The White Ladies of Worcester Part 68

"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 gra.s.s.

"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.

"Blessed 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, pa.s.sed 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 compa.s.sion 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 pa.s.s 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."

CHAPTER LIII

ON THE HOLY MOUNT

On the ninth day since Hugh's departure, the day when fast riding might make his return possible before nightfall, Mora rose early.

At the hour when she had been wont to ring the Convent bell, she was walking swiftly over the moors and climbing the heather-clad hills.

She had remembered a little chapel, high up in the mountains, where dwelt a holy Hermit, held in high repute for his saintliness of life, his wisdom in the giving of spiritual counsel, and his skill in ministering to the sick.

It had come to Mora, as she prayed and pondered during the night, that if she could make full confession to this holy man, he might be able to throw some clear beam of light upon the dark tangle of her perplexity.

This hope was strongly with her as she walked.

"Lighten my darkness! Lead me in a plain path!" was the cry of her bewildered soul.

It seemed to her that she had two issues to consider. First: the question as to whether Hugh, guided by the Bishop, would keep silence; thus making himself a party to her deception. Secondly: the position in which she was placed by the fact that she had left the Convent, owing to that deception. But, for the moment the first issue was so infinitely the greater, that she found herself thrusting the second into the background, allowing herself to be conscious of it merely as a question to be faced later on, when the all-important point of Hugh's att.i.tude in the matter should be settled.

She walked forward swiftly, one idea alone possessing her: that she hastened toward possible help.

She did not slacken speed until the chapel came into view, its grey walls glistening in the morning light, a clump of feathery rowan trees beside it; at its back a mighty rock, flung down in bygone centuries from the mountain which towered behind it. From a deep cleft in this rock sprang a young oak, dipping its fresh green to the roof of the chapel; all around it, in every crack and cranny, parsley fern, hare-bells on delicate, swaying stalks, foxgloves tall and straight, and glorious bunches of purpling heather.

Nearby was the humble dwelling of the Hermit. The door stood ajar.

Softly approaching, Mora lifted her hand, and knocked.

No voice replied.

The sound of her knock did but make evident the presence of a vast solitude.

Pushing open the door, she ventured to look within.

The Hermit's cell was empty. The remains of a frugal meal lay upon the rough wooden table. Also an open breviary, much thumbed and worn. At the further end of the table, a little pile of medicinal herbs heaped as if shaken hastily from the wallet which lay beside them. Probably the holy man, even while at an early hour he broke his fast, had been called to some sick bedside.

Mora turned from the doorway and, shading her eyes, scanned the landscape.

At first she could see only sheep, slowly moving from tuft to tuft as they nibbled the short gra.s.s; or goats, jumping from rock to rock, and suddenly disappearing in the high bracken.

But soon, on a distant ridge, she perceived two figures and presently made out the brown robe and hood of the Hermit, and a little, barefoot peasant boy, running to keep up with his rapid stride. They vanished over the crest of the hill, and Mora--alone in this wild solitude--realised that many hours might elapse ere the Hermit returned.

This check to the fulfilment of her purpose, instead of disappointing her, flooded her heart with a sudden sense of relief.