The White Ladies of Worcester Part 23

"Nay, then," said the Bishop. "No situation can be better for a private conversation than the very centre of a very large room. Have you not heard it said that walls have ears? Well, in a small room, they may use them to some purpose. But here, we sit so far removed from the walls that, strain their ears as they may, they will hear nothing; even the very key-hole, opening wide its naughty eye, will see naught, neither will the adjacent ear hear anything. We may speak freely."

The Bishop, signing to the Knight to help himself to fruit, moved the wine toward him. At his own right hand stood a Venetian flagon and goblet of ruby gla.s.s, ornamented with vine leaves and cl.u.s.ters of grapes. The Bishop drank only from this flagon, pouring its contents himself into the goblet which he held to the light before he drank from it, enjoying the rich glow of colour, and the beauty of the engraving.

His guests sometimes wondered what specially choice kind of wine the Bishop kept for his own, exclusive use. If they asked, he told them.

"The kind used at the marriage feast at Cana in Galilee, when the supply of an inferior quality had failed. This, my friends, is pure water, wholesome, refreshing, and not costly. I drink it from gla.s.s which gives to it the colour of the juice of the grape, partly in order that my guests may not feel chilled in their own enjoyment of more gay and luscious beverage; partly because I enjoy the emblem.

"The gifts of circ.u.mstance, life, and nature, vary, not so much in themselves, as in the human vessels which contain them. If the heart be a ruby goblet, the humblest form of pure love filling it, will a.s.sume the rich tint and fervour of romance. If the mind be, in itself, a thing of vivid tints and glowing colours, the dullest thought within it will take on a l.u.s.tre, a sparkle, a glow of brilliancy.

Thus, whensoever men or matters seem to me dull or wearisome, to myself I say: 'Symon! Thou art this day, thyself, a pewter pot.'"

Then the Bishop would fill up his goblet and hold it to the light.

"Aye, the best wine!" he would say. "'Thou hast kept the best wine until now.' The water of earth--drawn by faithful servants, acting in unquestioning obedience to the commands of the blessed Mother of our Lord--trans.m.u.ted by the word and power of the Divine Son; outpoured for others, in loving service; this is ever 'the best wine.'"

The Knight filled his goblet and took some fruit. Then, leaving both untouched, turned his chair sidewise, that he might the better face the Bishop, crossed his knees, leaned his right elbow on the table and his head upon his hand, pushing his fingers into his hair.

Thus, for a while, they sat in silence; the Knight's eyes searching the Bishop's face; the Bishop, intent upon the colour of his ruby goblet.

At length Hugh d'Argent spoke.

"I have been through deep waters, Reverend Father, since last I supped with you."

The Bishop put down the goblet.

"So I supposed, my son. Now tell me what you will, neither more nor less. I will then give you what counsel I can. On the one point concerning which you must not tell me more than I may rightly know, I will question you. Have you contrived to see the woman you loved, and lost, and are now seeking to regain? Tell me not how, nor when, nor where; but have you had speech with her? Have you made clear to her the treachery which sundered you? Have you pleaded with her to remember her early betrothal, to renounce these later vows, and to fly with you?"

The Knight looked straight into the Bishop's keen eyes.

At first he could not bring himself to answer.

This princely figure, with his crimson robes and golden cross, so visibly represented the power and authority of the Church.

His own intrusion into the Nunnery, his attempt to win away a holy nun, suddenly appeared to him, as the most appalling sacrilege.

With awe and consternation in his own, he met the Bishop's eyes.

At first they were merely clear and searching, and the Knight sat tongue-tied. But presently there flicked into them a look so human, so tender, so completely understanding, that straightway the tongue of the Knight was loosed.

"My lord, I have," he said. "All those things have I done. I have been in heaven, Reverend Father, and I have been in h.e.l.l----"

"Sh, my son," murmured the Bishop. "Methinks you have been in a place which is neither heaven nor h.e.l.l; though it may, on occasion, approximate somewhat nearly to both. How you got there, is a marvel to me; and how you escaped, without creating a scandal, an even greater wonder. Yet I think it wise, for the present, not to know too much. I merely required to be certain that you had actually found your lost betrothed, made her aware of your proximity, your discovery, and your desires. I gathered that you had succeeded in so doing; for, two days ago, the Prioress herself sent to beg a private interview with me, in order to ask whether, under certain circ.u.mstances, I could approve the return of a nun to the world, and obtain absolution from her vows."

The rubies on the Knight's breast suddenly glittered, as if a bound of his heart had caused them all to leap together. But, except for that quick sparkle, he sat immovable, and made no sign.

The Bishop had marked the gleam of the rubies.

He lifted his Venetian goblet to the light and observed it carefully, as he continued: "The Prioress--a most wise and n.o.ble lady, of whom I told you on the day when you first questioned me concerning the Nunnery--has been having trouble with a nun, by name Sister Mary Seraphine. This young and lovely lady has, just lately, heard the world loudly calling--on her own shewing, through the neighing of a palfrey bringing to mind past scenes of gaiety. But--the Prioress suspicioned the voice of an earthly lover; and I, knowing how reckless and resolute an earthly lover was attempting to invade the Nunnery, we both--the Prioress and I--drew our own conclusions, and proceeded to face the problem with which we found ourselves confronted, namely:--whether to allow or to thwart the flight of Seraphine."

The Knight, toying with walnuts, held at the moment four in the palm of his right hand. They broke with a four-fold crack, which sounded but as one mighty crunch. Then, all unconscious of what he did, the Knight opened his great hand and let fall upon the table, a little heap of crushed nuts, sh.e.l.ls and white flesh inextricably mixed.

The Bishop glanced at the small heap. The veiled twinkle in his eyes seemed to say; "So much for Seraphine!"

"I know not any lady of that name," said the Knight.

"Not by that name, my son. The nuns are not known in the Convent by the names they bore before they left the world. I happen to know that the Prioress, before she professed, was Mora, Countess of Norelle. I know this because, years ago, I saw her at the Court, when she was a maid of honour to the Queen; very young and lovely; yet, even then remarkable for wisdom, piety, and a certain sweet dignity of deportment. Sometimes now, when she receives me in the severe habit of her Order, I find myself remembering the flow of beautiful hair, soft as spun silk, bound by a circlet of gold round the regal head; the velvet and ermine; the jewels at her breast. Yet do I chide myself for recalling things which these holy women have renounced, and doubtless would fain forget."

The Bishop struck a silver gong with his left hand.

At once a distant door opened in the dark panelling and two black-robed figures glided in.

"Kindle a fire on the hearth," commanded the Bishop; adding to his guest: "The evening air strikes chilly. Also I greatly love the smell of burning wood. It is pungent to the nostrils, and refreshing to the brain."

The monks hastened to kindle the wood and to fan it into a flame.

Presently, the fire blazing brightly, the Bishop rose, and signed to the monks to place the chairs near the great fireplace. This they did; and, making profound obeisance, withdrew.

Thus the Bishop and the Knight, alone once more, were seated in the firelight. As it illumined the white and silver doublet, and glowed in the rubies, the Bishop conceived the whimsical fancy that the Knight might well be some splendid archangel, come down to force the Convent gates and carry off a nun to heaven. And the Knight, watching the leaping flame flicker on the Bishop's crimson robes and silvery hair, saw the lenient smile upon the saintly face and took courage as he realised how kindly was the heart, filled with most human sympathy, which beat beneath the cross of gold upon the Prelate's breast.

Leaning forward, the Bishop lifted the f.a.ggot-fork and moved one of the burning logs so that a jet of blue smoke, instead of mounting the chimney, came out toward them on the hearth.

Symon of Worcester sat back and inhaled it with enjoyment.

"This is refreshing," he said. "This soothes and yet braces the mind.

And now, my son, let us return to the question of your own private concerns. First, let me ask--Hugh, dear lad, as friend and counsellor I ask it--are you able now to tell me the name of the woman you desire to wed?"

"Nay, my dear lord," replied the Knight, "that I cannot do. I guard her name, as I would guard mine honour. If--as may our Lady be pleased to grant--she consent to fly with me, her name will still be mine to guard; yet then all men may know it, so they speak it with due respect and reverence. But if--as may our blessed Lady forbid--she withhold herself from me, so that three days hence I ride away alone; then must I ride away leaving no shadow of reproach on her fair fame. Her name will be forever in my heart; but no word of mine shall have left it, in the mind of any man, linked with broken vows, or a forsaken lover."

The Bishop looked long and earnestly at the Knight.

"That being so, my son," he said at length, "for want of any better name, I needs must call her by the name she bears in the Nunnery, and now speak with you of Sister Mary Seraphine."

Hugh d'Argent frowned.

"I care not to hear of this Seraphine," he said.

"Yet I fear me you must summon patience to hear of Seraphine for a few moments," said the Bishop, quietly; "seeing that I have here a letter from the Prioress herself, in which she sends you a message. . . . Ah!

I marvel not that you are taken by surprise, my dear Knight; but keep your seat, and let not your hand fly so readily to your sword. To transfix the Reverend Mother's gracious epistle on your blade's keen point, would not tend to elucidate her meaning; nor could it alter the fact that she sends you important counsel concerning Sister Mary Seraphine."

The Bishop lighted a wax taper standing at his elbow, drew a letter from the folds of his sash, slowly unfolded and held it to the light.

The Knight sat silent, his face in shadow. The leaping flame of the fire played on his sword hilt and on the rubies across his breast.

As the parchment crackled between the Bishop's fingers, the Knight kept himself well in hand; but he prayed he might not have need to speak, nor to meet the Bishop's eyes. These--the saints be praised--were now intent upon the closely written page.

The light of the taper illumined the almost waxen whiteness of the gentle face, and gleamed upon the Bishop's ring. The Knight, fixing his eyes upon the stone, saw it the colour of red wine.

At last the Bishop began to speak with careful deliberation, his eyes upon the letter, yet telling, instead of reading; a method ofttimes maddening to an anxious listener, eager to s.n.a.t.c.h the parchment and master its contents for himself; yet who must perforce wait to receive them, with due patience, from another.