The White Ladies of Worcester A Romance of the Twelfth Century

CHAPTER XLI

WHAT THE BISH­OP RE­MEM­BERED

Symon, Bish­op of Worces­ter, sat in his li­brary, in the cool of the day.

He was weary, with a weari­ness which sur­passed all his pre­vi­ous ex­pe­ri­ence of weari­ness, all his imag­in­ings as to how weary, in body and spir­it, a man could be, yet con­tin­ue to breathe and think.

With some, ex­treme fa­tigue leads to rest­less­ness of body. Not so with the Bish­op. The more tired he was, the more per­fect­ly still he sat; his knees crossed, his el­bows on the arms of his chair, the fin­gers of both hands pressed light­ly to­geth­er, his head rest­ing against the high back of the chair, his gaze fixed up­on the view across the riv­er.

As he looked with un­see­ing eyes up­on the wide stretch of mead­ow, the dis­tant woods and the soft out­line of the Malvern hills, he was think­ing how good it would be nev­er again to leave this qui­et room; nev­er to move from this chair; nev­er again to see a hu­man be­ing; nev­er to have to smile when he was heart-​sick, or to bow when he felt un­gra­cious!

Those who knew the Bish­op best, of­ten spoke to­geth­er of his won­drous vi­tal­ity and en­er­gy, their favourite re­mark be­ing: that he was nev­er tired. They might with more truth have said that they had nev­er known him to ap­pear tired.

It had long been a rule in the Bish­op's pri­vate code, that weari­ness, ei­ther of body or spir­it, must not be shewn to oth­ers. The more tired he was, the more ready grew his smile, the more alert his move­ments, the more gra­cious his re­sponse to any call up­on his sym­pa­thy or in­ter­est.

He nev­er sighed in com­pa­ny, as did Fa­ther Pe­ter when, hav­ing supped too well off jol­ly of salmon, roast veni­son, and raisin pie, he was fain to let in­di­ges­tion pass muster for melan­choly.

He nev­er yawned in Coun­cil, ei­ther grace­ful­ly be­hind his hand, as did the lean Span­ish Car­di­nal; or open­ly and unashamed, as did the round and rosy Ab­bot of Eve­sham, dis­play­ing to the fas­ci­nat­ed gaze of the brethren in stalls op­po­site, a cav­ernous throat, a red and healthy tongue, and a par­tic­ular­ly fine set of teeth.

More­over the Bish­op would as soon have thought of car­ry­ing a gar­ment from the body of a plague-​strick­en pa­tient in­to the midst of a fam­ily of healthy chil­dren, as of en­ter­ing an as­sem­blage with a jad­ed coun­te­nance or a lan­guorous man­ner.

There­fore: “He is nev­er weary,” said his friends.

“He knoweth not the mean­ing of fa­tigue,” agreed his ac­quain­tances.

“There is no mer­it in labour which is not in any­wise a bur­den, but, rather, a de­light,” pro­nounced those who en­vied his pow­ers.

“He is pos­sessed,” sneered his en­emies, “by a most en­er­get­ic de­mon! Were that de­mon ex­or­cised, the Bish­op would col­lapse, ex­haust­ed.”

“He is filled,” said his ad­mir­ers, “by the Spir­it of God, and is thus so en­er­gized that he can work in­ces­sant­ly, with­out ex­pe­ri­enc­ing or­di­nary hu­man weak­ness.”

And none knew that it was a part of his re­li­gion to Symon of Worces­ter, to hide his weari­ness from oth­ers.

Yet once when, in her cham­ber, he sat talk­ing with the Pri­oress, she had risen, of a sud­den, say­ing: “You are tired, Fa­ther. Rest there in si­lence, while I work at my missal.”

She had passed to the ta­ble; and the Bish­op had sat rest­ing, just as he was sit­ting now, save that his eyes could then dwell on her face, as she bent, ab­sorbed, over the il­lu­mi­na­tion.

Af­ter a while he had asked: “How knew you that I was tired, my dear Pri­oress?”

With­out lift­ing her eyes, she had made an­swer: “Be­cause, my Lord Bish­op, you twice smiled when there was no oc­ca­sion for smil­ing.”

An­oth­er pe­ri­od of rest­ful si­lence, while she worked, and he watched her work­ing. Then he had re­marked: “My friends say I am nev­er tired.”

And she had an­swered: “They would speak more tru­ly if they said that you are ev­er brave.”

It had amazed the Bish­op to find him­self thus un­der­stood. More­over he could scarce put on his biret­ta, so crowned was his head by the lau­rels of her praise. Al­so this had been the on­ly time when he had won­dered whether the Pri­oress re­al­ly be­lieved Fa­ther Ger­vaise to be at the bot­tom of the ocean. It is ev­er an as­ton­ish­ment to a man when the unerring in­tu­ition of a wom­an is brought to bear up­on him­self.

Now, in this hour of his over­whelm­ing fa­tigue, he re­called that scene. Clos­ing his eyes on the dis­tant view, and open­ing them up­on the en­chant­ed vis­tas of mem­ory, he speed­ily saw that calm face, with its chas­tened ex­pres­sion of fine self-​con­trol, bend­ing above the page she was il­lu­mi­nat­ing. He saw the se­vere lines of the wim­ple, the folds of the flow­ing veil, the del­icate move­ment of the long fin­gers, and--yes!--rest­ing up­on her bo­som the jew­elled cross, sign of her high of­fice.

Thus look­ing back, he vivid­ly re­called the ex­traor­di­nary rest­ful­ness of sit­ting there in si­lence, while she worked. No words were need­ed. Her very pres­ence, and the fact that she knew him to be weary, rest­ed him.

He looked again. But now the folds of the wim­ple and veil were gone. A gold­en cir­clet clasped the shin­ing soft­ness of her hair.

The Bish­op opened tired eyes, and fixed them once again up­on the land­scape.

He sup­posed the long rides on two suc­ces­sive days had ex­haust­ed him phys­ical­ly; and the strain of se­cur­ing and en­sur­ing the safe­ty and hap­pi­ness of the wom­an who was dear­er to him than life, had re­act­ed now in a men­tal las­si­tude which seemed un­able to rise up and face the prospect of the lone­ly years to come.

The thought of her as now with the Knight, did not cause him suf­fer­ing. His one anx­iety was lest any­thing un­fore­seen should arise, to pre­vent the full fruition of their hap­pi­ness.

He had nev­er loved her as a man loves the wom­an he would wed;--at least, if that side of his love had at­tempt­ed to arise, it had in­stant­ly been throt­tled and flung back.

It seemed to him that, from the very be­gin­ning he had ev­er loved her as Saint Joseph must have loved the maid­en in­trust­ed to his keep­ing--his, yet not his; called, in the in­spired dream, “Mary, thy wife”; but so called on­ly that he might have the right to guard and care for her--she who was shrine of the Holi­est, o'er­shad­owed by the pow­er of the High­est; Moth­er of God, most blessèd Vir­gin for­ev­er.

It seemed to the Bish­op that his joy in watch­ing over Mo­ra, since his ap­point­ment to the See of Worces­ter, had been such as Saint Joseph could well have un­der­stood; and now he had ac­com­plished the supreme thing; and, in so do­ing, had left him­self des­olate.

On the af­ter­noon of the pre­vi­ous day, so soon as the body of the old lay-​sis­ter had been re­moved from the Pri­oress's cell, the Bish­op had gath­ered to­geth­er all those things which Mo­ra spe­cial­ly val­ued and which she had asked him to se­cure for her; most­ly his gifts to her.

The Sacra­men­taries, from which she so of­ten made copies and trans­la­tions, now lay up­on his ta­ble.

His tired eyes dwelt up­on them. How of­ten he had watched the firm white fin­gers open­ing those heavy clasps, and slow­ly turn­ing the pages.

The books re­mained; yet her pres­ence was gone.

His weary brain re­peat­ed, over and over, this ob­vi­ous fact; then be­gan a hy­po­thet­ical re­ver­sal of it. Sup­pos­ing the books had gone, and her pres­ence had re­mained? . . . Present­ly a cat­alogue formed it­self in his mind of all those things which might have gone, un­missed, un­mourned, if her dear pres­ence had re­mained. . . . Be­fore long the Palace . . . the City . . . the Cathe­dral it­self . . . all had swelled the list. . . . He was alone with Mo­ra and the sun­set; . . . and the bat­tle­ments of glo­ry were the ra­di­ant walls of heav­en; . . . and soon he and she were walk­ing up old Mary Antony's gold­en stair to­geth­er. . . .

Hush! . . . “So He giveth His belovèd sleep.”

* * * * * *

The Bish­op had but just re­turned from lay­ing to rest, in the bury­ing-​ground of the Con­vent, the worn-​out body of the aged lay-​sis­ter.

When he had sig­ni­fied that he in­tend­ed him­self to per­form the last rites, Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress had ven­tured up­on amazed ex­pos­tu­la­tion.

Such an hon­our had nev­er, in the his­to­ry of the Com­mu­ni­ty, been ac­cord­ed even to the Canoness­es, much less to a lay-​sis­ter. Sure­ly Fa­ther Pe­ter--or the Pri­or? Had it been the Pri­oress her­self, why then----

Few can re­mem­ber the pet­ri­fy­ing ef­fect of a flash of sud­den anger in the kind­ly eyes of Symon of Worces­ter. Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress will nev­er for­get it.

So, with as much pomp and cir­cum­stance as if she had been Pri­oress of the White Ladies, old Mary Antony's hum­ble re­mains were laid in that plot in the Con­vent bury­ing-​ground which she had cho­sen for her­self, half a cen­tu­ry be­fore.

Much sor­row was shewn, by the en­tire Com­mu­ni­ty. The great loss they had sus­tained by the mys­te­ri­ous pass­ing of the Pri­oress from their midst, weighed heav­ily up­on them; and seemed, in some way which they could not fath­om, to be con­nect­ed with the death of the old lay-​sis­ter.

As the solemn pro­ces­sion slow­ly wend­ed its way from the Chapel, along the Cy­press Walk, and so, across the or­chard, to the bury­ing-​ground, the tears which ran down the chas­tened faces of the nuns, were as much a trib­ute of love to their late Pri­oress, as a sign of sor­row for the loss of Mary Antony. The lit­tle com­pa­ny of lay-​sis­ters sobbed with­out re­straint. Sis­ter Abi­gail, so of­ten called “noisy hussy” by old Antony, ful­ly, on this fi­nal oc­ca­sion, jus­ti­fied the name.

As the pro­ces­sion was re-​form­ing to leave the grave, Sis­ter Mary Seraphine felt that the mo­ment had now ar­rived, old Antony be­ing dis­posed of, when she might suit­ably be­come the cen­tre of at­ten­tion, and be car­ried, on the re­turn jour­ney. She there­fore fell prone up­on the ground, in a faint­ing fit.

The Bish­op, his chap­lain, the priests and acolytes, paused un­cer­tain what to do.

Sis­ter Tere­sa, and oth­er nuns, would have has­tened to raise her, but the com­mand of Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress rang sharp and clear.

“Let her lie! If she choose to re­main with the Dead, it is but small loss to the Liv­ing.”

And with hands de­vout­ly crossed up­on her breast, fer­ret face peer­ing to right and left from out the cur­tain of her veil, Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress moved for­ward at the head of the nuns.

The Bish­op's pro­ces­sion, which had wa­vered, con­tin­ued to lead the way; solemn chant­ing be­gan; and, as the Bish­op turned in­to the Cy­press Walk he saw the fly­ing fig­ure of Mary Seraphine run­ning among the trees in the or­chard, try­ing to catch up, and to take her place again, un­no­ticed, among the rest.

The Bish­op smiled, re­mem­ber­ing his many talks with the Pri­oress con­cern­ing Seraphine, and the Knight's dis­may when he feared they were foist­ing the way­ward nun up­on him.

Then he sighed as he re­alised that the con­trol of the Con­vent had now passed in­to the able hands of Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress; and that, in these un­usu­al cir­cum­stances, the task of se­lect­ing and ap­point­ing a new Pri­oress, fell to him.

Per­haps his con­ver­sa­tions on this sub­ject, first with the Pri­or, and lat­er on with Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress, part­ly ac­count­ed for his ex­treme fa­tigue, now that he found him­self at last alone in his li­brary.

But the re­ward of those “whose strength is to sit still,” had come to the Bish­op.

Soon af­ter he fixed his eyes up­on the Gre­go­ri­an and Gelasian Sacra­men­taries, his eye­lids gen­tly be­gan to droop. Sleep was al­ready up­on him when he de­cid­ed to let the Palace, the City, yea, even the Cathe­dral go, if he might but keep the Pri­oress. And as he walked with Mo­ra up the gold­en stair, his mind was at rest; his weary body slept.

A very few min­utes of sleep suf­ficed the Bish­op.

He awoke as sud­den­ly as he had fall­en asleep; and, as he awoke, he seemed to hear him­self say: “Nay, Hugh. None save the old lay-​sis­ter, Mary Antony.”

He sat up, won­der­ing what this sen­tence could mean; al­so when and where it had been spo­ken.

As he won­dered, his eye fell up­on the white stone which he had flung in­to the Sev­ern, and which the Knight, div­ing from the para­pet, had re­trieved from the riv­er bed. The stone seemed in some way con­nect­ed with this chance sen­tence which had re­peat­ed it­self in his brain.

The Bish­op rose, walked over to his deed chest, took the white stone in his hand and stood mo­tion­less, his eyes fixed up­on it, wrapped in thought. Then he passed out on to the lawn, and paced slow­ly to and fro be­tween the arch­way lead­ing from the court­yard, to the para­pet over­look­ing the riv­er.

Yes; it was here.

He had rid­den in on Shu­lamite, from the heights above the town, whence he had watched the Pri­oress ride in the riv­er mead­ow.

He had found Hugh d'Ar­gent await­ing him, and to­geth­er they had paced this lawn in earnest con­ver­sa­tion.

Hugh had been anx­ious to hear ev­ery de­tail of his vis­it to the Con­vent and the scene in the Pri­oress's cell when he had shewn her the copy of the Pope's man­date, just re­ceived from Rome. In speak­ing of the pos­si­ble de­vel­op­ments which might take place in the course of the next few hours, Hugh had asked whether any in the Con­vent, be­side Mo­ra her­self, knew of his pres­ence in Worces­ter, or that he had man­aged to ob­tain en­trance to the clois­ters by the crypt pas­sage, to make his way dis­guised to Mo­ra's cell, and to have speech with her.

The Bish­op had an­swered that none knew of this, save the old lay-​sis­ter Mary Antony, who was whol­ly de­vot­ed to the Pri­oress, made shrewd by nine­ty years of ex­pe­ri­ence in out­wit­ting her su­pe­ri­ors, and could be com­plete­ly trust­ed.

“How came she to know?” the Bish­op seemed to re­mem­ber that the Knight had asked. And he had made an­swer that he had as yet no def­inite in­for­ma­tion, but was in­clined to sus­pect that when the Pri­oress had bid­den the old wom­an be­gone, she had slipped in­to some place of con­ceal­ment from whence she had seen and heard some­thing of what passed in the cell.

To this the Knight had made no com­ment; and now, walk­ing up and down the lawn, the white stone in his hand, the Bish­op could not feel sure how far Hugh had tak­en in the ex­act pur­port of the words; yet well he knew that sen­tences which pass al­most un­no­ticed when heard with a mind pre­oc­cu­pied, are apt to re­turn lat­er on, with full sig­nif­icance, should any­thing oc­cur up­on which they shed a light.

This then was the com­pli­ca­tion which had brought the Bish­op out to pace the lawn, re­call­ing each step in the con­ver­sa­tion, there where it had tak­en place.

Soon­er or lat­er, Mo­ra will tell her hus­band of Mary Antony's won­drous vi­sion. If she reach­es the con­clu­sion, un­in­ter­rupt­ed, all will be well. The Knight will re­alise the im­por­tance of con­ceal­ing the fact of the old lay-​sis­ter's knowl­edge--by non-​mirac­ulous means--of his pres­ence in the cell, and his suit to the Pri­oress. But should she pref­ace her recital by re­mark­ing that none in the Com­mu­ni­ty had knowl­edge of his vis­it, the Knight will prob­ably at once say: “Nay, there you are mis­tak­en! I have it from the Bish­op that the old lay-​sis­ter, Mary Antony, knew of it, hav­ing stayed hid­den where she saw and heard much that passed; yet be­ing very faith­ful, and more than com­mon shrewd, could--so said the Bish­op--be most com­plete­ly trust­ed.”

Where­upon ir­repara­ble harm would be done; for, at once, Mo­ra would re­alise that she had been de­ceived; and her peace of mind and calm of con­science would be dis­turbed, if not com­plete­ly over­thrown.

One thing seemed clear to the Bish­op.

Hugh must be warned. Prob­ably no harm had as yet been done. The vi­sion was so sa­cred a thing to Mo­ra, that weeks might elapse be­fore she spoke of it to her hus­band.

With as lit­tle de­lay as pos­si­ble Hugh must be put up­on his guard.