The White Ladies of Worcester by Florence Louisa Barclay (web ebook reader .TXT) 📕

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 blessed 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 beloved 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.


CHAPTER XLII


THE WARNING

Alert, determined, all trace of lassitude departed, the Bishop returned to the library, laid the stone upon the deed chest, sat down at a table and wrote a letter. He had made up his mind as to what must be said, and not once did he pause or hesitate over a word.

While still writing, he lifted his left hand and struck upon a silver gong.

When his servant entered, the Bishop spoke without raising his eyes from the table.

"Request Brother Philip to come here, without loss of time."

When the Bishop, having signed his letter, laid down the pen, and looked up, Brother Philip stood before him.