The White Ladies of Worcester A Romance of the Twelfth Century

CHAPTER XXXIV

MO­RA DE NORELLE

Symon, Bish­op of Worces­ter, chid him­self for rest­less­ness. Sure­ly for once his mind had lost con­trol of his limbs.

No soon­er did he de­cide to walk the smooth lawns around the Cas­tle, than he found him­self mount­ing to the bat­tle­ments; and now, though he had in­stalled him­self for great­ly need­ed re­pose in a deep seat in the hall cham­ber, yet here he was, pac­ing the floor, or mov­ing from one win­dow to an­oth­er.

By dint of hard rid­ing he had reached War­wick while the sun, though al­ready dipped be­neath the hori­zon, still flecked the sky with rosy clouds, and spread a gold­en man­tle over the west.

The lord of the Cas­tle was away, in at­ten­dance on the King; but all was in readi­ness for the ar­rival of the Bish­op, and great prepa­ra­tions had been made for the re­cep­tion of Sir Hugh d'Ar­gent. His peo­ple, hav­ing left Worces­ter ear­ly that morn­ing, were about in the court­yard, as the Bish­op rode in.

As he passed through the door­way, an el­der­ly wom­an, bux­om, come­ly, and of moth­er­ly as­pect, whom he eas­ily di­vined to be the tire-​wom­an of whom the Knight had spo­ken, came for­ward to meet him.

“Good my lord,” she said, her ea­ger­ness al­low­ing of scant cer­emo­ny, “comes Sir Hugh d'Ar­gent hith­er this night?”

“Aye,” replied the Bish­op, look­ing with kind­ly eyes up­on Mo­ra's old nurse. “With­in two hours, he should be here.”

“Comes he alone, my lord?” asked Mis­tress Deb­orah.

“Nay,” replied the Bish­op, “the Count­ess of Norelle, a very no­ble la­dy to whom the Knight is be­trothed, rides hith­er with him.”

“The saints be praised!” ex­claimed the old wom­an, and turned away to hide her tears.

Whilst his body-​ser­vant pre­pared a bath and laid out his robes, the Bish­op mount­ed to the ram­parts and watched the gold fade in the west. He glanced at the riv­er be­low, thread­ing its way through the pas­ture land; at the bil­lowy mass­es of trees; at the gay parterre, bright with sum­mer flow­ers. Then he looked long in the di­rec­tion of the city from which he had come.

Dur­ing his stren­uous ride, the slow tramp of the men-​at-​arms, had sound­ed con­tin­ual­ly in his ears; the out­line of that help­less fig­ure, ly­ing at full length up­on the stretch­er, had been ev­er be­fore his eyes.

He could not pic­ture the ar­rival at the hos­tel, the re­moval of the cov­er­ing, the up­ris­ing of the Pri­oress to face life anew, en­fold­ed in the arms of her lover.

As in a weary dream, in which the mind can make no head­way, but re­turns again and yet again to the point of dis­tress, so, dur­ing the en­tire ride, the Bish­op had fol­lowed that stretch­er through the streets of Worces­ter city, un­til it seemed to him as if, be­fore the pall was lift­ed, the long-​limbed, grace­ful form be­neath it would have stiff­ened in death.

“A corpse for a bride! A corpse for a bride!” the hoofs of the black mare Shu­lamite had seemed to beat out up­on the road. “Alas, poor Knight! A corpse for a bride!”

The Bish­op came down from the bat­tle­ments.

When he left his cham­ber an hour lat­er, he had donned those crim­son robes which he wore on the evening when the Knight supped with him at the Palace.

As he paced up and down the lawns, the gold cross at his breast gleamed in the evening light.

A night-​hawk, fly­ing high over­head and look­ing down­ward as it flew, might have sup­posed that a great scar­let pop­py had left its clump in the flow­er-​beds, and was prom­enad­ing on the turf.

A stew­ard came out to ask when it would please the Lord Bish­op to sup.

To the hov­er­ing hawk, a black­bird seemed to have hopped out, con­fronting and ar­rest­ing the prom­enad­ing pop­py.

The Bish­op said he would await the ar­rival of Sir Hugh; but he turned and fol­lowed the man in­to the Cas­tle.

And now he sat in the great hall cham­ber.

Two hours had passed since his ar­rival.

Un­less some­thing un­fore­seen had oc­curred the Knight's cav­al­cade must be here be­fore long. He had planned to start with­in the hour; and, though the Bish­op had rid­den fast, they could scarce­ly have tak­en more than an hour longer to do the dis­tance.

But sup­pos­ing the Pri­oress had fal­tered at the last, and had be­sought to be re­turned to the Nun­nery? Would the chival­ry of the Knight have stood such a test? And, hav­ing left in se­cret, how could she re­turn open­ly? Would the way through the crypt be pos­si­ble?

The Bish­op be­gan to wish that he had rid­den to the Star hos­tel and await­ed de­vel­op­ments there, in­stead of has­ten­ing on be­fore.

The hall cham­ber was in the cen­tre of the Cas­tle. Its case­ments looked out up­on the gar­dens. Thus it came about that he did not hear a cav­al­cade ride in­to the court­yard. He did not hear the shout­ing of the men, the ring of hoofs on the paving stones, the champ­ing of hors­es.

He sat in a great carved chair be­side the fire­place in the hall cham­ber, forc­ing him­self to still­ness, yet tor­ment­ed by anx­iety; half mind­ed to or­der a fresh horse and to ride back to Worces­ter.

Sud­den­ly, with­out any warn­ing, the door, lead­ing from the ante-​cham­ber at the fur­ther end of the hall, opened.

Framed in the door­way ap­peared a vi­sion, which for a mo­ment led Symon of Worces­ter to ques­tion whether he dreamed, so beau­ti­ful be­yond be­lief was the wom­an in a green rid­ing-​dress, look­ing at him with star­ry eyes, her cheeks aglow, a veil of gold­en hair falling about her shoul­ders.

_Oh, Mo­ra, child of de­light! Has the exquisite promise of thy girl­hood in­deed ful­filled it­self thus? Have the years changed thee so lit­tle---and yet so great­ly?_

_“The cap­tive ex­ile has­teneth”; ex­ile, long ago, for thy sake; seek­ing to be free, yet cap­tive still, caught once and for­ev­er in the mesh­es of that gold­en hair._

_Oh, Mo­ra, child of de­light! Must all this plan­ning for thy full de­vel­op­ment and per­fect­ing of joy, in­volve the poignant an­guish of thus see­ing thee again?_

Symon of Worces­ter rose and stood, a no­ble fig­ure in crim­son and gold, at the top of the hall. But for the sil­ver moon­light of his hair, he might have been a man in his prime--so erect was his car­riage, so keen and bright were his eyes.

The tall wom­an in the door­way gave a lit­tle cry; then moved quick­ly for­ward.

“You?” she said. “You! The priest who is to wed us? You!”

He stood his ground, await­ing her ap­proach.

“Yes, I,” he said; “I.”

Half-​way across the hall, she paused.

“No,” she said, as if to her­self. “I dream. It is not Fa­ther Ger­vaise. It is the Bish­op.”

She drew near­er.

Earnest­ly he looked up­on her, striv­ing to see in her the Pri­oress of Whyt­stone--the friend of all these hap­py, peace­ful, blessèd years.

But the Pri­oress had van­ished.

Mo­ra de Norelle stood be­fore him, taller by half a head than he, flushed by long gal­lop­ing in the night breeze; nerves strung to break­ing point; eyes bright with the great un­rest of a head­long leap in­to a new world. Yet the firm sweet lips were there, un­changed; and, even as he marked them, they quiv­ered and part­ed.

“Rev­erend Fa­ther,” she said, “I have cho­sen, even as you prayed I might do, the hard­er part.” She flung aside the rid­ing-​whip she car­ried; and fold­ing her hands, held them up be­fore him. “For Christ's sake, my Lord Bish­op, pray for me!”

He took those fold­ed hands in his, gen­tly part­ed them, and held them against the cross up­on his heart.

“You have cho­sen right­ly, my child,” he said; “we will pray that grace and strength may be vouch­safed you, so that you may con­tin­ue, with­out fal­ter­ing, along the path­way of this fresh vo­ca­tion.”

She looked at him with search­ing gaze. The kind and gen­tle eyes of the Bish­op met hers with­out wa­ver­ing; al­so with­out any trace of the fire--the keen bright­ness--which had star­tled her as she stood in the door­way.

“Rev­erend Fa­ther,” she said, and there was a strange note of be­wil­dered ques­tion in her voice: “I pray you, tell me what you bid pen­itents to re­mem­ber as they kneel in prayer be­fore the cru­ci­fix?”

The Bish­op looked full in­to those star­ry grey eyes bent up­on him, and his own did not fal­ter. His mild voice took on a shade of stern­ness as be­fit­ted the solemn sub­ject of her ques­tion.

“I tell them, my daugh­ter, to re­mem­ber, the sa­cred Wounds that bled and the Heart that broke for them.”

She drew her hands from be­neath his, and stepped back a pace.

“The Heart that broke?” she said. “That _broke_? Do hearts break?” she cried. “Nay, rather, they turn to stone.” She laughed wild­ly, then caught her breath. The Knight had en­tered the hall.

With free, glad step, and head up­lift­ed, Hugh d'Ar­gent came to them, where they stood.

“My Lord Bish­op,” he said, “you have been too good to us. I sent Mo­ra on alone that she might find you here, not telling her who was the prelate who had so gra­cious­ly of­fered to wed us, know­ing how much it would mean to her that it should be you, Rev­erend Fa­ther.”

“Glad­ly am I here for that pur­pose, my son,” replied the Bish­op, “hav­ing as you know, the leave and sanc­tion of His Ho­li­ness for so do­ing. Shall we pro­ceed at once to the chapel, or do you plan first to sup?”

“Nay, Fa­ther,” said the Knight. “My be­trothed has rid­den far and needs food first, and then a good night's rest. If it will not too much de­lay your re­turn to Worces­ter, I would pray you to wed us in the morn­ing.”

Know­ing how de­ter­mined Hugh had been, in lay­ing his plans, to be wed at once on reach­ing War­wick, the Bish­op looked up quick­ly, wish­ing to un­der­stand what had wrought this change.

He saw on the Knight's face that look of ra­di­ant peace which the Pri­oress had seen, when first the cloak was turned back in the crypt; and the Bish­op, hav­ing passed that way him­self, knew that to Hugh had come the rev­ela­tion which comes but to the true, lover--the deep­est of all joys, that of putting him­self on one side, and of think­ing, first and on­ly, of the wel­fare of the belovèd.

And see­ing this, the Bish­op let go his fears, and in his heart thanked God.

“It is well planned, Hugh,” he said. “I am here un­til the morn­ing.”

At which the Knight turn­ing, strode quick­ly to the door, and beck­oned.

Then back he came, lead­ing by the hand the bux­om, moth­er­ly old dame, seen on ar­rival by the Bish­op. Who, when the La­dy Mo­ra saw, she gave a cry, and ran to meet her.

“Deb­bie!” she cried, “Oh, Deb­bie! Let us go home!”

And with that the ten­sion broke all on a sud­den, and with her old nurse's arms around her, she sobbed on the faith­ful bo­som which had been the refuge of her child­hood's woes.

“There, my pret­ty!” said Deb­orah, as best she could for her own sobs. “There, there! We are at home, now we are to­geth­er. Come and see the cham­ber in which we shall sleep, just as we slept long years ago, when you were a babe, my dear.”

So, with her old nurse's arms about her, she, who had come in so proud­ly, went gen­tly out in a soft mist of tears.

The Bish­op turned away.

“Love nev­er faileth,” he mur­mured, half aloud.

Hugh turned with him, and laughed; but in his laugh­ter there was no vex­ation, no bit­ter­ness, no un­rest. It was the hap­py laugh of a heart aglow with a hope amount­ing to cer­tain­ty.

“There were two of us the oth­er night, my dear lord,” he said; “but now old Deb­bie has ap­peared, me­thinks there are three!”