The White Ladies of Worcester: A Romance of the Twelfth Century

The Knight looked at the delicate face of the Bishop, with its wistful smile, its charm of extreme refinement.

Yes! Here spoke the Prelate, the Idealist, the Mystic.

But the Knight was a man and a lover.

His dark face flushed, and his eyes grew bright with inward fires such as the Bishop could hardly be expected to understand.

"I want not spiritual planes," he said, "nor realms of perfection. I want my own wife, in my own home; and, could I have won her there, I have not much doubt but that I could have lifted her over any perilous pitfalls that came in her way."

"True, my son," said the Bishop, at once gently acquiescent; for Symon of Worcester invariably yielded a point which had been misunderstood. For over-rating a mind with which he conversed, this was ever his self-imposed penance. "Your great strength would be fully equal to lifting ladies over pitfalls. Which recalls to my mind a scene in this day's events, which I would fain describe to you before we part."

CHAPTER XXII

WHAT BROTHER PHILIP HAD TO TELL

The Bishop sat back in his chair, smiling, as at a mental picture which gave him pleasure, coupled with some amusement.

Ignoring the Knight's sullen silence, he began his story in the cheerful voice which takes for granted a willing and an interested listener.

"When the Prioress and myself were discussing your hopes, my son, and I was urging, in your interests, liberty of flight for Sister Mary Seraphine, I informed the Reverend Mother that the carrying out of your plans, carefully laid in order to keep any scandal concerning the White Ladies from reaching the city, would involve for Seraphine a ride of many hours to Warwick, almost immediately upon safely reaching the Star hostel. This seemed as nothing to the lover who, by his own shewing, had ofttimes seen her 'ride like a bird, all day, on the moors.' But to us who know the effect of monastic life and how quickly such matters as these become lost arts through disuse, this romantic ride in the late afternoon and on into the summer night, loomed large as a possible obstacle to the successful flight of Seraphine.

"Therefore, in order that our little bird might try her wings, regain her seat and mastery of a horse, and rid herself of a first painful stiffness, I persuaded the Reverend Mother to grant the nuns a Play Day, in honour of my visit, promising to send them my white palfrey, suitably caparisoned, in safe charge of a good lay-brother, so that all nuns who pleased, might ride in the river meadow. You would not think it," said the Bishop, with a smile, "but the White Ladies dearly love such sport, when it is lawful. They have an agèd ass which they gleefully mount in turns, on Play Days, in the courtyard and in the meadow. Therefore riding is not altogether strange to them, although my palfrey, Iconoklastes, is somewhat of an advance upon their mild ass, Sheba."

The Knight's sad face had brightened at mention of the beasts.

"Wherefore 'Iconoklastes'?" he asked, with interest. It struck him as a curious name for a palfrey.

"Because," replied the Bishop, "soon after I had bought him he trampled to ruin, in a fit of misplaced merriment, some flower beds on which I had spent much precious time and care, and of which I was inordinately fond."

"Brute," said the Knight, puzzled, but unwilling to admit it. "Methinks I should have named him 'Devil,' for the doing of such diabolic mischief."

"Nay," said the Bishop, gently. "The Devil would have spared my flower beds. They were a snare unto me."

"And wherefore 'Sheba'?" queried the Knight.

"I named her so, when I gave her to the Prioress," said the Bishop, "in reply to a question put to me by the Reverend Mother. The ass was elderly and mild, even then, but a handsome creature, of good breed. The Prioress asked me whether she still had too much spirit to be easily managed by the lay-sisters. I answered that her name was 'Sheba.'"

The Bishop paused and rubbed his hands softly over each other, in gleeful enjoyment of the recollection.

But the Knight again looked blank.

"Did that content the Prioress?" he asked; but chiefly for love of mentioning her name.

"Perfectly," replied the Bishop. "She smiled and said: 'That is well.' And the name stuck to the ass, though the Reverend Mother and I alone understood its meaning."

"About the Play Day?" suggested the Knight, growing restive.

"Ah, yes! About the Play Day. The time chosen was after noon on this day, in order that the Prioress might first accomplish her talk with Seraphine, thus clearing the way for our experiment. Although written last evening, I had not received the Reverend Mother's decisive letter, when Iconoklastes set forth; and, I confess, I looked forward with keen interest, to questioning the lay-brother on his return. As I have told you, I had doubts concerning Seraphine; but I knew the Prioress would see to it that my meaning and intention reached the member of the Community actually concerned, were she Seraphine or another; and I should have light, both on the identity of the lady and on her probable course of action, when report reached me as to which of the nuns had taken the riding seriously. Therefore, with no little interest, I awaited the return of Iconoklastes, in charge of Brother Philip."

The Bishop lifted the faggot-fork and, bending over the hearth, began to build the logs, quickening the dying flame.

"Well?" cried the Knight, chafing like a charger on the curb. "Well, my lord? And then?"

The Bishop stood the faggot-fork in its corner.

"I paused, my son, that you might say: 'Wherefore "Philip"?'"

"The names of men interest me not," said the Knight, with impatience.

"I care but to know the reason for the names of beasts."

"Quite right," said the Bishop. "Adam named the beasts; Eve named the men. Yet, I would like you to ask 'Wherefore "Philip,"' because the Prioress at once put that question, when she heard me call Brother Mark by his new name."

"Wherefore 'Philip'?" asked the Knight, with averted eyes.

"Because 'Philip' signifies 'a lover of horses.' I named the good brother so, when he developed a great affection for all the steeds in my stables.

"Well, at length Brother Philip returned, leading the palfrey. I had been riding upon the heights above the town, on my comely black mare, Shulamite."

Again the Bishop paused, and shot a merry challenge at Hugh d'Argent; but realising at once that the Knight could brook no more delay, he hastened on.

"Riding into the courtyard, just as Philip led in the palfrey, I bade him first to see to Icon's comfort; then come to my chamber and report. Before long the lay-brother appeared.

"Now Brother Philip is an excellent teller of stories. He does not need to mar them by additions, because his quickness of observation takes in every detail, and his excellent memory lets nothing slip. He has a faculty for recalling past scenes in pictures, and tells a story as if describing a thing just happening before his mental vision: the sole draw-back to so vivid a memory being, that if the picture grows too mirth provoking, Brother Philip is seized with spasms of the diaphragm, and further description becomes impossible. On this occasion, I saw at once that the good brother's inner vision teemed with pictures. I settled myself to listen.

"Aye, it had been a wonderful scene, and more merriment, so the lay-sisters afterwards told Brother Philip, than ever known before at any Play Day.

"Icon was led in state from the courtyard, down into the river meadow.

"At first the great delight was to crowd round him, pat him, stroke his mane, finger his trappings; cry out words of ecstatic praise and admiration, and attempt to feed him with all manner of unsuitable food.

"Icon, I gather, behaved much as most males behave on finding themselves the centre of a crowd of admiring women. He pawed the ground, and swished his tail; arched his neck, and looked from side to side; munched cakes he did not want, winking a large and roguish eye at Brother Philip; and finally, ignoring all the rest, fixed a languorous gaze upon the Prioress, she being the only lady present who stood apart, regarding the scene, but taking no share in the general adulation.

"At length the riding began; Brother Philip keeping firm hold on Icon, while the entire party of nuns undertook to mount the nun who had elected to ride. Each time Brother Philip attempted a description of this part of the proceedings he was at once seized with such spasms in the region of his girdle, that speech became an impossibility; he could but hold himself helplessly, looking at me from out streaming eyes, until a fresh peep at his mental picture again bent him double.

"Much as I prefer a story complete, from start to finish, I was constrained to command Brother Philip to pass on to scenes which would allow him some possibility of articulate speech.

"The sternness of my tones gave to the good brother the necessary assistance. In a voice still weak and faltering, but gaining firmness as it proceeded, he described the riding.

"Most of the nuns rode but a few yards, held in place by so many willing hands that, from a distance, only the noble head of Icon could be seen above the moving crowd, surmounted by the terrified face of the riding nun; who, hastening to exclaim that her own delight must not cause her to keep others from participation, would promptly fall off into the waiting arms held out to catch her; at once becoming, when safely on her feet, the boldest encourager of the next aspirant to a seat upon the back of Icon.

"Sister Mary Seraphine proved a disappointment. She had been wont to boast so much of her own palfrey, her riding, and her hunting, that the other nuns had counted upon seeing her gallop gaily over the field.

"The humble and short-lived attempts were all made first. Then Sister Mary Seraphine, bidding the others stand aside, was swung by one tall sister, acting according to her instructions, neatly into the saddle.

"She gathered up the reins, as to the manner born," and bade Brother Philip loose the bridle. But the palfrey, finding himself no longer hemmed in by a heated, pressing crowd, gave, for very gladness of heart, a gay little gambol.

"Whereupon, Sister Mary Seraphine, almost unseated, shrieked to Brother Philip to hold the bridle, rating him soundly for having let go.

"He then led Icon about the meadow, the nuns following in procession; Sister Seraphine all the while complaining; first of the saddle, which gripped her where it should not, leaving an empty space there where support was needed; then of the palfrey's paces; then of a twist in her garments—twice the procession stopped to adjust them; then of the ears of the horse which twitched for no reason, and presently pointed at nothing—a sure sign of frenzy; and next of his eye, which rolled round and was vicious.

"At this, Mother Sub-Prioress, long weary of promenading, yet determined not to be left behind while others followed on, exclaimed that if the eye of the creature were vicious, then must Sister Mary Seraphine straightway dismount, and the brute be led back to the seat where the Prioress sat watching.

"To this Seraphine gladly agreed, and a greatly sobered procession returned to the top of the field.

"But gaiety was quickly restored by the old lay-sister, Mary Antony, who, armed with the Reverend Mother's permission, insisted on mounting.

"Willing hands, miscalculating the exceeding lightness of her aged body, lifted her higher than need be, above the back of the palfrey. Whereupon Mary Antony, parting her feet, came down straddling!

"Firm as a limpet, she sat thus upon Icon. No efforts of the nuns could induce her to shift her position. Commanding Brother Philip, seeing 'the Lord Bishop' was now safely mounted, to lead on and not keep him standing, old Antony rode off in triumph, blessing the nuns right and left, as she passed.

"Never were heard such shrieks of merriment! Even Mother Sub-Prioress sank upon a seat to laugh with less fatigue. Sister Seraphine's fretful complaints were forgotten.

"Twice round the field went old Antony, with fingers uplifted. Icon stepped carefully, arching his neck and walking as if he well knew that he bore on his back, ninety odd years of brave gaiety.

"Well, that made of the Play Day a success. But—the best of all was yet to come."

The Bishop took up the faggot-fork, and again tended the fire. He seemed to find it difficult to tell that which must next be told.

The Knight was breathing quickly. He sat immovable; yet the rubies on his breast glittered continuously, like so many eager, fiery eyes.

The Bishop went on, speaking rapidly, the faggot-fork still in his hand, his face turned to the fire.

"They had lifted Mary Antony down, and were crowding round Icon, patting and praising him, when a message came from the Reverend Mother, bidding Brother Philip to bring the palfrey into the courtyard; the nuns to remain in the field.

"They watched the beautiful creature pace through the archway and disappear, and none knew quite what would happen next. Philip heard them discussing it later.

"Some thought the Bishop had sent for his palfrey. Others, that the Reverend Mother had feared for the safety of the old lay-sister; or, lest her brave example should fire the rest to be too venturesome. Yet all eyes were turned toward the archway, vaguely expectant.

"And then–

"They heard the hoofs of Icon ring on the flagstones of the courtyard.

"They heard the calm voice of the Prioress. Could it be she who was coming?

"Out from the archway, into the sunshine, alone and fearless; the Prioress rode upon Icon. On her face was the light of a purposeful radiance. The palfrey stepped as if proud of the burden he carried.

"She smiled and would have cried out gaily to the groups as she passed. But, with one accord, the nuns dropped to their knees, with clasped hands, and faces uplifted, adoring. Always they loved her, revered her, and thought her beautiful. But this vision of the Prioress, whom none had ever seen mounted, riding forth into the sunshine on the snow-white palfrey, filled their hearts with praise and with wonder.

"Brother Philip leaned against the archway, watching. He knew his hand upon the bridle was no longer needed, from the moment when he saw the Reverend Mother gather up the reins in her left hand, lay her right gently on the neck of Icon, and, bending, speak low in his ear.

"She sat a horse—said Philip—as only they can sit, who have ridden from childhood.

"She walked him round the meadow once, then gently shook the reins, and he broke into a trot.

"The watching nuns, now on their feet again, shrieked aloud, with fright and glee.

"At the extreme end of the meadow, wheeling sharply, she let him out into a canter.

"The nuns at this were petrified into dumbness. One and all held their breath; while Mother Sub-Prioress—nobody quite knew why—turned upon Sister Mary Seraphine, and shook her.

"And the next moment the Prioress was among them, walking the palfrey slowly, settling her veil, which had streamed behind her as she cantered, bending to speak to one and another, as she passed.

"And the light of new life was in her eyes. Her cheeks glowed, she seemed a girl again.

"Reining in Iconoklastes, she paused beside Mother Sub-Prioress and said–"

The Bishop broke off, while he carefully stood the faggot-fork up in its corner.

"She paused and said: 'None need remain here longer than they will. But, being up and mounted, and our Lord Bishop in no haste for the return of his palfrey, it is my intention to ride for an hour.'"

Symon of Worcester turned and looked full at the Knight.

"And the Prioress rode for an hour," he said. "For a full hour, in the sunshine, on the soft turf of the river meadow, THE PRIORESS TRIED HER WINGS."

CHAPTER XXIII

THE MIDNIGHT ARRIVAL

Hugh d'Argent sat speechless, returning the Bishop's steady gaze.

No fear was in his face; only a great surprise.

Presently into the eyes of both there crept a look which was half-smile, half-wistful sorrow, but wholly trustful; a look to which, as yet, the Bishop alone held the key.

"So you know, my lord," said Hugh d'Argent.

"Yes, my son; I know."

"Since this morning?"

"Nay, then! Since the first day you arrived with your story; asking such careful questions, carelessly. But be not wroth with yourself, Hugh. Faithful to the hilt, have you been. Only—no true lover was ever a diplomat! Matters which mean more than life, cannot be dissembled by true hearts from keen eyes."

"Then why all the talk concerning Seraphine?" demanded the Knight.

"Seraphine, my son, has served a useful purpose in various conversations. Never before, in the whole of her little shallow, selfish life has Seraphine been so disinterestedly helpful. That you sat here just now, thinking me witless beyond belief, just when I most desired not to appear to know too much, I owe to the swollen countenance of Seraphine."

"My lord," exclaimed the Knight, overcome with shame. "My lord! How knew you–"

"Peace, lad! Fash not thyself over it. Is it not a part of my sacred office to follow in the footsteps of my Master and to be a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart? Also, respecting, yea, approving your reasons for reticence, I would have let you depart not suspecting my knowledge of that which you wished to conceal, were it not that we must now face this fact together:—Since penning that message of apparent finality, the Prioress has tried her wings."

A rush of bewildered joy flooded the face of the Knight.

"Reverend Father!" he said, "think you that means hope for me?"

Symon of Worcester considered this question carefully, sitting in his favourite attitude, his lips compressed against his finger-tips.

At length; "I think it means just this," he said. "A conflict, in her, between the mental and the physical; between reason and instinct; thought and feeling. The calm, collected mind sent you that reasoned message of final refusal. The sentient body, vibrant with bounding life, instinctively prepares itself for the possibility of the ride with you to Warwick. This gives equal balance to the scale. But a third factor will be called in, finally to decide the matter. By that she will abide; and neither you nor I, neither earth nor hell, neither things past, things present, nor things to come, could avail to move her."

"And that third factor?" questioned the Knight.

"Is the Spiritual," replied the Bishop, solemnly, with uplifted face.

"With that, there came over the Knight a sudden sense of compunction. He began for the first time to see the matter as it must appear to the Bishop and the nun. His own obstinate and determined self-seeking shamed him.

"You have been very good to me, my lord," he said humbly. "You have been most kind and most generous, when indeed you had just cause to be angry."

The Bishop lowered his eyes from the rafters, and bent them in questioning gaze upon Hugh d'Argent.

"Angry, my son? And wherefore should I be angry?"

"That I should have sought, and should still be seeking, to tempt the Prioress to wrong-doing."

The Bishop's questioning gaze took on a brightness which almost became the light of sublime contempt.

"You—tempt her?" he said. "Tempt her to wrong-doing! The man lives not, who could succeed in that! She will not come to you unless she knows it to be right to come, and believes it to be wrong to stay. If I thought you were tempting her, think you I would stand aside and watch the conflict? Nay! But I stand aside and wait while she—of purer, clearer vision, and walking nearer Heaven than you or I—discerns the right, and, choosing it, rejects the wrong. Should she be satisfied that life with you is indeed God's will for her—and I tell you honestly, it will take a miracle to bring this about—she will come to you. But she will not come to you unless, in so doing, she is choosing what to her is the harder part."

"The harder part!" exclaimed the Knight. "You forget, my lord, she loves me."

"Do I forget?" replied the Bishop. "Have you found me given to forgetting? The very fact that she loves you, is the heaviest factor against you—just now. To such women there comes ever the instinctive feeling, that that which would be sweet must be wrong, and the hard path of renunciation the only right one. They climb not Zion's mount to reach the crown. They turn and wend their way through Gethsemane to Calvary, sure that thus alone can they at last inherit. And what can we say? Are they not following in the footsteps of the Son of God? I fear my nature turns another way. I incline to follow King David, or Solomon in all his glory, chanting glad Songs of Ascent, from the Palace on Mount Zion to the Temple on Mount Moriah. All things harmonious, in sound, form, or colour, seem to me good and, therefore, right. But long years in Italy have soaked me in the worship of the beautiful, inextricably intermingled with the adoration of the Divine. I mistrust mine own judgment, and I fear me"—said the Prelate, whose gentle charity had won so many to religion—"I greatly fear me, I am far from being Christlike. But I recognise the spirit of self-crucifixion, when I see it. And the warning that I give you, is not because I forget, but because I remember."

As the last words fell in solemn utterance from the Bishop's lips, the silence without was broken by the loud clanging of the outer bell; followed by hurrying feet in the courtyard below, the flare of torches shining up upon the casements, and the unbarring of the gate.

"It must be close on midnight," said Hugh d'Argent; "a strange hour for an arrival."

The banqueting hall, on the upper floor of the Palace, had casements at the extreme end, facing the door, which gave upon the courtyard.

The Knight walked over to one of these casements standing open, kneeled upon the high window-seat, and looked down.

"A horseman has ridden in," he said, "and ridden fast. His steed is flecked with foam, and stands with spreading nostrils, panting. . . . The rider has passed within. . . . Your men, my lord, are leading away the steed." The Knight returned to his place. "Brave beast! Methinks they would do well to mix his warm mash with ale."

Symon of Worcester made no reply.

He sat erect, with folded hands, a slight flush upon his cheeks, listening for footsteps which must be drawing near.

They came.

The door, at the far end of the hall, opened.

The gaunt Chaplain stood in the archway, making obeisance.

"Well?" said the Bishop, dispensing with the usual formalities.

"My lord, your messenger has returned, and requests an audience without delay."

"Bid him enter," said the Bishop, gripping the arms of the chair, and leaning forward.

The Chaplain, half-turning, beckoned with uplifted hand; then stood aside, as rapid feet approached.

A young man, clad in a brown riding-suit, dusty and travel-stained, appeared in the doorway. Not pausing for any monkish salutations or genuflections, he strode some half-dozen paces up the hall; then swung off his hat, stopped short with his spurs together, and bowed in soldierly fashion toward the great fireplace.

Thrusting his hand into his breast, he drew out a packet, heavily sealed.

"I bring from Rome," he said—and his voice rang through the chamber—"for my Lord Bishop of Worcester, a letter from His Holiness the Pope."

The Knight sprang to his feet. The Bishop rose, a noble figure in crimson and gold, and the dignity of his high office straightway enveloped him.

In complete silence, he stretched out his right hand for the letter.

The dusty traveller came forward quickly, knelt at the Bishop's feet, and placed the missive in his hands.

As the Bishop lifted the Pope's letter and, stooping his head, kissed the papal seal, the Knight kneeled on one knee, his hand upon his sword-hilt, his eyes bent on the ground.

So for a moment there was silence. The sovereignty of Rome, stretching a mighty arm across the seas, asserted its power in the English hall.

Then the Bishop placed the letter upon a small table at his right hand, seated himself, and signed to both men to rise.

"How has it fared with you, Roger?" he asked, kindly.

"Am I in time, Reverend Father?" exclaimed the youth, eagerly. "I acted on your orders. No expense was spared. I chartered the best vessel I could find, and had set sail within an hour of galloping into the port. We made a good passage, and being fortunate in securing relays of horses along the route, I was in Rome twenty-four hours sooner than we had reckoned. I rode in at sunset; and, your name and seal passing me on everywhere, your letter, my lord, was in the Holy Father's hands ere the glow had faded from the distant hills.