THE BISHOP PUTS ON HIS BIRETTA
Symon, Lord Bishop of Worcester, having received a letter from the
Prioress of the White Ladies, praying him for an interview at his
leisure, sent back at once a most courtly and gracious answer, that he
would that same day give himself the pleasure of visiting the Reverend
Mother, at the Nunnery, an hour after Vespers.
The great gates were thrown open, and the Bishop rode his palfrey into
the courtyard.
The Prioress herself met him at the door and, kneeling, kissed his
ring; then led him through the lower hall, where the nuns knelt to
receive his blessing, and up the wide staircase, to the privacy of her
own cell.
There she presently unfolded to him the history of her difficulties
with that wayward little nun, Sister Mary Seraphine.
"But the point which I chiefly desire to lay before you, Reverend
Father," concluded the Prioress, "is this: If the neighing of a palfrey
calls more loudly to her than the voice of God; if her mind is still
set upon the things of the world; if she professed without a true
vocation, merely because she wished to be the central figure of a great
ceremony, yet was all the while expecting a man to intervene and carry
her off; if all this bespeaks her true state of heart, then to my mind
there comes the question: Is she doing good, either to herself or to
others, by belonging to our Order? Would she not be better away?
"My lord, I fear I greatly shock you by naming such a possibility. But
truly I am pursued by the remembrance of that young thing, beating the
floor with her hands, and singing a mournful dirge about the crimson
trappings of her palfrey. And, alas! when I reasoned with her and
exhorted, she broke out, as I have told you, Reverend Father, into
grievous blasphemy--for which she was severely dealt with by Mother
Sub-Prioress, and has since been outwardly amenable to rules and
discipline.
"But, though she may outwardly conform, how about her inward state?
Well I know that our vows are lifelong vows; all who belong to our
Order are wedded to Heaven; we are thankful to know that the calm of
the Cloister shall be exchanged only for the greater peace of Paradise.
But, supposing a young heart has mistaken its vocation; supposing the
voice of an earthly lover calls when it is too late; would it seem
right or possible to you, Reverend Father, to grant any sort of
absolution from the vows; tacitly to allow the opening of the cage
door, that the little foolish bird might, if it wished, escape into the
liberty for which it chafes and sighs?"
The Bishop sat in the Spanish chair, drawn up near the oriel window, so
that he could either gaze at the glories of the distant sunset, or, by
slightly turning his head, look on the beautiful but grave face of the
Prioress, seated before him.
While she was speaking he watched her keenly, with those bright
searching eyes, so much more youthful than aught else about him. But
now that he must make reply, he looked away to the sunset.
The light shone on the plain gold cross at his breast, and on the
violet silk of his cassock. His face, against the background of the
black Spanish wood, looked strangely white and thin; strong in contour,
with a virile strength; in expression, sensitive as a woman's. He had
removed his biretta, and placed it upon the table. His silvery hair
rolled back from his forehead in silky waves. His was the look of the
saint and the scholar, almost of the mystic--save for the tender humour
in those keen blue eyes, gleaming like beacon lights from beneath the
level eyebrows; eyes which had won the confidence of many a man who
else had not dared unfold his very human story, to one of such saintly
aspect as Symon, Bishop of Worcester. They were turned toward the
sunset, as he made answer to the Prioress.
"The little foolish bird," said the Bishop--and he spoke in that gently
musing tone, which conveys to the mind of the hearer a sense of
infinite leisure in which to weigh and consider the subject in
hand--"The little foolish bird might soon wish herself back in the
safety of the cage. On such as she, the cruel hawks of life do love to
prey. Absorbed in the contemplation of her own charms, she sees not,
until too late, the dangers which surround her. Such little foolish
birds, my daughter, are best in the safe shelter of the cloister.
Moreover, of what value are they in the world? None. If Popinjays wed
them, they do but hatch out broods of foolish little Popinjays. If
true men, caught by mere surface beauty, wed them, it can mean naught
save heartbreak and sorrow, and deterioration of the race. Women of
finer mould"--for an instant the Bishop's eyes strayed from the
sunset--"are needed, to be the mothers of the men who, in the years to
come, are to make England great. Nay, rather than let one escape, I
would shut up all the little foolish birds in a Nunnery, with our
excellent Sub-Prioress to administer necessary discipline."
With his elbows resting upon the arms of the chair, the Bishop put his
fingers together, so that the tips met most precisely; then bent his
lips to them, and looked at the Prioress.
She, troubled and sick at heart, lifting deep pools of silent misery,
met the merry twinkle in the Bishop's eyes, and sat astonished. What
was it like? Why it was like the song of a robin, perched on a frosty
bough, on Christmas morning! It was so young and gay; so jocund, and
so hopeful.
Meeting it, the Prioress realised fully, what she had many times
half-divined, that the revered and reverend Prelate sitting opposite,
for all his robes and dignity, his panoply of Church and State, had the
heart of a merry schoolboy out on a holiday.
For the moment she felt much older than the Bishop, infinitely sadder;
more travel-worn and worldly-wise.
Then she looked at the silver hair; the firm mouth, with a shrewd curve
at either corner; the thoughtful brow.
And then she looked at the Bishop's ring.
The Bishop wore a remarkable ring; not a signet, but a large gem of
great value, beautifully cut in many facets, and clear set in massive
gold. This precious stone, said to be a chrysoprasus, had been given
to the Bishop by a Russian prince, in acknowledgment of a great service
rendered him when he came on pilgrimage to Rome. The rarity of these
gems arose partly from the fact that the sovereigns of Russia had
decreed that they should be held exclusively for royal ornament,
forbidding their use or purchase by people of lesser degree.
But its beauty and its rarity were not the only qualities of the
precious stone in the Bishop's ring. The strangest thing about it was
that its colour varied, according to the Bishop's mood and surroundings.
When the Prioress looked up and met the gay twinkle, the stone in the
Bishop's ring was a heavenly blue, the colour of forget-me-nots beside
a meadow brook, or the clear azure of the sky above a rosy sunset. But
presently he passed his hand over his eyes, as if to shut out some
bright vision, and to turn his mind to more sober thought; and, at that
moment, the stone in his ring gleamed a pale opal, threaded with
flashes of green.
The Prioress returned to the subject, with studied seriousness.
"I did not suppose, Reverend Father, that it was to be of any advantage
to the world, that Sister Seraphine should return to it. The advantage
was to be to her, and also to this whole Community, well rid of the
presence of one who finds our sacred exercises irksome; our beautiful
Nunnery, a prison; her cell, a living tomb. She cries out for life.
'I want to live,' she said, 'I am young, I am gay, I am beautiful! I
want life.'"
"To such as Sister Seraphine," remarked the Bishop, gravely, "life is
but a mirror which reflects themselves. Other forms and faces may flit
by, in the background; dimly seen, scarcely noticed. There is but one
face and form occupying the entire foreground. Life is, to such, the
mirror which ministers to vanity. Should a husband appear in the
picture, he is soon relegated to the background, receiving only
occasional glances over the shoulder. If children dance into the field
of vision, they are petulantly driven elsewhere. Tell me? Did Sister
Seraphine's desire for life include any expression of the desire to
give life?"
Involuntarily the Prioress glanced at the sweet Babe upon the Virgin's
knees.
"No," she said, very low.
"I thought not," said the Bishop. "Self-centred, shallow natures are
not capable of the sublime passion for motherhood; partly, no doubt,
because they themselves possess no life worth passing on."
The Prioress rose quickly and, moving to the window, flung open a
second casement. It was imperative, at that moment, to hide her face;
for the uncontrollable flood of emotion at her heart, could scarce fail
to send a tell-tale wave to disturb the calm of her countenance.
Whereupon the Bishop turned, to see at what the Prioress had glanced
before answering his question.
"No," he mused, as she resumed her seat, his eyes upon the tree-tops
beyond the casement, "the Seraphines have not the instinct of
motherhood. And the future greatness of our race depends upon those
noble women who are able to pass on to their sons and daughters a life
which is true, and brave, and worthy; a life whose foundation is
self-sacrifice, whose cornerstone is loyalty, and from whose summit
waves the banner of unsullied love of hearth and home.
"A woman with the true instinct of motherhood cannot see a little child
without yearning to clasp it to her bosom. When she finds her mate,
she thinks more of being the mother of his children than the object of
his devotion, because the Self in her is subservient to the maternal
instinct for self-sacrifice. These women are pure as snow, and they
hold their men to the highest and the best. Such women are needed in
the world. Our Lady knoweth, I speak not lightly, unadvisedly nor
wantonly; but were Seraphine such an one as this, I should say; 'Leave
the door on the latch. Without permission, yet without reproach--let
her go.'"
"Were Seraphine such an one as that, my lord," said the Prioress,
firmly, "then would there be no question of her going. If the
cornerstone of character be loyalty, the very essential of loyalty is
the keeping of vows."
"Quite so," murmured the Bishop; "undoubtedly, my daughter. Unless, by
some strange fatality, those vows were made under a total
misapprehension. You tell me Sister Seraphine expected a man to
intervene?"
The Bishop sat up, of a sudden keenly alert. His eyes, no longer
humorous and tender, became searching and bright--young still, but with
the fire of youth, rather than its merriment. As he leaned forward in
his chair, his hands gripped his knees. Looking at his ring the
Prioress saw the stone the colour of red wine.
"What if, after all, I can help you in this," he said. "What if I can
throw light upon the whole situation, and find a cause for the little
foolish bird's restless condition, proving to you that she may have
heard something more than the mere neighing of a palfrey! Listen!
"A Knight arrived in this city, rather more than a month ago; a very
noble Knight, splendid to look upon; one of our bravest Crusaders. He
arrived here in sore anguish of heart. His betrothed had been taken
from him during his absence from England, waging war against the Turks
in Palestine--taken from him by a most dastardly and heartless plot.
He made many inquiries concerning this Nunnery and Order, rode north
again on urgent business, but returned, with a large retinue, five days
since."
The Prioress did not stir. She maintained her quiet posture as an
attentive listener. But her face grew as white as her wimple, and she
folded her hands to steady their trembling.
But the Bishop, now eagerly launched, had no interest in pallor, or
possible palsy. His vigorous words cut the calm atmosphere. The gem
on his finger sparkled like red wine in a goblet.
"I knew him of old," he said; "knew him as a high-spirited lad, yet
loving, and much belovèd. He came to me, in his grief, distraught with
anguish of heart, and told me this tale of treachery and wrong. Never
did I hear of such a network of evil device, such a tragedy of loving
hearts sundered. And when at last he returned to this land, he found
that the girl whom he had thought false, thinking him so, had entered a
Nunnery. Also he seemed convinced that she was to be found among our
White Ladies of Worcester. Now tell me, dear Prioress, think you she
could be Seraphine?"
The Prioress smiled; and truly it was a very creditable smile for a
face which might have been carved in marble.
"From my knowledge of Sister Mary Seraphine," she said, "it seems
unlikely that for loss of her, so noble a Knight as you describe would
be distraught with anguish of heart."
"Nay, there I do not agree," said the Bishop. "It is ever opposites
which attract. The tall wed the short; the stout, the lean; the dark,
the fair; the grave, the gay. Wherefore my stern Crusader may be
breaking his heart for your foolish little bird."
"I do not think so," said the Prioress, shortly; then hastened to add:
"Not that I would presume to differ from you, Reverend Father.
Doubtless you are better versed in such matters than I. But--if it be
as you suppose--what measures do you suggest? How am I to deal with
Sister Mary Seraphine?"
The Bishop leaned forward and whispered, though not another soul was
within hearing; but at this juncture in the conversation, a whisper was
both dramatic and effective. Also, when he leaned forward, he could
almost hear the angry beating of the heart of the Prioress.
The Bishop held the Prioress in high regard, and loved not to distress
her. But he did not think it right that a woman should have such
complete mastery over herself, and therefore over others. A fine
quality in a man, may be a blemish in a woman. For which reason the
Bishop leaned forward and whispered.
"Let her fly, my daughter; let her fly. If his arms await her, she
will not have far to go, nor many dangers to face. Her lover will know
how to guard his own."
"My lord," said the Prioress, now flushed with anger, "you amaze me!
Am I to understand that you would have me open the Convent door, so
that a renegade nun may escape to her lover? Or perhaps, my lord, it
would better meet your ideas if I bid the porteress stand wide the
great gates, so that this high-spirited Knight may ride in and carry
off the nun he desires, in sight of all! My Lord Bishop! You rule in
Worcester and in the cities of the diocese. But _I_ rule in this
Nunnery; and while I rule here, such a thing as this shall never be."
The Prioress flashed and quivered; rose to her feet and towered; flung
her arms wide, and paced the floor.
"The Knight has bewitched you, my lord," she said. "You forget the
rules of our holy Church. You fail in your trust toward the women who
look to you as their spiritual Father and guide."
The Prioress walked up and down the cell, and each time she passed her
chair she wheeled, and gripping the back with her strong fingers, shook
it. Not being able to shake the Bishop, she needs must shake something.
"You amaze me!" she said. "Truly, my lord, you amaze me!"
The Bishop put on his biretta.
Only once before, in his eventful life, had he made a woman as angry as
this. Very young he was, then; and the angry woman had seized him by
his hair.
The Bishop did not really think the Prioress would do this; but it
amused him to fancy he was afraid, and to put on his biretta.
Then, as he leaned back in his chair, and his finger tips met, the
stone in his ring was blue again, and his eyes were more than ever the
eyes of a merry schoolboy out on a holiday.
Yet, presently, he sought to calm the tempest he had raised.
"My daughter," he said, "I did but agree to that which you yourself
suggested. Did you not ask whether it would seem to me right or
possible to grant absolution from her vows, tacitly to allow the
opening of the cage door, that the little foolish bird might, if she
wished it, escape? Why this exceeding indignation, when I do but yield
to your arguments and fall in with your suggestions?"
"I did not suggest that a lover's arms were awaiting one of my nuns,"
said the angry Prioress.
"You did not mention arms," replied the Bishop, gently; "but you most
explicitly mentioned a voice. 'Supposing the voice of an earthly lover
calls,' you said. And--having admitted that I am better versed in such
matters than you--you must forgive me, dear Prioress, if I amaze you
further by acquainting you with the undoubted fact, recognised, in the
outer world, as beyond dispute, that when a lover's _voice_ calls, a
lover's _arms_ are likely to be waiting. Earthly lovers, my daughter,
by no means resemble those charming cherubs which you may have observed
on the carved woodwork in our Cathedral. Otherwise you might have just
a voice, flanked by seraphic wings. Some such fanciful creation must
have been in your mind for Sister Mary Seraphine; for, until I made
mention of the noble Knight who had arrived in Worcester distraught
with anguish of heart by reason of his loss, you had decided leanings
toward tacitly allowing flight. Therefore it was not the fact of the
broken vows, but the idea of Seraphine wedded to the brave Crusader,
which so greatly roused your ire."
The Prioress stood silent. Her hot anger cooled, enveloped in the
chill mantle of self-revelation and self-scorn.
It seemed to her that the gentle words of the Bishop indeed expressed
the truth far more correctly than he knew.
The thought of Hugh, consoling himself with some foolish, vain,
unworthy, little Seraphine, had stung with intolerable pain.
Yet, how should she, the cause of his despair, begrudge him any comfort
he might find in the love of another?
Then, suddenly, the Prioress knelt at the feet of the Bishop.
"Forgive me, most Reverend Father," she said. "I did wrong to be
angry."
Symon of Worcester extended his hand, and the Prioress kissed the ring.
As she withdrew her lips from the precious stone, she saw it blood-red
and sparkling, as the juice of purple grapes in a goblet.
The Bishop laid his biretta once more upon the table, and smiled very
tenderly on the Prioress, as he motioned her to rise from her knees and
to resume her seat.
"You did right to be angry, my daughter," he said. "You were not angry
with me, nor with the brave Crusader, nor with the foolish Seraphine.
Your anger, all unconsciously, was aroused by a system, a method of
life which is contrary to Nature, and therefore surely at variance with
the will of God. I have long had my doubts concerning these vows of
perpetual celibacy for women. For men, it is different. The creative
powers in a man, if denied their natural functions, stir him to great
enterprise, move him to beget fine phantasies, creations of his brain,
children of his intellect. If he stamp not his image on brave sons and
fair daughters, he leaves his mark on life in many other ways, both
brave and fair. But it is not so with woman; in the very nature of
things it cannot be. Methinks these Nunneries would serve a better
purpose were they schools from which to send women forth into the world
to be good wives and mothers, rather than store-houses filled with sad
samples of Nature's great purposes deliberately unfulfilled."
The merry schoolboy look had vanished. The Bishop's eyes were stern
and searching; yet he looked not on the Prioress as he spoke.
Amazement was writ larger than ever, on her face; but she held herself
well under control.
"Such views, my lord, if freely expressed and adopted, would change the
entire monastic system."
"I know it," said the Bishop. "And I would not express them, saving to
you and to one other, to whom I also talk freely. But the older I
grow, the more clearly do I see that systems are man-made, and
therefore often mistaken, injurious, pernicious. But Nature is Divine.
Those who live in close touch with Nature, who rule their lives by
Nature's rules, do not stray far from the Divine plan of the Creator.
But when man takes upon himself to say 'Thou shalt,' or 'Thou shalt
not,' quickly confusion enters. A false premise becomes the
starting-point; and the goal, if it stop short of perdition, is, at
best, folly and failure."
The Bishop paused.
The eyes of the woman before him were dark with sorrow, regret, and the
dawning of a great fear. Presently she spoke.
"To say these things here, my lord, is to say them too late."
"It is never too late," replied Symon of Worcester. "'Too late' tolls
the knell of the coward heart. If we find out a mistake while we yet
walk the earth where we made it, it is not too late to amend it."
"Think you so, Reverend Father? Then what do you counsel me to
do--with Seraphine?"
"Speak to her gently, and with great care and prudence. Say to her
much of that which you have said to me, and a little of that which I
have said to you, but expressed in such manner as will be suited to a
foolish mind. You and I can hurl bricks at one another, my dear
Prioress, and be the better for the exercise. But we must not fling at
little Seraphine aught harder than a pillow of down. Empty heads, like
empty eggshells, are soon broken. Tell her you have consulted me
concerning her desire to return to the world; and that I, being
lenient, and holding somewhat wider views on this subject than the
majority of prelates, also being well acquainted with the mind of His
Holiness the Pope concerning those who embrace the religious life for
reasons other than a true vocation, have promised to arrange the matter
of a dispensation. But add that there must be no possibility of any
scandal connected with the Nunnery. Since the Lady Wulgeova, mother of
Bishop Wulstan, of blessèd memory, took the veil here a century and a
half ago, this house has ever been above reproach. You will tacitly
allow her to slip away; and, once away, I will set matters right for
her. But nothing must transpire which could stumble or scandalise the
other members of the Community. The peculiar circumstances which the
Knight made known to me--always, of course, without making any mention
of the name of Seraphine--can hardly have occurred in any other case.
It is not likely, for instance, that our worthy Sub-Prioress was torn
by treachery from the arms of a despairing lover; and she would
undoubtedly share your very limiting ideas of a lover's physical
qualities and requirements; possibly not even allowing him a voice.
"Now I happen to know that the Knight daily spends the hour of Vespers
in the Cathedral crypt, kneeling before the shrine of Saint Oswald
beside a stretcher whereon lies one of his men, much bandaged about the
head, swathed in linen, and covered with a cloak. The Knight has my
leave to lay the sick man before the holy relics, daily, for five days.
I asked of him what he expected would result from so doing. He made
answer: 'A great recovery and restoration.'"
The Bishop paused, as if meditating upon the words. Then he slowly
repeated them, taking evident pleasure in each syllable.
"A great recovery and restoration," said the Bishop, and smiled.
"Well? The blessèd relics can do much. They may avail to mend a
broken head. Could they mend a broken heart? I know not. That were,
of the two, the greater miracle."
The Bishop glanced at the Prioress.
Her face was averted.
"Well, my daughter, matters being as they are, you may inform Sister
Mary Seraphine that, should she chance to lose her way among the
hundred and forty-two columns, when passing through the crypt after
Vespers, she will find a Knight, who will doubtless know what to do
next. If he can contrive to take her safely from the Cathedral and out
of the Precincts, she will have to ride with him to Warwick, where a
priest will be in readiness to wed them. But it would be well that
Sister Mary Seraphine should have some practice in mounting and riding,
before she goes on so adventurous a journey. She may remember the
crimson trappings of her palfrey, and yet have forgotten how to sit
him. It is for us to make sure that the Knight's brave plans for the
safe capture of his lady, do not fail for lack of any help which we may
lawfully give."
The Bishop stretched out his hand and took up his biretta.
"When did the nuns last have a Play Day?" he asked.
"Not a month ago," replied the Prioress. "They made the hay in the
river meadow, and carried it themselves. They thought it rare sport."
The Bishop put on his biretta.
"Give them a Play Day, dear Prioress, in honour of my visit. Tell them
I asked that they should have it the day after to-morrow. I will then
send you my white palfrey, suitably caparisoned. Brother Philip, who
attends me when I ride, and who has the palfrey well controlled, shall
lead him in. The nuns can then ride in turns, in the river meadow; and
our little foolish bird can try her wings, before she attempts the long
flight from Worcester to Warwick."
The Bishop rose, crossed the cell, and knelt long, in prayer, before
the crucifix.
When he turned toward the door, the Prioress said: "I pray you, give me
your blessing, Reverend Father, before you go."
She knelt, and the Bishop extended his hand over her bowed head.
Expecting a Latin formula, she was almost startled when tender words,
in the English tongue, fell softly from the Bishop's lips.
"The Lord bless thee, and keep thee; and grant unto thee grace and
strength to choose and to do the harder part, when the harder part is
His will for thee."
After which: "_Benedictio Domini sit vobiscum_," said the Bishop; and
made the sign of the cross over the bowed head of the Prioress.