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

his chair. His face was absolutely colourless; but his eyes, like blue steel, seemed to transfix the Knight, who could not withdraw his regard from those keen points of light.

The Bishop's whisper, when at length he spoke, was more alarming than if he had shouted.

"Fool!" he said. "Ungrateful, unspeakable fool! What mean you by such words?"

"Call me fool if you will, my Lord Bishop," said the Knight, "so long as I give not mine own conscience cause to call me knave."

"What mean you by such words?" persisted the Bishop. "I mean, my lord, that if the truth opened out an abyss which plunged me into hell, I would sooner know it than attempt to enter Paradise across the flimsy fabric of a lie."

Now during many days, Symon of Worcester had worked incessantly, suffered much, accomplished much, surrendered much, lost much. Perhaps it is hardly to be wondered at, that, at this juncture, he lost his temper.

"By Saint Peter's keys!" he cried, "I care not, Sir Knight, whether you drop to hell or climb to Paradise. But it is my business to see to it that you do not disturb the peace of mind of the woman you have wed. Therefore I warn you, that if you ride from here set upon so doing, you will not reach your destination alive."

The Knight smiled. The film of weariness lifted as if by magic from his eyes, and they shone bright and serene.

"I cannot draw my sword upon threats, my Lord Bishop; but let those threats take human shape, and by Saint George, I shall find pleasure in rendering a good account of them. With this same sword I once did hew my way through a score of Saracens. Think you a dozen Worcester cut-throats could keep me from reaching my wife?"

Something in the tone with which the Knight spoke these final words calmed the Bishop; something in the glance of his eye quelled the angry Prelate. In the former he recognised a depth of love such as he had not hitherto believed possible to Hugh d'Argent; in the latter, calm courage, nay, a serene joy at the prospect of danger, against which his threats and fury could but break themselves, even as stormy waves against the granite rocks of the Cornish coast.

The Bishop possessed that somewhat rare though valuable faculty, the ability to recognise instantly, and instantly to accept, the inevitable. Also when he had made a false move, he knew it, and was preparing to counteract it almost before his opponent had perceived the mistake.

So rarely was the Bishop angry, that his anger now affected him physically, with a sickening sense of faintness. With closed eyes, he leaned his head against the back of the chair. His face, always white and delicate, now appeared as if carved in ivory. His lips fell apart, but no breath issued from them. Except for a slight twitching of the eyelids, the Bishop's countenance was lifeless.

Startled and greatly alarmed, Hugh looked around for some means whereby he might summon help, but could see none.

Hastening to the table, he poured wine into the Venetian goblet, brought it back, and moistened the Bishop's lips. Then kneeling on one knee loosed the cold fingers from their grip.

Presently the Bishop opened his eyes--no longer points of blue steel, but soft and dreamy like a mist of bluebells on distant hills. He looked, with unseeing gaze, into the anxious face on a level with his own; then turned his eyes slowly upon the ruby goblet which the Knight had lifted from the floor and was trying to hold to his lips.

Waving it away, the Bishop slipped the finger and thumb of his left hand into his sash, and drew out a small gold box of exquisite workmanship, set with emeralds.

At this he gazed for some time, as if uncertain what to do with it; then touched a spring and as the lid flew open, sat up and took from the box a tiny white tablet. This he dropped into the wine.

The Knight, watching with anxious eyes, saw it rapidly dissolve as it sank to the bottom.

But all consciousness of the tablet, the wine, or the kneeling Knight, appeared to have instantly faded from the Bishop's mind. He lay back gazing dreamily at a banner which, for no apparent reason, stirred and wafted to and fro, as it hung from an oaken beam, high up among the rafters.

"Wherefore doth it waft?" murmured the Bishop, thereby adding greatly to the Knight's alarm. "Wherefore?--Wherefore?--Wherefore doth it waft?"

"Drink this, Reverend Father," urged the Knight. "I implore you, my dear lord, raise yourself and drink."

"Methinks there must be a draught," mused the Bishop.

"Yea, truly," said the Knight, "of your famous Italian wine. Father, I pray you drink."

"Among the rafters," said the Bishop. But he sat up, took the goblet from the Knight's hand, and slowly sipped its contents.

Almost at once, a faint tinge of colour shewed in his cheeks and on his lips; his eyes grew bright. He smiled at the Knight, as he placed the empty goblet on the table beside him.

"Ah, my dear Hugh," he said, extending his hand; "it is good to find you here. Let us continue our conversation, if you are sufficiently rested and refreshed. I have much to say to you."

In the reaction of a great relief, Hugh d'Argent seized the extended hand and fervently kissed the Bishop's ring.

It was the reverent homage of a loyal heart. Symon of Worcester, as with a _Benedicite_ he graciously acknowledged it, suffered a slight twinge of conscience; almost as unusual an experience as the ebullition of temper. He took up the conversation exactly at that point to which it best suited him to return, namely, there where he had made the first false step.

"Therefore, my dear Hugh, I have now given you in detail the true history of the vision, making it clear that we owe it, alas! to earthly devotion, rather than to Divine interposition--though indeed the one may well be the means used by the other. It remains for us to consider, and to decide upon, the best line to take with Mora in order to safeguard most surely her peace of mind, and permanently to secure her happiness."

"I have considered, Reverend Father," said the Knight, simply; "and I have decided."

"What have you decided to do, my son?" questioned Symon of Worcester, in his smoothest tones.

"To make known to Mora, so soon as I return, the entire truth."

The Bishop cast his eyes upward, to see whether the banner still waved.

It did.

Undoubtedly there must be a current of air among the rafters.

"And what effect do you suppose such a communication will have, my son, upon the mind of your wife?"

"I am not called to face suppositions, Reverend Father; I am simply confronted by facts."

"Precisely, my son, precisely," replied the Bishop, pressing his finger-tips together, and raising them to his lips. "Yet even while dealing with causes, it is well sometimes to consider effects, lest they take us wholly unawares. Do you realise that, as your wife felt justified in leaving the Nunnery and wedding you, solely by reason of our Lady's miraculously accorded permission, when she learns that that permission was not miraculous, she will cease to feel justified?"

"I greatly fear it," said the Knight.

"Do you yourself now consider that she was not justified?"

"Nay!" answered the Knight, with sudden vehemence. "Always, since I learned how we had been tricked by her sister, I have held her to be rightfully mine. Heaven knew, when she made her vows, that I was faithful, and she therefore still my betrothed. Heaven allowed me to discover the truth, and to find her--alive, and still unwed. To my thinking, no Divine pronouncement was required; and when the Holy Father's mandate arrived bringing the Church's sanction, why then indeed naught seemed to stand between us. But Mora thought otherwise."

A tiny gleam came into the Bishop's eyes; an exceedingly refined edition of the look of cunning which used to peep out of old Mary Antony's.

"Have you ever heard tell, my son, that two negatives make an affirmative? Think you not that, in something the same way, two deceptions may make a truth. Mora was deceived into entering the Convent, and deceived into leaving it; but from out that double deception arises the great truth that she has, in the sight of Heaven, been all along yours. The first deception negatives the second, and the positive fact alone remains that Mora is wedded to you, is yours to guard and shield from sorrow; and those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder."

Hugh d'Argent passed his hand across his brow.

"I trust the matter may appear thus to Mora," he said.

The banner still wafted, gently. The Bishop gave himself time to ponder whence that draught could come.

Then: "It will not so appear," he said. "My good Hugh, when your wife learns from you that she was tricked by Mary Antony, she will go back in mind to where she was before the spurious vision, and will feel herself to be still Prioress of the White Ladies."

"I have so felt her, since the knowledge reached me," agreed the Knight.

The efficacy of the soothing drug taken by the Bishop was strained to its utmost.

"And what then do you propose to do, my son, with this wedded Prioress? Do you expect her to remain with you in your home, content to fulfil her wifely duties?"

"I fear," said the Knight sadly, "that she will leave me."

"And I am certain she will leave you," said the Bishop.

"It was largely this fear for the future which brought me at once to you, my lord. If Mora desires, as you say, to consider herself as she was, before she was tricked into leaving the Convent, will you arrange that she shall return, unquestioned, to her place as Prioress of the White Ladies of Worcester?"

"Impossible!" said the Bishop, shortly. "It is too late. We can have no Madonna groups in Nunneries, saving those carven in marble or stone."

To which there followed a silence, lasting many minutes.

Then the Knight said, with effort, speaking very low: "It is _not_ too late."

Instantly the keen eyes were searching his face. A line of crimson leapt to the Bishop's cheek, as if a whip-lash had been drawn across it.

Presently: "Fool!" he whispered, but the word savoured more of pitying tenderness than of scorn. Alas! was there ever so knightly a fool, or so foolish a knight! "What was the trouble, boy? Didst find that after all she loved thee not?"

"Nay," said Hugh, quickly, "I thank God, and our Lady, that my wife loves me as I never dreamed that such as I could be loved by one so perfect in all ways as she. But--at first--all was so new and strange to her. It was wonder enough to be out in the world once more, free to come and go; to ride abroad, looking on men and things. I put her welfare first. .