The White Ladies of Worcester A Romance of the Twelfth Century

CHAPTER XXXI

THE CALL OF THE CURLEW

For the last time, the Knight wait­ed in the crypt.

The men-​at-​arms, hav­ing de­posit­ed their bur­den be­fore the al­tar, leaned each against a pil­lar, stol­id and un­ob­ser­vant, but ready to drop to their knees so soon as the chant­ing of Ves­pers should reach the crypt from the choir above.

The man up­on the stretch­er lay mo­tion­less, with ban­daged head; yet there was an alert bright­ness in his eyes, and the turn of his head be­to­kened one who lis­tened. A cloak of dark blue, bor­dered with sil­ver, cov­ered him, as a pall.

Hugh d'Ar­gent stood in the shad­ow of a pil­lar fac­ing the nar­row arch­way in the wall from which the wind­ing stairs led up to the cleresto­ry.

From this po­si­tion he could al­so com­mand a view of the steps lead­ing up in­to the crypt from the un­der­ground way, and of the ground to be tra­versed by the White Ladies as they passed from the steps to the stair­case in the wall.

Here the Knight kept his fi­nal vig­il.

A strange buoy­an­cy pos­sessed him. He seemed to have left his de­spon­dence, like a heavy weight, at the bot­tom of the riv­er. From the mo­ment when, his breath al­most ex­haust­ed, he had seen and grasped the Bish­op's stone, bring­ing it in tri­umph to the sur­face, Hugh had felt sure he would win. Aye, even be­fore Symon had flung the stone; when, in re­ply to the doubt cast by him on our La­dy's smile, the Knight had said: “I keep my trust in prayer,” a joy­ous con­fi­dence had then and there awak­ened with­in him. He had stretched out the right hand of his with­ered faith, and lo, it had proved strong and vi­tal.

Yet as, in the heavy si­lence of the crypt, he heard the turn­ing of the key in the lock, his heart stood still, and ev­ery emo­tion hung sus­pend­ed, as the first veiled fig­ure--shad­owy and ghost­like--moved in­to view.

It was not she.

The Knight's puls­es throbbed again. His heart pound­ed vi­olent­ly as, keep­ing their mea­sured dis­tances, nine, ten, eleven, white fig­ures passed.

Then--twelfth: a tall nun, al­most her height; yet not she.

Then--thir­teenth: Oh, blessèd Vir­gin! Oh, saints of God! Mo­ra! She, her­self. Nev­er could he fail to rec­og­nize her car­riage, the re­gal poise of her head. How­ev­er veiled, how­ev­er shroud­ed, he could not be mis­tak­en. It was Mo­ra; and that she should be walk­ing in this cen­tral po­si­tion meant that she might with com­par­ative safe­ty, step aside. Yet, even this----

But, at that mo­ment, pass­ing him, she turned her head, and for an in­stant her eyes met the eyes of the Knight look­ing out from the shad­ows.

An­oth­er mo­ment and she had van­ished up the wind­ing stair­way in the wall.

But that in­stant was enough. As her eyes met his, Hugh d'Ar­gent knew that his be­trothed was once more his own.

His heart ceased pound­ing; his puls­es beat steadi­ly.

The calm of a vast, glad cer­tain­ty en­fold­ed him; a joy be­yond be­lief. Yet he knew now that he had been sure of it, ev­er since he came up from the depths of the Sev­ern in­to the sum­mer sun­shine, grasp­ing the white stone.

“I keep my trust in prayer. . . . Give her to me! Give her to me! Blessèd Vir­gin, give her to me! 'A sculp­tured smile'? Nay, my lord. I keep my trust in prayer!”

The solemn chant­ing of the monks, stole down from the dis­tant choir. Ves­pers had be­gun.

The Knight strode to the al­tar, and knelt for some min­utes, his hands clasped up­on the crossed hilt of his sword.

Then he rose, and spoke in low tones to his men-​at-​arms.

“When a thrush calls, you will leave the crypt, and guard the en­trance from with­out; al­low­ing none, on any pre­text, to pass with­in. When a black­bird whis­tles you will re­turn, lift the stretch­er, and pass with it, as hereto­fore, from the Cathe­dral to the hos­tel.”

Next the Knight, re­turn­ing to the al­tar, bent over the ban­daged man up­on the stretch­er.

“Mar­tin,” he said, speak­ing very low, so that his trust­ed fos­ter-​broth­er alone could hear him. “All is well. Our pil­grim­age is about to end, as we have hoped, in a great re­cov­ery and restora­tion. When the call of a curlew sounds, leap from the stretch­er, leave the ban­dages be­side it; go to the en­trance, guard­ing it from with­in; but turn not thy head this way, un­til a black­bird whis­tles; up­on which lose thy­self among the pil­lars, let­ting no man see thee, un­til we have passed out. Af­ter which, make thy way out, as best thou canst, and join me at the hos­tel, en­ter­ing by the gar­den and win­dow, with­out let­ting thy­self be seen in the court­yard.”

The keen eyes be­low the ban­dage, smiled as­sent.

Stoop­ing, the Knight lift­ed the cloak, fas­tened it to his left shoul­der, and drew it around him, hold­ing the greater part of it in many folds in his right hand. Then he moved back in­to the shad­ow of the pil­lar.

Above, the monks sang _Nunc Dimit­tis_.

By and by the voic­es fell silent.

Ves­pers were over.

Care­ful, shuf­fling feet were com­ing down the stairs with­in the wall.

One by one the white fig­ures reap­peared.

The Knight stood back, rigid, hold­ing his breath.

As each nun stepped from the arch­way in the wall, on to the floor of the crypt, and moved to­ward the steps lead­ing down to the sub­ter­ranean way, she passed from the view of the nun fol­low­ing her, who was still one turn up the stair­case. It was up­on this the Knight had count­ed, when he laid his plains.

Six Sev­en Eight

Blessèd Saint Joseph! How slow­ly they walked!

Nine Ten Eleven

The Knight gripped the cloak and moved a step fur­ther back in­to the shad­ow.

Twelve

Were all the pil­lars rock­ing? Was the great new Cathe­dral com­ing down up­on his head?

Thir­teen

The Pri­oress was be­side him in the shad­ow.

She had stepped aside.

The twelfth White La­dy was mov­ing on, her back to­ward them.

The four­teenth was shuf­fling down, but had not yet ap­peared.

Hugh slipped his left arm about the Pri­oress, hold­ing her close to him; then flung the folds of the cloak com­plete­ly around her, and over his left shoul­der, press­ing her head down up­on his breast.

Thus they stood, mo­tion­less; her face hid­den, his eyes bent up­on the nar­row arch­way in the wall.

The four­teenth White La­dy ap­peared; ev­ident­ly not­ed a wider gap than she ex­pect­ed be­tween her­self and the dis­tant fig­ure al­most at the steps, and has­tened for­ward.

The fif­teenth al­so has­tened.

The six­teenth chanced to have tak­en the stairs more quick­ly and, ap­pear­ing al­most im­me­di­ate­ly, no­ticed no gap.

Sev­en­teen Eigh­teen Nine­teen Twen­ty

Not one had turned her head in the di­rec­tion of the pil­lar. The pro­ces­sion was mov­ing, with state­ly tread, along its ac­cus­tomed way.

A de­li­cious sense of se­cu­ri­ty en­veloped Hugh d'Ar­gent.

The wom­an he loved was in his arms; she was his to shield, to guard, to hold for ev­er­more.

Twen­ty-​one Twen­ty-​two

She had come to him--come to him of her own free will. Hold­ing her thus, he re­mem­bered those won­drous mo­ments at the en­trance to the crypt. How hard it had been to loose her and leave her. Yet how glad he now was that he had done so.

Twen­ty-​three Twen­ty-​four

When all these white fig­ures are gone, safe­ly start­ed on their mile-​long walk, the door shut and locked be­hind them--then he will fold back the cloak, turn her sweet face up to his, and lay his lips on hers.

Twen­ty-​five

Praise the holy saints! The last! But what an old fer­ret!

Yes; Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress gave the Knight a mo­ment of alarm. She peered to right and left. Al­most she saw the glint of the sil­ver on the blue. Al­most, yet not quite.

Sniff­ing, she passed on, walk­ing as if her feet were an­gry, each with the oth­er for be­ing be­fore it. She tweaked at her veil, as she turned and de­scend­ed the steps.

Hugh glowed and thrilled from head to foot.

At last!

Al­most----

The sound of a clos­ing door.

Slow­ly a key turned, grat­ed in the lock, and was with­drawn.

Then--si­lence.

But at sound of the turn­ing key, the wom­an in his arms shiv­ered, the slow, cold shud­der of a soul in pain; and sud­den­ly he knew that in com­ing to him she had cho­sen that which now seemed to her the hard­er part.

With the first re­vul­sion of feel­ing oc­ca­sioned by this knowl­edge, came a strong im­pulse to put her from him, to leap down the stair­way, force open the heavy door, thrust her in­to the pas­sage lead­ing to her Nun­nery, and shut the door up­on her; then go out him­self in­to the world to seek, in one wild search, ev­ery pos­si­ble form of sin and rev­el­ry.

But this un­governed im­pulse last­ed but for the mo­ment in which his pas­sion­ate joy, re­coil­ing up­on him­self, struck him a blind­ing, a be­wil­der­ing blow.

In ten sec­onds he had re­cov­ered. His arms tight­ened more se­cure­ly around her.

She had come to him. What­ev­er com­plex emo­tions might now be stir­ring with­in her, this fact was be­yond ques­tion. Al­so, she had come of her own free will. The foot which had dared to stamp up­on the torn frag­ments of the Pope's man­date, had, with an equal courage, stepped aside from the way of con­ven­tion and had brought her with­in the com­pass of his arms.

He could not put her from him. She was his to hold and keep. But she was his al­so to shield and guard; aye, to shield not from out­ward dan­gers on­ly, but from any­thing in him­self which might cause her pain or per­plex­ity, thus mak­ing more dif­fi­cult her no­ble act of self-​sur­ren­der.

Words spo­ken by the Bish­op, in the ban­quet­ing hall, came back to him with fuller sig­nif­icance.

A joy arose with­in him, deep­er far than the rap­ture of pas­sion; the joy of a faith­ful pa­tience, of a strong man's mas­tery over the strongest thing in him­self, of a lover's com­pre­hen­sion, by sure in­stinct, of that which no words, how­ev­er clear and forcible, could have suc­ceed­ed in mak­ing plain.

His love arose, a king­ly thing, crowned by her trust in him.

As he fold­ed back the cloak, he stood with eyes up­lift­ed to the arched roof above his head. And the vi­sion he saw, in the dim pearly light, was a vi­sion of the Madon­na in his home.

The shel­ter of the cloak re­moved, the Pri­oress looked around with star­tled eyes, full of an un­speak­able shrink­ing; then up­ward to the face of her lover, and saw it trans­fig­ured by the light of holy pur­pose and of a great re­solve.

But, even as she looked, he took his arm from about her, stepped a pace for­ward, leav­ing her in the shad­ow, and whis­tled thrice the _Do-​it-​now_ call of the thrush.

In­stant­ly the men-​at-​arms leapt to their feet, and mak­ing quick­ly for the en­trance to the Cathe­dral from the crypt, stood to hold it from with­out, against all com­ers.

As their run­ning feet rang on the steps, soft­ly there sound­ed through the crypt the plain­tive call of the curlew.

The man ly­ing up­on the stretch­er rose, leav­ing his ban­dages be­hind; and, with­out glanc­ing to right or left, passed quick­ly in and out amongst the for­est of columns, and was lost to view. The en­trance he had to guard from with­in, was out of sight of the al­tar. To all in­tents and pur­pos­es, the two who still stood mo­tion­less in the shad­ow, were now alone.

Then the Knight turned to the Pri­oress, took her right hand with his left, and led her for­ward to the al­tar.

There he loosed her hand as they knelt side by side; he clasp­ing his up­on the crossed hilt of his sword; she cross­ing hers up­on her breast.

Present­ly the Pri­oress drew the mar­riage ring from the third fin­ger of her left hand, and gave it to the Knight.

Di­vin­ing her de­sire, he rose, laid the ring up­on the al­tar, then knelt again.

Then ris­ing, he took the ring, kissed it rev­er­ent­ly, and slipped it up­on the lit­tle fin­ger of his own left hand.

The sad eyes of the Pri­oress, watch­ing him, said to this nei­ther “yea” nor “nay.”

Ris­ing she wait­ed meek­ly to know his will for her. The Knight, the blue cloak over his arm, turned to the stretch­er, picked up the ban­dages, then, spoke, very low, with­out look­ing at the Pri­oress.

“Lay thy­self down there­on,” he said. “I grieve to ask it of thee, Mo­ra; but there is no oth­er way of tak­ing thee hence, un­ob­served.”

The Pri­oress took two steps for­ward, and stood be­side the stretch­er.

It was many years since she had lain in any hu­man pres­ence. Stand­ing, walk­ing, sit­ting, kneel­ing, she had been seen by the nuns; but ly­ing--nev­er.

Though her cross of of­fice and sa­cred ring were gone, her dig­ni­ty and au­thor­ity seemed still to be­long to her while she stood, state­ly and tall, up­on her feet.

She hes­itat­ed. The apolo­get­ic tone the Knight had used, seemed war­rant for her hes­itan­cy, and ren­dered com­pli­ance more dif­fi­cult.

Each mo­ment it be­came more im­pos­si­ble to place her­self up­on the stretch­er.

“Lie down,” said the Knight, stern­ly.

At the curt word of com­mand, the Pri­oress shud­dered again; but, with­out a word, she laid her­self down up­on the stretch­er, clos­ing her eyes, and cross­ing her hands up­on her breast. So white she was, so still, so rigid; as Hugh d'Ar­gent, the ban­dages in his hand, stood look­ing down up­on her, she seemed the mar­ble ef­fi­gy of a re­cum­bent Pri­oress, graven up­on a tomb; save that, as the Knight looked up­on that beau­ti­ful, proud face, two burn­ing tears forced their way from be­neath the closed lids and rolled help­less­ly down the pale cheeks.

She did not see the look of ten­der com­punc­tion, of ador­ing love, in Hugh's eyes.

Her shame, her ut­ter hu­mil­ia­tion, seemed com­plete.

Not when she took off her jew­elled cross, and placed it up­on our La­dy's hand; not when she stepped aside and al­lowed her­self to be hid­den by the cloak; not even when she re­moved her ring and hand­ed it to Hugh, did she cease to be Pri­oress of the White Ladies of Worces­ter; but when she laid her­self down be­fore the shrine of Saint Os­wald, full length up­on the stretch­er, at her lover's feet.

Hugh stooped, and hid the ban­dages be­side her. He could not bring him­self to touch or to dis­guise that love­ly head. In­stead, he cov­ered her com­plete­ly with the cloak; say­ing, in deep tones of in­fi­nite ten­der­ness:

“Our La­dy be with thee. It will not be for long.”

Then, shrill through the silent crypt, rang the dear call of the black­bird.