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.
"I was right royally entertained by Cardinal Ferrari; and, truth to tell, a soft couch and silken quilts were welcome, after many nights of rough lodging, in the wayside inns of Normandy and Italy. Moreover, having galloped ahead of time, I felt free to take a long night's repose.
"But next morning, soon after the pigeons began to coo and circle, I was called and bid to hasten. Then, while I broke my fast with many strange and tasty dishes, seated in a marble court, with fountains playing and vines o'erhanging, the Cardinal returned, he having been summoned already to the bedchamber of the Pope, where the reply of His Holiness lay, ready sealed.
"Whereupon, my lord, I lost no time in setting forth, picking up on my return journey each mount there where I had left it, until I galloped into the port where our vessel waited.
"Then, alas, came delay, and glad indeed was I, that I had not been tempted to linger in Rome; for the winds were contrary; some days passed before we could set sail; and when at last I prevailed upon the mariners to venture, a great storm caught us in mid-channel, threatening to rend the sails to ribbons and, lifting us high, hurl us all to perdition. Helpless and desperate, for the sailors had lost all control, I vowed that if the storm might abate and we come safe to harbour I would—when I succeed to my father's lands in Gloucestershire—give to the worthy Abbot of an Abbey adjoining our estate, a meadow, concerning which he and his monks have long broken the tenth commandment and other commands as well, a trout stream running through it, and the dearest delight of the Abbot being fat trout for supper; and of the monks, to lie on their bellies tickling the trout as they hide in the cool holes under the banks of the stream. But when my father finds the monks thus poaching, he comes up behind them, and up they get quickly—or try to! So, in mid-channel, remembering my sins, I remembered running to tell my father that if he came quickly he would find the good Brothers flat on their bellies, sleeves rolled back, heads hanging over the water, toes well tucked into the turf, deeply intent upon tickling. Then I would run by a short cut, hide in the hazels, and watch while my father stalked up through the meadow, caught and belaboured the poachers. My derisive young laughter seemed now to howl and shriek through the rigging. So I vowed that if the storm abated and we came safe to port, the monks should be given that meadow. Upon which the storm did abate, and to port we came—and what my father will say, I know not! Fearing vexation to you, my lord, from this untoward delay, on landing I rode as fast as mine own good horse could carry me. Am I in time?"
The Bishop smiled as he looked into the blue eyes and open countenance of young Roger de Berchelai, a youth wholly devoted to his service. Here was another who remembered in pictures, and Symon of Worcester loved the gallop, and rush, and breeze of the sea, which had swept through the chamber, in the eager young voice of his envoy.
"Yes, my son," said the Bishop. "You have returned, not merely in time, but with two days to spare. Was there ever fleeter messenger! Indeed my choice was well made and my trust well placed. Now you must sup and then take a much-needed rest, dear lad; and to-morrow tell me if you had need to spend more than I gave you."
Raising his voice, the Bishop called his Chaplain; whereupon that sinister figure at once appeared in the doorway.
The Bishop gave orders concerning the entertaining of the young Esquire of Berchelai; then added; "And let the chapel be lighted, Father Benedict. So soon as the aurora appears in the east, I shall celebrate mass, in thanksgiving for the blessing of a letter from the Holy Father, and for the safe return of my messenger. I shall not need your presence nor that of any of the brethren, save those whose watch it chances to be. . . . Benedicite."
"Deus," responded Father Benedict, bowing low.
Young Roger, gay and glad, knelt and kissed the Bishop's ring; then, rising, flung back a strand of fair hair which fell over his forehead, and said: "A bath, my lord, would be even more welcome than supper and bed. It shames me to have come in such travel-stained plight into your presence, and that of this noble knight," with a bow to Hugh d'Argent.
"Nay," said Hugh, smiling in friendly response. "Travel-stains gained in such fashion, are more to be desired than silks and fine linen. I would I could go to rest this night knowing I had accomplished as much."
"Go and have thy bath, boy," said the Bishop. "This will give my monks time to tickle, catch, and cook, trout for thy supper! Ah, thou young rascal! But that field is Corban, remember. Sup well, rest well, and the blessing of the Lord be with thee."
The brown riding-suit vanished through the archway.
Father Benedict's lean hand pulled the door to.
The Bishop and the Knight were once more alone.