The White Ladies of Worcester Part 20

The Knight walked beside it, with bent head, and eyes upon the ground.

As it pa.s.sed through the Precincts, the Lord Bishop himself rode out on his white palfrey, on his way to the Nunnery at Whytstone.

The Knight, being downhearted, did not lift his eyes.

The Bishop looked, kindly, upon the stretcher and upon the Knight's dark face.

The Bishop had known Hugh d'Argent as a boy.

He grieved to see him thus in sorrow.

Yet the Bishop smiled as he rode on.

Perhaps he did not put much faith in the efficacy of relics, for so heavily bandaged a broken head as that upon the stretcher.

For there was a whimsical tenderness about the Bishop's smile.

CHAPTER XIX

THE BISHOP PUTS ON HIS BIRETTA

Symon, Lord Bishop of Worcester, having received a letter from the Prioress of the White Ladies, praying him for an interview at his leisure, sent back at once a most courtly and gracious answer, that he would that same day give himself the pleasure of visiting the Reverend Mother, at the Nunnery, an hour after Vespers.

The great gates were thrown open, and the Bishop rode his palfrey into the courtyard.

The Prioress herself met him at the door and, kneeling, kissed his ring; then led him through the lower hall, where the nuns knelt to receive his blessing, and up the wide staircase, to the privacy of her own cell.

There she presently unfolded to him the history of her difficulties with that wayward little nun, Sister Mary Seraphine.

"But the point which I chiefly desire to lay before you, Reverend Father," concluded the Prioress, "is this: If the neighing of a palfrey calls more loudly to her than the voice of G.o.d; if her mind is still set upon the things of the world; if she professed without a true vocation, merely because she wished to be the central figure of a great ceremony, yet was all the while expecting a man to intervene and carry her off; if all this bespeaks her true state of heart, then to my mind there comes the question: Is she doing good, either to herself or to others, by belonging to our Order? Would she not be better away?

"My lord, I fear I greatly shock you by naming such a possibility. But truly I am pursued by the remembrance of that young thing, beating the floor with her hands, and singing a mournful dirge about the crimson trappings of her palfrey. And, alas! when I reasoned with her and exhorted, she broke out, as I have told you, Reverend Father, into grievous blasphemy--for which she was severely dealt with by Mother Sub-Prioress, and has since been outwardly amenable to rules and discipline.

"But, though she may outwardly conform, how about her inward state?

Well I know that our vows are lifelong vows; all who belong to our Order are wedded to Heaven; we are thankful to know that the calm of the Cloister shall be exchanged only for the greater peace of Paradise.

But, supposing a young heart has mistaken its vocation; supposing the voice of an earthly lover calls when it is too late; would it seem right or possible to you, Reverend Father, to grant any sort of absolution from the vows; tacitly to allow the opening of the cage door, that the little foolish bird might, if it wished, escape into the liberty for which it chafes and sighs?"

The Bishop sat in the Spanish chair, drawn up near the oriel window, so that he could either gaze at the glories of the distant sunset, or, by slightly turning his head, look on the beautiful but grave face of the Prioress, seated before him.

While she was speaking he watched her keenly, with those bright searching eyes, so much more youthful than aught else about him. But now that he must make reply, he looked away to the sunset.

The light shone on the plain gold cross at his breast, and on the violet silk of his ca.s.sock. His face, against the background of the black Spanish wood, looked strangely white and thin; strong in contour, with a virile strength; in expression, sensitive as a woman's. He had removed his biretta, and placed it upon the table. His silvery hair rolled back from his forehead in silky waves. His was the look of the saint and the scholar, almost of the mystic--save for the tender humour in those keen blue eyes, gleaming like beacon lights from beneath the level eyebrows; eyes which had won the confidence of many a man who else had not dared unfold his very human story, to one of such saintly aspect as Symon, Bishop of Worcester. They were turned toward the sunset, as he made answer to the Prioress.

"The little foolish bird," said the Bishop--and he spoke in that gently musing tone, which conveys to the mind of the hearer a sense of infinite leisure in which to weigh and consider the subject in hand--"The little foolish bird might soon wish herself back in the safety of the cage. On such as she, the cruel hawks of life do love to prey. Absorbed in the contemplation of her own charms, she sees not, until too late, the dangers which surround her. Such little foolish birds, my daughter, are best in the safe shelter of the cloister.

Moreover, of what value are they in the world? None. If Popinjays wed them, they do but hatch out broods of foolish little Popinjays. If true men, caught by mere surface beauty, wed them, it can mean naught save heartbreak and sorrow, and deterioration of the race. Women of finer mould"--for an instant the Bishop's eyes strayed from the sunset--"are needed, to be the mothers of the men who, in the years to come, are to make England great. Nay, rather than let one escape, I would shut up all the little foolish birds in a Nunnery, with our excellent Sub-Prioress to administer necessary discipline."

With his elbows resting upon the arms of the chair, the Bishop put his fingers together, so that the tips met most precisely; then bent his lips to them, and looked at the Prioress.

She, troubled and sick at heart, lifting deep pools of silent misery, met the merry twinkle in the Bishop's eyes, and sat astonished. What was it like? Why it was like the song of a robin, perched on a frosty bough, on Christmas morning! It was so young and gay; so jocund, and so hopeful.

Meeting it, the Prioress realised fully, what she had many times half-divined, that the revered and reverend Prelate sitting opposite, for all his robes and dignity, his panoply of Church and State, had the heart of a merry schoolboy out on a holiday.

For the moment she felt much older than the Bishop, infinitely sadder; more travel-worn and worldly-wise.

Then she looked at the silver hair; the firm mouth, with a shrewd curve at either corner; the thoughtful brow.

And then she looked at the Bishop's ring.

The Bishop wore a remarkable ring; not a signet, but a large gem of great value, beautifully cut in many facets, and clear set in ma.s.sive gold. This precious stone, said to be a chrysoprasus, had been given to the Bishop by a Russian prince, in acknowledgment of a great service rendered him when he came on pilgrimage to Rome. The rarity of these gems arose partly from the fact that the sovereigns of Russia had decreed that they should be held exclusively for royal ornament, forbidding their use or purchase by people of lesser degree.

But its beauty and its rarity were not the only qualities of the precious stone in the Bishop's ring. The strangest thing about it was that its colour varied, according to the Bishop's mood and surroundings.

When the Prioress looked up and met the gay twinkle, the stone in the Bishop's ring was a heavenly blue, the colour of forget-me-nots beside a meadow brook, or the clear azure of the sky above a rosy sunset. But presently he pa.s.sed his hand over his eyes, as if to shut out some bright vision, and to turn his mind to more sober thought; and, at that moment, the stone in his ring gleamed a pale opal, threaded with flashes of green.

The Prioress returned to the subject, with studied seriousness.

"I did not suppose, Reverend Father, that it was to be of any advantage to the world, that Sister Seraphine should return to it. The advantage was to be to her, and also to this whole Community, well rid of the presence of one who finds our sacred exercises irksome; our beautiful Nunnery, a prison; her cell, a living tomb. She cries out for life.

'I want to live,' she said, 'I am young, I am gay, I am beautiful! I want life.'"

"To such as Sister Seraphine," remarked the Bishop, gravely, "life is but a mirror which reflects themselves. Other forms and faces may flit by, in the background; dimly seen, scarcely noticed. There is but one face and form occupying the entire foreground. Life is, to such, the mirror which ministers to vanity. Should a husband appear in the picture, he is soon relegated to the background, receiving only occasional glances over the shoulder. If children dance into the field of vision, they are petulantly driven elsewhere. Tell me? Did Sister Seraphine's desire for life include any expression of the desire to give life?"

Involuntarily the Prioress glanced at the sweet Babe upon the Virgin's knees.

"No," she said, very low.

"I thought not," said the Bishop. "Self-centred, shallow natures are not capable of the sublime pa.s.sion for motherhood; partly, no doubt, because they themselves possess no life worth pa.s.sing on."

The Prioress rose quickly and, moving to the window, flung open a second cas.e.m.e.nt. It was imperative, at that moment, to hide her face; for the uncontrollable flood of emotion at her heart, could scarce fail to send a tell-tale wave to disturb the calm of her countenance.

Whereupon the Bishop turned, to see at what the Prioress had glanced before answering his question.

"No," he mused, as she resumed her seat, his eyes upon the tree-tops beyond the cas.e.m.e.nt, "the Seraphines have not the instinct of motherhood. And the future greatness of our race depends upon those n.o.ble women who are able to pa.s.s on to their sons and daughters a life which is true, and brave, and worthy; a life whose foundation is self-sacrifice, whose cornerstone is loyalty, and from whose summit waves the banner of unsullied love of hearth and home.

"A woman with the true instinct of motherhood cannot see a little child without yearning to clasp it to her bosom. When she finds her mate, she thinks more of being the mother of his children than the object of his devotion, because the Self in her is subservient to the maternal instinct for self-sacrifice. These women are pure as snow, and they hold their men to the highest and the best. Such women are needed in the world. Our Lady knoweth, I speak not lightly, unadvisedly nor wantonly; but were Seraphine such an one as this, I should say; 'Leave the door on the latch. Without permission, yet without reproach--let her go.'"

"Were Seraphine such an one as that, my lord," said the Prioress, firmly, "then would there be no question of her going. If the cornerstone of character be loyalty, the very essential of loyalty is the keeping of vows."

"Quite so," murmured the Bishop; "undoubtedly, my daughter. Unless, by some strange fatality, those vows were made under a total misapprehension. You tell me Sister Seraphine expected a man to intervene?"

The Bishop sat up, of a sudden keenly alert. His eyes, no longer humorous and tender, became searching and bright--young still, but with the fire of youth, rather than its merriment. As he leaned forward in his chair, his hands gripped his knees. Looking at his ring the Prioress saw the stone the colour of red wine.

"What if, after all, I can help you in this," he said. "What if I can throw light upon the whole situation, and find a cause for the little foolish bird's restless condition, proving to you that she may have heard something more than the mere neighing of a palfrey! Listen!

"A Knight arrived in this city, rather more than a month ago; a very n.o.ble Knight, splendid to look upon; one of our bravest Crusaders. He arrived here in sore anguish of heart. His betrothed had been taken from him during his absence from England, waging war against the Turks in Palestine--taken from him by a most dastardly and heartless plot.

He made many inquiries concerning this Nunnery and Order, rode north again on urgent business, but returned, with a large retinue, five days since."