, he watched the Pri­oress rid­ing up­on Icon.

Once she put the horse to so sud­den and swift a gal­lop that the Bish­op, watch­ing from afar, reined back Shu­lamite al­most on to her haunch­es, in a sud­den fear that Icon was about to leap in­to the stream.

For an hour the Pri­oress rode, with fly­ing veil, white on the white steed; a fair mar­ble group, quick­ened in­to mo­tion.

Then, that penance be­ing du­ly per­formed, she van­ished through the arch­way.

Turn­ing Shu­lamite, Symon of Worces­ter rode slow­ly down the hill, passed south­ward, and en­tered the city by Fri­ar's Gate; and so to the Palace, where Hugh d'Ar­gent wait­ed.

The Bish­op led him, through a postern, in­to the gar­den; and there on a wide lawn, out of earshot of any pos­si­ble lis­ten­ers, the Bish­op and the Knight walked up and down in earnest con­ver­sa­tion.

At length: “To-​mor­row, in the ear­ly morn,” said the Knight, “I send her tire-​wom­an on to War­wick, with all her ef­fects, keep­ing back on­ly the rid­ing suit. Should she elect to come, we must be free to ride with­out draw­ing rein. Even so we shall reach War­wick on­ly some­thing be­fore mid­night.”

“She tore it up and plant­ed her foot up­on it,” re­marked the Bish­op.

“I will not give up hope,” said the Knight.

“Noth­ing short of a mir­acle, my son, will change her mind, or move her from her fixed re­solve.”

“Then our La­dy will work a mir­acle,” de­clared the Knight brave­ly. “I prayed 'Send her to me!' and our blessèd La­dy smiled.”

“A sculp­tured smile, dear lad, is ev­er there. Had you prayed 'Hold her from me!' our La­dy would equal­ly have smiled.”

“Nay,” said the Knight; “I keep my trust in prayer.”

They paused at the para­pet over­hang­ing the riv­er.

“I was suc­cess­ful,” said the Knight, “in deal­ing with Eu­stace, her nephew. There will be no need to ap­ply to the King. The am­bi­tion was his moth­er's. Now Eleanor is dead, he cares not for the Cas­tle. Next month he weds an heiress, with large es­tates, and has no wish to lay claim to Mo­ra's home. All is now once more as it was when she left it. Her own peo­ple are in charge. I plan to take her there when we leave War­wick, rid­ing north­ward by easy stages.”

The Bish­op, stoop­ing, picked up a smooth, white stone, and flung it in­to the riv­er. It fell with a splash, and sank. The wa­ter closed up­on it. It had van­ished in­stant­ly from view.

Then the Bish­op spoke. “Hugh, my dear lad, she thought it was the Pope's own deed and sig­na­ture, yet she tore it across, and then again across; flung it up­on the ground, and set her foot up­on it. I deem it now as im­pos­si­ble that the Pri­oress should change her mind up­on this mat­ter, as that we should ev­er see again that stone which now lies deep on the riv­er-​bed.”

It was a high dive from the para­pet; and, to the Bish­op, watch­ing the spot where the Knight cleft the wa­ter, the mo­ments seemed hours.

But when the Knight reap­peared, the white stone was in his hand.

The Bish­op went down to the wa­ter-​gate.

“Brave­ly done, my son!” he called, as the Knight swam to the steps. “You de­serve to win.”

But to him­self he said: “Fight­ing men and quick-​wit­ted wom­en will be ev­er with us, gain­ing their ends by stren­uous en­deav­our. But the age of mir­acles is past.”

Hugh d'Ar­gent mount­ed the steps.

“I _shall_ win,” he said, and shook him­self like a great shag­gy dog.

The Bish­op, over whom fell a show­er, care­ful­ly wiped the glis­ten­ing drops from his gar­ments with a fine Ital­ian hand­ker­chief.

“Go in, boy,” he said, “and get dry. Send thy man for an­oth­er suit, un­less it would please thee bet­ter that Fa­ther Bene­dict should lend thee a cas­sock! Give me the stone. It may well serve as a re­minder of that fa­mous sa­cred stone from which the Con­vent takes its name. Me­thinks we have, be­tween us, con­trived some­thing of an omen, con­clud­ing in thy favour.”

Present­ly the Bish­op, alone in his li­brary, stood the white stone up­on the iron-​bound chest with­in which he had placed the Pope's man­date.

“The age of mir­acles is past,” he said again. "Iron no longer swims, nei­ther do stones rise from the depths of a riv­er, un­less the Di­vine com­mand be sup­ple­ment­ed by the grip of strong hu­man fin­gers.

“Stand there, thou lit­tle tomb­stone of our hopes. Mark the place where lies the Holy Fa­ther's man­date, ec­cle­si­as­ti­cal­ly all-​pow­er­ful, yet ren­dered null and void by the faith­ful con­science and the firm will of a wom­an. God send us more such wom­en!”

The Bish­op sound­ed a sil­ver gong, and when his body-​ser­vant ap­peared, point­ed to the hand­ker­chief, damp and crum­pled, up­on the ta­ble.

“Dry this, Jasper,” he said, “and bring me an­oth­er some­what larg­er. These dain­ty tri­fles can­not serve, when 'tears run down like a riv­er.' Nay, look not dis­tressed, my good fel­low. I do but jest. Yon­der wet Knight hath giv­en me a show­er-​bath.”