The Bishop laid his hand upon the Knight's bowed head. "My son," he said, "of all the women I have known, thy gentle mother bore the most beautiful and saintly character. I would there were more such as she, in our British homes."

"Father," said Hugh, brokenly, "knew you how much she had to bear? My father's fierce feuds with all, shut her up at last to utter loneliness. His anger against Holy Church and his contempt of Her priests, cost my mother the comfort of your visits. His life-long quarrel with Earl Eustace de Norelle caused that our families, though dwelling within a three hours' ride, were allowed no intercourse. Never did I enter Castle Norelle until I rode up from the South, with a message for Mora from the King. And, to this day, Mora has never been within the courtyard of my home! When we were betrothed, I dared not tell my parents—though Earl Eustace and his Countess both were dead—lest my father's wrath might reach Mora, when I had gone. News of his death, chancing to me in a far-off land, brought me home. And truly, it was home indeed, at last! Peace and content, where always there had been turbulence and strain. Father, I tell you this because I know my gentle mother feared you did not understand, and that you may have thought her love for you had failed."

Symon of Worcester smiled.

"Dear lad," he said, "I understood."

"Ah why," cried Hugh, with sudden passion, "why should a woman's whole life be spoiled, and other lives be darkened and made sad, just by the angry, churlish, sullen whims of–"

"Hush, boy!" said the Bishop, quickly. "You speak of your father, and you name the Dead. Something dies in the Living, each time they speak evil of the Dead. I knew your father; and, though he loved me not, yet, to be honest, I must say this of him: Sir Hugo was a good man and true; upright, and a man of honour. He carried his shield untarnished. If he was feared by his friends, he was also feared by his foes. Brave he was and fearless. One thing he lacked; and often, alas, they who lack just one thing, lack all.

"Hugo d'Argent knew not love for his fellow-men. To be a man, was to earn his frown; all things human called forth his disdain. To view the same landscape, breathe the same air, in fact walk the same earth as he, was to stand in his way, and raise his ire. Yet in his harsh, vexed manner he loved his wife, and loved his little son. Nor had he any self-conceit. He realised in himself his own worst foe. Lest we fall into this snare, it is well daily to pray: 'O Lover of Mankind, grant unto me truly to love my fellow-men; to honour them, until they prove worthless; to trust them, until they prove faithless; and ever to expect better of them, than I expect of myself; to think better of them, than I think of myself.' Let us go through life, my son, searching for good in others, not for evil; we may miss the good, if we search not for it; the evil, alas, will find us, quite soon enough, unsought."

Suddenly Hugh lifted his head.

"Father," he said, "the starling! Mind you the starling with the broken wing, which you and I found in the woods and carried home; and you did set his wing, and tamed him, and taught him to say 'Hugh'? Each time I brought him food, you said: 'Hugh! Hugh!' And soon the starling, seeing me coming, also said: 'Hugh! Hugh!' Do you remember, Father?"

"I do remember," said the Bishop. "I see thee now, coming across the courtyard, bread and meat in thy hands—a little lad, bareheaded in the sunshine, glowing with pleasure because the starling ran to meet thee, shouting 'Hugh!'"

"Then listen, dear Father. (Ah, how often have I wished to tell you this!) Soon after you were gone, that starling rudely taught me a hard lesson. Gaining strength, one day he left the courtyard, ran through the buttery, and wandered in the garden. I followed, whistling and watching. It greatly delighted the bird to find himself on turf. There had been rain. The grass was wet. Presently a rash worm, gliding from its hole, adventured forth. The starling ran to the worm, calling it 'Hugh.' 'Hugh! Hugh!' he cried, and tugged it from the earth. 'Hugh! Hugh!' and pecked it, where helpless it lay squirming. Then, shouting 'Hugh!' once more, gobbled it down. I stood with heavy heart, for I had thought that starling loved me with a true, personal love, when he ran at my approach shouting my name. Yet now I knew it was the food I carried, he called 'Hugh'; it was the food, not me, he loved. Glad was I when, his wing grown strong, he flew away. It cut me to the heart to hear the worms, the grubs, the snails, the caterpillars, all called 'Hugh'!"

The Bishop smiled, then sighed. "Poor little eager heart," he said, "learning so hard a lesson, all alone! Yet is it a lesson, lad, sooner or later learned in sadness by all generous hearts. . . . And now, leaving the past, with all its memories, let us return to the present, and face the uncertain future. Also, dear Knight, I must ask you to remember, even when we are alone, that your old friend, Father Gervaise, in his brown habit, lies at the bottom of the ocean; yet that your new friend, Symon of Worcester, holds you and your interests very near his heart."

The Bishop put out his hand.

Hugh seized and kissed it, knowing this was his farewell to Father Gervaise.

Then he rose to his feet.

The Bishop said nothing; but an indefinable change came over him.

Again he extended his hand.

The Knight kneeled, and kissed the Bishop's ring.

"I thank you, my lord," he said, "for your great trust in me. I will not prove unworthy." With this he went back to his seat.

The Bishop, lifting the faggot-fork, carefully stirred and built up the logs.

"What were we saying, my dear Knight, when we strayed into a side issue? Ah, I remember! I was telling you of my appointment to the See of Worcester, and my belief that the Prioress failed to recognise in me, one she had known long years before."

The Bishop put by the faggot-fork and turned from the fire.

"I found the promise of that radiant girlhood more than fulfilled. She was changed; she shewed obvious signs of having passed through the furnace; but pure gold can stand the fire. The strength of purpose, the noble outlook upon life, the gracious tenderness for others, had matured and developed. Even the necessary restrictions of monastic life could not modify the grand lines—both mental, and physical—on which Nature had moulded her.

"I endeavoured to think no thoughts concerning her, other than should be thought of a holy lady who has taken vows of celibacy. Yet, seeing her so fitted to have made house home for a man, helping him upward, and to have been the mother of a fine race of sons and daughters, I felt it grievous that in leaving the world for a reason which in no sense could be considered a true vocation, she should have cut herself off from such powers and possibilities.

"So passed the years in the calm service of God and of the Church; yet always I seemed aware that a crisis would come, and that, when that crisis came, she would need me."

The Bishop paused and looked at the Knight.

Hugh's face was in shadow; but, as the Bishop looked at him, the rubies on his breast glittered in the firelight, as if some sudden thought had set him strongly quivering.

At sight of which, a flash of firm resolve, like the swift drawing of a sword, broke o'er the Bishop's calmness. It was quick and powerful; it seemed to divide asunder soul and spirit, joints and marrow, and to discern the thoughts and intents of the heart. And before that two-edged blade could sheathe itself again, swiftly the Bishop spoke.

"Therefore, my dear Hugh, when you arrived with your tale of wrong and treachery, all unconsciously to yourself, every word you spoke of your betrothed revealed her to the man who had loved her while you were yet a youth, with your spurs to win, and all life before you.

"I saw in your arrival, and in the strange tale you told, a wondrous chance for her of that fuller development of life for which I knew her to be so perfectly fitted.

"It had seemed indeed the irony of fate that, while I had fled and dwelt in exile lest my presence should hold her back from marriage, the treachery of others should have driven her into a life of celibacy.

"Therefore while, with my tacit consent, you went to work in your own way, I sent my messenger to Rome bearing to the Holy Father a full account of all, petitioning a dispensation from vows taken owing to deception, and asking leave to unite in the holy sacrament of marriage these long-sundered lovers, undertaking that no scandal should arise therefrom, either in the Nunnery or in the City of Worcester.

"As you have seen, my messenger this night returned; and we now find ourselves armed with the full sanction of His Holiness, providing the Prioress, of her own free will, desires to renounce the high position she has won in her holy calling, and to come to you."

The quiet voice ceased speaking.

The Knight rose slowly to his feet. At first he stood silent. Then he spoke with a calm dignity which proved him worthy of the Bishop's trust.

"I greatly honour you, my lord," he said; "and were our ages and conditions other than they are, so that we might fight for the woman we love, I should be proud to cross swords with you."

The Bishop sat looking into the fire. A faint smile flickered at the corners of the sensitive mouth. The fights he had fought for the woman he loved had been of sterner quality than the mere crossing of knightly swords.

Hugh d'Argent spoke again.

"Profoundly do I thank you, Reverend Father, for all that you have done; and even more, for that which you did not do. It was six years after her first sojourn at the Court that I met Mora, loved her, and won her; and well I know that the sweet love she gave to me was a love from which no man had brushed the bloom."

Hugh paused.

Those kindly and very luminous eyes were still bent upon the fire. Was the Bishop finding it hard to face the fact that his life's secret had now, by his own act, passed into the keeping of another?

Hugh moved a pace nearer.

"And deeply do I love you, Reverend Father, for your wondrous goodness to her, and—for her sake—to me. And I pray heaven," added Hugh d'Argent simply, "that if she come to me, she may never know that she once won the love of so greatly better a man than he who won hers."

With which the Knight dropped upon one knee, and humbly kissed the hem of the Bishop's robe.

Symon of Worcester was greatly moved.

"My son," he said, "we are at one in desiring her happiness and highest good. For the rest, God, and her own pure heart, must guide her feet into the way of peace."

The Bishop rose, and went to the casement.

"The aurora breaks in the east. The dawn is near. Come with me, Hugh, to the chapel. We pray for His Holiness, giving thanks for his gracious letter and mandate; we praise for the safe return of my messenger. But we will also offer up devout petition that the Prioress may have clear light at this parting of the ways, and that our enterprise may be brought to a happy conclusion."

So, presently, in the dimly-lighted chapel, the Knight knelt alone; while, away at the high altar, remote, wrapt, absorbed in the supreme act of his priestly office, stood the Bishop, celebrating mass.

Yet one anxious prayer ascended from the hearts of both.

And, in the pale dawn of that new day, the woman for whom both the Knight and the Bishop prayed, kept vigil in her cell, before the shrine of the Madonna.

"Blessèd Virgin," she said; "thou who lovedst Saint Joseph, being betrothed to him, yet didst keep thyself an holy shrine consecrate to the Lord and His need of thee—oh, grant unto me strength to put from me this constant torment at the thought of his sufferings to whom once I gave my troth, and to reconsecrate myself wholly to the service of my Lord."

Thus these three knelt, as a new day dawned.

And the Knight prayed: "Give her to me!"

And the Bishop prayed: "Guide her feet into the way of peace."

And the Prioress, with hands crossed upon her breast and eyes uplifted, said: "Cause me to know the way wherein I should walk; for I lift up my soul unto Thee."

The silver streaks of the aurora paled before soaring shafts of gold, bright heralds of the rising sun.

Then from the Convent garden trilled softly the first notes, poignant but passing sweet, of the robin's song.

CHAPTER XXV
MARY ANTONY RECEIVES THE BISHOP

The morning after the return from Rome of the Bishop's messenger, the old lay-sister, Mary Antony, chanced to be crossing the Convent courtyard, when there came a loud knocking on the outer gates.

Mary Antony, hastening, thrust aside the buxom porteress, and herself opened the guichet, and looked out.

The Lord Bishop, mounted upon his white palfrey, waited without;

Brother Philip in attendance.

What a bewildering surprise! What a fortunate thing, thought old Antony, that she should chance to be there to deal with such an emergency.

Never did the Bishop visit the Nunnery, without sending a messenger beforehand to know whether the Prioress could see him, stating the exact hour of his proposed arrival; so that, when the great doors were flung wide and the Bishop rode into the courtyard, the Prioress would be standing at the top of the steps to receive him; Mother Sub-Prioress in attendance in the background; the other holy ladies upon their knees within the entrance; Mary Antony, well out of sight, yet where peeping was possible, because she loved to see the Reverend Mother kneel and kiss the Bishop's ring, rising to her feet again without pause, making of the whole movement one graceful, deep obeisance. After which, Mary Antony, still peeping, greatly loved to see the Prioress mount the wide, stone staircase with the Bishop; each shewing a courtly deference to the other.

(One of Mary Antony's most exalted dreams of heaven, was of a place where she should sit upon a jasper seat and see the Reverend Mother and the great Lord Bishop mounting together interminable flights of golden stairs; while Mother Sub-Prioress and Sister Mary Rebecca looked through black bars, somewhere down below, whence they would have a good view of Mary Antony on her jasper seat, but no glimpse of the golden stairs or of the radiant figures which she watched ascending.)

So much for the usual visits of the Bishop, when everything was in readiness for his reception.

But now, all unexpected, the Bishop waited without the gate, and Mary Antony had to deal with this emergency.

Crying to the porteress to open wide, she hastened to the steps. . . . It was impossible to summon the Reverend Mother in time. . . . The Lord Bishop must not be kept waiting! . . . Even now the great doors were rolling back.

Mary Antony mounted the six steps; then turned in the doorway.

The Lord Bishop must be received. There was nobody else to do it. She would receive the Lord Bishop!

As she saw him riding in upon Icon, blessing the porteress as he passed, she remembered how she had ridden round the river meadow as the Bishop. Now she must play her part as the Prioress.

So it came to pass that, as he rode up to the door and dismounted, flinging his rein to Brother Philip, the Bishop found himself confronted by the queer little figure of the aged lay-sister, drawn up to its full height and obviously upheld by a sense of importance and dignity.

As the Bishop reached the entrance, she knelt and kissed his ring; then tried to rise quickly, failed, and clutching at his hand, exclaimed: "Devil take my old knee-joints!"

Never before had the Bishop been received with such a formula! Never had his ring been kissed by a lay-sister! But remembering the scene when old Antony rode round the field upon Icon, he understood that she now was playing the part of Prioress.

"Good-day, worthy Mother," he said, as he raised her. "The spirit is willing I know, but, in your case, the knee-joints are weak. But no wonder, for they have done you long service. Why, I get up slowly from kneeling, yet my knees are thirty years younger than yours. . . . Nay I will not mount to the Reverend Mother's chamber until you acquaint her of my arrival. Take me round to the garden, and there let me wait in the shade, while you seek her."

Greatly elated at the success of her effort, and emboldened by his charming condescension, Mary Antony led the Bishop through the rose-arch; and, casting a furtive glance at his face from behind the curtain of her veil, ventured to hope there was naught afoot which could bring trouble or care to the Reverend Mother.

Mary Antony was trotting beside the Bishop, down the long walk between the yew hedges, when she gave vent to this anxious question.

At once the Bishop slackened speed.

"Not so fast, Sister Antony," he said. "I pray you to remember mine age, and to moderate your pace. Why should you expect trouble or anxiety for the Reverend Mother?"

"Nay," said Mary Antony, "I expect naught; I saw naught; I heard naught! 'Twas all mine own mistake, counting with my peas. I told the Reverend Mother so, and set her mind at rest by carrying up six peas, saying that I had found six and not five in my wallet."

"Let us pause," said the Bishop, "and look at this lily. How lovely are its petals. How tall and white it shews against the hedge. Why did you need to set the Reverend Mother's mind at rest, Sister Antony, by carrying up six peas?"

"Because," said the old lay-sister, "when I had counted as they returned, the twenty holy ladies who had gone to Vespers, yet another passed making twenty-one. Upon which I ran and reported to the Reverend Mother, saying in my folly, that I feared the twenty-first was Sister Agatha, returned to walk amongst the Living, she being over fifty years numbered with the Dead. Yet many a time, just before dawn, have I heard her rapping on the cloister door; aye, many a time—tap! tap! tap! But what good would there be in opening to a poor lady you helped thrust into her shroud, nigh upon sixty years before? So 'Tap away!' says I; 'tap away, Sister Agatha! Try Saint Peter at the gates of Paradise. Old Antony knows better than to let you in.'"

"What said the Reverend Mother when you reported on a twenty-first White Lady?" asked the Bishop.

"Reverend Mother bid me begone, while she herself dealt with the wraith of Sister Agatha."

"And why did you not go?" asked the Bishop, quietly.

Completely taken aback, Mary Antony's ready tongue failed her. She stood stock still and stared at the Bishop. Her gums began to rattle and she clapped her knuckles against them, horror and dismay in her eyes.

The Bishop looked searchingly into the frightened old face, and there read all he wanted to know. Then he smiled; and, taking her gently by the arm, paced on between the yew hedges.

"Sister Antony," he said, and the low tones of his voice fell like quiet music upon old Antony's perturbed spirit; "you and I, dear Sister Antony, love the Reverend Mother so truly and so faithfully, that there is nothing we would not do, to save her a moment's pain. We know how noble and how good she is; and that she will always decide aright, and follow in the footsteps of our blessèd Lady and all the holy saints. But others there are, who do not love her as we love her, or know her as we know her; and they might judge her wrongly. Therefore we must tell to none, that which we know—how the Reverend Mother, alone, dealt with that visitor, who was not the wraith of Sister Agatha."

Mary Antony peeped up at the Bishop. A light of great joy was on her face. Her eyes had lost their look of terror, and began to twinkle cunningly.

"I know naught," she said. "I saw naught; I heard naught."

The Bishop smiled.

"How many peas were left in your wallet, Sister Antony ?"

"Five," chuckled Mary Antony.

"Why did you shew six to the Reverend Mother?"

"To set her mind at rest," whispered the old lay-sister.

"To cause her to think that you had heard naught, seen naught, and knew naught?"

Mary Antony nodded, chuckling again.

"Faithful old heart!" said the Bishop. "What gave thee this thought?"

"Our blessèd Lady, in answer to her petition, sharpened the wits of old Antony."

The Bishop sighed. "May our blessèd Lady keep them sharp," he murmured, half aloud.