The White Ladies of Worcester A Romance of the Twelfth Century

CHAPTER LII

THE AN­GEL-​CHILD

Symon of Worces­ter turned, walked slow­ly across the court­yard, made his way to the para­pet above the riv­er, and stood long, with bent head, watch­ing the rapid flow of the Sev­ern.

His eyes rest­ed up­on the very place where the Knight had cleft the wa­ter in his im­pul­sive dive af­ter the white stone, made, by the Bish­op's own words, to stand to him for his chances of win­ning the Pri­oress.

Yet should that sud­den leap be de­scribed as “im­pul­sive”? The Bish­op, ev­er a stick­ler for ac­cu­ra­cy in de­scrip­tive words, con­sid­ered this.

Nay, not so much “im­pul­sive” as “prompt.” Even as the war­rior who, hav­ing test­ed his trusty sword, know­ing its readi­ness in the scab­bard and the strength of his own right arm, draws, on the in­stant, when sur­prised by the en­emy. Prompt, not im­pul­sive. A swift ac­tion, based up­on an as­sured cer­tain­ty of pow­er, and a stead­fast de­ter­mi­na­tion, of long stand­ing, to win at all costs.

The Bish­op's hand rest­ed up­on the para­pet. The stone in his ring held nei­ther blue nor pur­ple lights. Its colour had paled and fad­ed. It shone--as the Pri­oress had once seen it shine--like a large tear-​drop on the Bish­op's fin­ger.

Deep de­jec­tion was in the Bish­op's at­ti­tude. With the rid­ing away of the Knight, some­thing strong and vi­tal seemed to have passed out of his life.

A sense of fail­ure op­pressed him. He had not suc­ceed­ed in bend­ing Hugh d'Ar­gent to his will, nei­ther had he risen to a frank ap­pre­ci­ation of the loy­al chival­ry which would not en­joy hap­pi­ness at the ex­pense of hon­our.

While his mind re­fused to ac­cept the Knight's code, his soul yearned to rise up and ac­claim it.

Yet, work­ing to the last for Mo­ra's peace of mind, he had main­tained his tone of scorn­ful dis­ap­proval.

He would nev­er again have the chance to cry “Hail!” to the Sil­ver Shield. The deft fin­gers of his sophistry had striv­en to loosen the Knight's shin­ing ar­mour. How far they had suc­ceed­ed, the Bish­op could not tell. But, as he watched the swift­ly mov­ing riv­er, he found him­self wish­ing that his task had been to strength­en, rather than to weak­en; to gird up and brace, rather than sub­tly to un­buck­le and dis­arm. Yet by so do­ing, would he not have been en­sur­ing his own hap­pi­ness, bring­ing back the joy of life to his own heart, at the ex­pense of the two whom he had giv­en to be each oth­er's in the Name of the Di­vine Trin­ity?

If Hugh per­sist­ed in his fol­ly, he would lose his bride, yet would the Bish­op meet and re­in­state the Pri­oress with a clear con­science, hav­ing striv­en to the very last to dis­suade the Knight.

If, on the oth­er hand, Hugh, grow­ing wis­er as he rode north­ward, de­cid­ed to keep si­lence, why then the sun­ny land he loved, and the Car­di­nal's of­fice, for Symon, Bish­op of Worces­ter.

But mean­while, two weeks of un­cer­tain­ty; and the Bish­op could not abide un­cer­tain­ty.

He turned from the riv­er and be­gan to pace the lawn slow­ly from end to end, his head bent, his hands clasped be­hind him.

Each time he reached the wall be­tween the gar­den and the court­yard, he found him­self con­front­ed by two rose trees, a red and a white, climb­ing so near to­geth­er that their branch­es in­ter­twined, crim­son blooms rest­ing their rich petals against the fra­grant fair­ness of their white neigh­bours.

Present­ly these ros­es be­came sym­bol­ic to the Bish­op--the white, of the fair pres­ence of the Pri­oress; the red, of the high hon­our await­ing him in Rome.

He was seized by the whim­si­cal idea that, were he to close his eyes, be­seech the blessèd Saint Joseph to guide his hand, take three steps for­ward, and pluck the first blos­som his fin­gers touched, he might put an end to this tire­some un­cer­tain­ty.

But he smiled at the child­ish­ness of the fan­cy. It savoured of the old lay-​sis­ter, Mary Antony, play­ing with her peas and con­fid­ing in her robin. More­over the Bish­op nev­er did any­thing with his eyes shut. He would have slept with them open, had not Na­ture de­creed oth­er­wise.

Once again he paced the full length of the lawn, his hands clasped be­hind his back, his eyes look­ing be­yond the riv­er to the dis­tant hills.

“Will she come, or shall I go? Shall I de­part, or will she re­turn?”

As he turned at the para­pet, a voice seemed to whis­per with in­sis­tence: “A white rose for her pure pres­ence in the Clois­ter. A red rose for Rome.”

And, as he reached the wall again, the bright eyes of a lit­tle maid­en peeped at him through the arch­way.

He stood quite still and looked at her.

Nev­er had he seen so love­ly an elf. A sun­beam had made its home in each lock of her tum­bled hair. Her lit­tle brown face had the soft bloom of a ripe nec­tarine; her eyes, the timid glance of a star­tled fawn.

The Bish­op smiled.

The bright eyes lost their look of fear, and sparkled re­spon­sive.

The Bish­op beck­oned.

The lit­tle maid stole through the arch­way; then, gain­ing courage flew over the turf, and stood be­tween the Bish­op and the ros­es.

“How camest thou here, my lit­tle one?” ques­tioned Symon of Worces­ter, in his soft­est tones.

“The big gate stood open, sir, and I ran in.”

“And what is thy name, my lit­tle maid?”

“Ver­ity,” whis­pered the child, shy­ly, blush­ing to speak her own name.

“Ah,” mur­mured the Bish­op. “Hath Truth in­deed come in at my open gate?”

Then, smil­ing in­to the lit­tle face lift­ed so con­fid­ing­ly to his: “Dost thou want some­thing, An­gel-​child, that I can give thee?”

One lit­tle bare, brown foot rubbed it­self ner­vous­ly over the oth­er. Five lit­tle brown, bare toes wrig­gled them­selves in­to the grass.

“Be not afraid,” said the Bish­op. “Ask what thou wilt and I will give it thee, un­to the half of my king­dom. Yea, even the head of Fa­ther Bene­dict, in a charg­er.”

“A rose,” said the child, ea­ger­ly ig­nor­ing the prof­fered head of Fa­ther Bene­dict and half the Bish­op's king­dom. “A rose from that love­ly tree! Their pret­ty faces looked at me over the wall.”

The Bish­op's lips still smiled; but his eyes, of a sud­den, grew grave.

“Blessèd Saint Joseph!” he mur­mured be­neath his breath, and crossed him­self.

Then, bend­ing over the lit­tle maid, he laid his hand up­on the tum­bled curls.

“Tru­ly, my lit­tle Ver­ity,” he said, “thou shalt gath­er thy­self a rose, and thou shall gath­er one for me. I leave thee free to make thy choice. See! I clasp my hands be­hind me--thus. Then I shall turn and walk slow­ly up the lawn. So soon as my back is turned, pluck thou two ros­es. Fly with those lit­tle brown feet af­ter me, and place one of the ros­es--whichev­er thou wilt--in my hands. Then run home thy­self, with the oth­er. Farewell, lit­tle An­gel-​child. May the bless­ing of Beth­le­hem's pur­ple hills be ev­er thine.”

The Bish­op turned and paced slow­ly up the lawn, head bent, hands clasped be­hind him.

The small bare feet made no sound on the turf. But be­fore the Bish­op was half-​way across the lawn, the stem of a rose was thrust be­tween his fin­gers. As they closed over it, a gay rip­ple of laugh­ter sound­ed be­hind him, fad­ing fleet­ly in­to the dis­tance.

The An­gel-​child had made her choice, and had flown with her own rose, leav­ing the Bish­op's des­tiny in his clasped hands.

With­out paus­ing or look­ing round, he paced on­ward, gaz­ing for a while at the sparkling wa­ter; then be­yond it, to the dis­tant woods through which the Knight was rid­ing.

Present­ly he turned, still with his hands be­hind him, passed to the gar­den-​door, left stand­ing wide, and en­tered the li­brary.

But not un­til he kneeled be­fore the shrine of Saint Joseph did he move for­ward his right hand, and bring in­to view the rose placed there­in by Ver­ity.

It was many years since the Bish­op had wept. He had not thought ev­er to weep again. Yet, at sight of the rose, plucked for him by the An­gel-​child, some­thing gave way with­in him, and he fell to weep­ing help­less­ly.

Saint Joseph, beard­ed and stal­wart, seemed to look down with com­pas­sion up­on the bowed head with its abun­dant sil­very hair.

Even thus, it may be, had he him­self wept when, af­ter his time of hard men­tal tor­ture, the An­gel of the Lord ap­peared un­to him, say­ing: “Fear not.”

Af­ter a while the Bish­op left the shrine, went over to the deed chest, and laid the rose be­side the white stone.

“There, my dear Hugh,” he mur­mured; “thy stone, and my rose. Tru­ly they look well to­geth­er. Each rep­re­sents the tri­umph of firm re­solve. Yet mine will short­ly fade and pass away; while thine, dear lad, will abide for­ev­er.”

The Bish­op seat­ed him­self at his ta­ble, and sound­ed the sil­ver gong.

A lay-​broth­er ap­peared.

“_Benedicite_,” said the Bish­op. “Re­quest Fra An­drea Fil­ip­po at once to come hith­er. I must have speech with him, with­out de­lay.”