SO MUCH FOR SERAPHINE!
A sense of peace fell upon the banqueting hall, with the closing of the
door. All unrest and suspicion seemed to have departed. An atmosphere
of confidence and serenity pervaded the great chamber. It was in the
Bishop's smile, as he turned to the Knight.
"At length the time has come when we may talk freely; and truly, my
son, we have much to say."
The Knight glanced round the spacious hall, and his look implied that
he would prefer to talk in a smaller chamber.
"Nay, then," said the Bishop. "No situation can be better for a
private conversation than the very centre of a very large room. Have
you not heard it said that walls have ears? Well, in a small room,
they may use them to some purpose. But here, we sit so far removed
from the walls that, strain their ears as they may, they will hear
nothing; even the very key-hole, opening wide its naughty eye, will see
naught, neither will the adjacent ear hear anything. We may speak
freely."
The Bishop, signing to the Knight to help himself to fruit, moved the
wine toward him. At his own right hand stood a Venetian flagon and
goblet of ruby glass, ornamented with vine leaves and clusters of
grapes. The Bishop drank only from this flagon, pouring its contents
himself into the goblet which he held to the light before he drank from
it, enjoying the rich glow of colour, and the beauty of the engraving.
His guests sometimes wondered what specially choice kind of wine the
Bishop kept for his own, exclusive use. If they asked, he told them.
"The kind used at the marriage feast at Cana in Galilee, when the
supply of an inferior quality had failed. This, my friends, is pure
water, wholesome, refreshing, and not costly. I drink it from glass
which gives to it the colour of the juice of the grape, partly in order
that my guests may not feel chilled in their own enjoyment of more gay
and luscious beverage; partly because I enjoy the emblem.
"The gifts of circumstance, life, and nature, vary, not so much in
themselves, as in the human vessels which contain them. If the heart
be a ruby goblet, the humblest form of pure love filling it, will
assume the rich tint and fervour of romance. If the mind be, in
itself, a thing of vivid tints and glowing colours, the dullest thought
within it will take on a lustre, a sparkle, a glow of brilliancy.
Thus, whensoever men or matters seem to me dull or wearisome, to myself
I say: 'Symon! Thou art this day, thyself, a pewter pot.'"
Then the Bishop would fill up his goblet and hold it to the light.
"Aye, the best wine!" he would say. "'Thou hast kept the best wine
until now.' The water of earth--drawn by faithful servants, acting in
unquestioning obedience to the commands of the blessèd Mother of our
Lord--transmuted by the word and power of the Divine Son; outpoured for
others, in loving service; this is ever 'the best wine.'"
The Knight filled his goblet and took some fruit. Then, leaving both
untouched, turned his chair sidewise, that he might the better face the
Bishop, crossed his knees, leaned his right elbow on the table and his
head upon his hand, pushing his fingers into his hair.
Thus, for a while, they sat in silence; the Knight's eyes searching the
Bishop's face; the Bishop, intent upon the colour of his ruby goblet.
At length Hugh d'Argent spoke.
"I have been through deep waters, Reverend Father, since last I supped
with you."
The Bishop put down the goblet.
"So I supposed, my son. Now tell me what you will, neither more nor
less. I will then give you what counsel I can. On the one point
concerning which you must not tell me more than I may rightly know, I
will question you. Have you contrived to see the woman you loved, and
lost, and are now seeking to regain? Tell me not how, nor when, nor
where; but have you had speech with her? Have you made clear to her
the treachery which sundered you? Have you pleaded with her to
remember her early betrothal, to renounce these later vows, and to fly
with you?"
The Knight looked straight into the Bishop's keen eyes.
At first he could not bring himself to answer.
This princely figure, with his crimson robes and golden cross, so
visibly represented the power and authority of the Church.
His own intrusion into the Nunnery, his attempt to win away a holy nun,
suddenly appeared to him, as the most appalling sacrilege.
With awe and consternation in his own, he met the Bishop's eyes.
At first they were merely clear and searching, and the Knight sat
tongue-tied. But presently there flicked into them a look so human, so
tender, so completely understanding, that straightway the tongue of the
Knight was loosed.
"My lord, I have," he said. "All those things have I done. I have
been in heaven, Reverend Father, and I have been in hell----"
"Sh, my son," murmured the Bishop. "Methinks you have been in a place
which is neither heaven nor hell; though it may, on occasion,
approximate somewhat nearly to both. How you got there, is a marvel to
me; and how you escaped, without creating a scandal, an even greater
wonder. Yet I think it wise, for the present, not to know too much. I
merely required to be certain that you had actually found your lost
betrothed, made her aware of your proximity, your discovery, and your
desires. I gathered that you had succeeded in so doing; for, two days
ago, the Prioress herself sent to beg a private interview with me, in
order to ask whether, under certain circumstances, I could approve the
return of a nun to the world, and obtain absolution from her vows."
The rubies on the Knight's breast suddenly glittered, as if a bound of
his heart had caused them all to leap together. But, except for that
quick sparkle, he sat immovable, and made no sign.
The Bishop had marked the gleam of the rubies.
He lifted his Venetian goblet to the light and observed it carefully,
as he continued: "The Prioress--a most wise and noble lady, of whom I
told you on the day when you first questioned me concerning the
Nunnery--has been having trouble with a nun, by name Sister Mary
Seraphine. This young and lovely lady has, just lately, heard the
world loudly calling--on her own shewing, through the neighing of a
palfrey bringing to mind past scenes of gaiety. But--the Prioress
suspicioned the voice of an earthly lover; and I, knowing how reckless
and resolute an earthly lover was attempting to invade the Nunnery, we
both--the Prioress and I--drew our own conclusions, and proceeded to
face the problem with which we found ourselves confronted,
namely:--whether to allow or to thwart the flight of Seraphine."
The Knight, toying with walnuts, held at the moment four in the palm of
his right hand. They broke with a four-fold crack, which sounded but
as one mighty crunch. Then, all unconscious of what he did, the Knight
opened his great hand and let fall upon the table, a little heap of
crushed nuts, shells and white flesh inextricably mixed.
The Bishop glanced at the small heap. The veiled twinkle in his eyes
seemed to say; "So much for Seraphine!"
"I know not any lady of that name," said the Knight.
"Not by that name, my son. The nuns are not known in the Convent by
the names they bore before they left the world. I happen to know that
the Prioress, before she professed, was Mora, Countess of Norelle. I
know this because, years ago, I saw her at the Court, when she was a
maid of honour to the Queen; very young and lovely; yet, even then
remarkable for wisdom, piety, and a certain sweet dignity of
deportment. Sometimes now, when she receives me in the severe habit of
her Order, I find myself remembering the flow of beautiful hair, soft
as spun silk, bound by a circlet of gold round the regal head; the
velvet and ermine; the jewels at her breast. Yet do I chide myself for
recalling things which these holy women have renounced, and doubtless
would fain forget."
The Bishop struck a silver gong with his left hand.
At once a distant door opened in the dark panelling and two black-robed
figures glided in.
"Kindle a fire on the hearth," commanded the Bishop; adding to his
guest: "The evening air strikes chilly. Also I greatly love the smell
of burning wood. It is pungent to the nostrils, and refreshing to the
brain."
The monks hastened to kindle the wood and to fan it into a flame.
Presently, the fire blazing brightly, the Bishop rose, and signed to
the monks to place the chairs near the great fireplace. This they did;
and, making profound obeisance, withdrew.
Thus the Bishop and the Knight, alone once more, were seated in the
firelight. As it illumined the white and silver doublet, and glowed in
the rubies, the Bishop conceived the whimsical fancy that the Knight
might well be some splendid archangel, come down to force the Convent
gates and carry off a nun to heaven. And the Knight, watching the
leaping flame flicker on the Bishop's crimson robes and silvery hair,
saw the lenient smile upon the saintly face and took courage as he
realised how kindly was the heart, filled with most human sympathy,
which beat beneath the cross of gold upon the Prelate's breast.
Leaning forward, the Bishop lifted the faggot-fork and moved one of the
burning logs so that a jet of blue smoke, instead of mounting the
chimney, came out toward them on the hearth.
Symon of Worcester sat back and inhaled it with enjoyment.
"This is refreshing," he said. "This soothes and yet braces the mind.
And now, my son, let us return to the question of your own private
concerns. First, let me ask--Hugh, dear lad, as friend and counsellor
I ask it--are you able now to tell me the name of the woman you desire
to wed?"
"Nay, my dear lord," replied the Knight, "that I cannot do. I guard
her name, as I would guard mine honour. If--as may our Lady be pleased
to grant--she consent to fly with me, her name will still be mine to
guard; yet then all men may know it, so they speak it with due respect
and reverence. But if--as may our blessèd Lady forbid--she withhold
herself from me, so that three days hence I ride away alone; then must
I ride away leaving no shadow of reproach on her fair fame. Her name
will be forever in my heart; but no word of mine shall have left it, in
the mind of any man, linked with broken vows, or a forsaken lover."
The Bishop looked long and earnestly at the Knight.
"That being so, my son," he said at length, "for want of any better
name, I needs must call her by the name she bears in the Nunnery, and
now speak with you of Sister Mary Seraphine."
Hugh d'Argent frowned.
"I care not to hear of this Seraphine," he said.
"Yet I fear me you must summon patience to hear of Seraphine for a few
moments," said the Bishop, quietly; "seeing that I have here a letter
from the Prioress herself, in which she sends you a message. . . . Ah!
I marvel not that you are taken by surprise, my dear Knight; but keep
your seat, and let not your hand fly so readily to your sword. To
transfix the Reverend Mother's gracious epistle on your blade's keen
point, would not tend to elucidate her meaning; nor could it alter the
fact that she sends you important counsel concerning Sister Mary
Seraphine."
The Bishop lighted a wax taper standing at his elbow, drew a letter
from the folds of his sash, slowly unfolded and held it to the light.
The Knight sat silent, his face in shadow. The leaping flame of the
fire played on his sword hilt and on the rubies across his breast.
As the parchment crackled between the Bishop's fingers, the Knight kept
himself well in hand; but he prayed he might not have need to speak,
nor to meet the Bishop's eyes. These--the saints be praised--were now
intent upon the closely written page.
The light of the taper illumined the almost waxen whiteness of the
gentle face, and gleamed upon the Bishop's ring. The Knight, fixing
his eyes upon the stone, saw it the colour of red wine.
At last the Bishop began to speak with careful deliberation, his eyes
upon the letter, yet telling, instead of reading; a method ofttimes
maddening to an anxious listener, eager to snatch the parchment and
master its contents for himself; yet who must perforce wait to receive
them, with due patience, from another.
"The Prioress relates to me first of all a conversation she had, by my
suggestion, with Sister Mary Serephine, in which she told that lady
much of what passed between herself and me when she consulted me upon
the apparent desire of this nun to escape from the Convent, renounce
her vows, and return to her lover and the world--her lover who had come
to save her."
The Bishop paused.
The Knight stirred uneasily in his seat. A net seemed to be closing
around him. Almost he saw himself compelled to ride to Warwick in
company with this most undesired and undesirable nun, Mary Seraphine.
The Bishop raised his eyes from the letter and looked pensively into
the fire.
"A most piteous scene took place," he said, "on the day when Sister
Seraphine first heard again the call of the outer world. Most moving
it was, as told me by the Prioress. The distraught nun lay upon the
floor of her cell in an abandonment of frantic weeping. She imitated
the galloping of a horse with her hands and feet, a ride of some sort
evidently being in her mind. At length she lifted a swollen
countenance, crying that her lover had come to save her."
The Knight clenched his teeth, in despair. Almost, he and this
fearsome nun had arrived at Warwick, and she was lifting a swollen
countenance to him that he might embrace it.
Yet Mora well knew that he had not come for any Seraphine! Mora might
deny herself to him; but she would not foist another upon him. Only,
alas! this grave and Reverend Prioress of whom the Bishop spoke, hardly
seemed one with the woman of his desire; she who, but three evenings
before, had yielded her lips to his, clasping her arms around him;
loving, even while she denied him.
The Bishop's eyes were again upon the letter.
"The Prioress," he said, "with her usual instinctive sense of the
helpfulness of outward surroundings, and desiring, with a fine justice,
to give Seraphine--and her lover--every possible advantage, arranged
that the conversation should take place in the Nunnery garden, in a
secluded spot where they could not be overheard, yet where the sunshine
glinted, through overhanging branches, flecking, in golden patches, the
soft turf; where birds carolled, and spread swift wings; where white
clouds chased one another across the blue sky; in fact, my son," said
the Bishop, suddenly looking up, "where all Nature sang aloud of
liberty and nonrestraint."
The Knight's eyes, frowning from beneath a shading hand, were gloomy
and full of sombre fury.
It mattered not to him in what surroundings this preposterous offer,
that she should leave the Convent and fly with him to Warwick, had been
made to Seraphine. Her swollen countenance would be equally
unattractive, whether lifted in cell or cloister, or where white clouds
chased one another across the blue sky!
The Knight felt as if he were being chased, and by something more to be
feared than a white cloud. Grim Nemesis pursued him. This reverend
prelate, whom he had deemed so wise, was well-nigh witless. Yet Mora
knew the truth. Would her kind hands deal him so base a blow?
The Bishop saw the brooding rage in the Knight's eyes, and he lowered
his own to the letter, in time to hide their twinkling.
Even the best and bravest of Knights, for having forced his way into a
Nunnery, pressed a suit upon a nun, and escaped unscathed, deserved
some punishment at the hands of the Church!
"Which was generous in the Reverend Mother," said the Bishop, "since
she was inclined, upon the whole, to disapprove this offering of
liberty to the restless nun. You can well understand that, the
responsibility for the good conduct of that entire Community resting
upon the Prioress, she is bound to regard with disfavour any innovation
which might tend to provoke a scandal."
The Bishop did not look up, or he would have seen dull despair
displacing the Knight's anger.
"However she appears faithfully to have laid before Sister Mary
Seraphine, my view of the matter, giving her to understand that I am
inclined to be lenient concerning vows made under misapprehension; also
that, when there is not a true vocation, and a worldly spirit chafes
against the cloistered life, I regard its presence within the Community
as more likely to be harmful to the common weal, than the short-lived
scandal which might arise if those in power should connive at an
escape."
The Knight moved impatiently in his seat.
"Could we arrive, my lord," he said, "at the Lady Prioress's message,
of which you spoke?"
"We are tending thither, my son," replied the Bishop, unruffled. "Curb
your impatience. We of the Cloister are wont to move slowly, with
measured tread--each step a careful following up of the step which went
before--not with the leaps and bounds and capers of the laity. In due
time we shall reach the message.
"Well, in this conversation the Prioress appears to have complied with
my suggestions, excepting in the matter of one most important detail,
concerning which she used her own discretion. I distinctly advised her
to tell Seraphine that we were aware of your arrival, and that to my
certain knowledge you were in the crypt each afternoon at the hour when
the White Ladies pass to and from Vespers. In fact, my dear Knight, I
even went so far as to suggest to the Reverend Mother to give Sister
Mary Seraphine to understand that if she stepped aside, losing her way
among the many pillars, you would probably know what to do next.
"But the Reverend Mother writes"--at last the Bishop began to read: "'I
felt so sure from your description of the noble Knight who came to you
in his trouble, that he cannot be the lover of this shallow-hearted
little Seraphine, that I deemed it wise not to tell her of his arrival,
nor to mention your idea, that the woman he seeks is to be found in
this Nunnery.'"
The smothered sound which broke from the Knight was a mixture of
triumph, relief, and most bitter laughter.
"Now that is like the Prioress," said the Bishop; "thus to use her own
judgment, setting at naught my superior knowledge of the facts, and
flouting my authority! A noble nature, Hugh, and most lovable; yet an
imperious will, and a strength of character and purpose unusual in a
woman. Had she remained in the world and married, her husband would
have found it somewhat difficult wholly to mould her to his will. Yet
to possess such a woman would have been worth adventuring much. But I
must not fret you, dear lad, by talking of the Prioress, when your mind
is intent upon arriving at the decision of Seraphine.
"Well, I fear me, I have but sorry news for you. The Reverend Mother
writes: 'Sister Mary Seraphine expressed herself as completely
satisfied with the cloistered life. She declared that her desire to
return to the world had been but a passing phase, of which she was
completely purged by the timely discipline of Mother Sub-Prioress, and
by the fact that she has been appointed, with Sister Mary Gabriel, to
embroider the new altar-cloth for the Chapel. She talked more eagerly
about a stitch she is learning from Mary Gabriel, than about any of
those by-gone memories, which certainly had seemed most poignantly
revived in her; and I had no small difficulty in turning her mind from
the all-absorbing question as to how to obtain the right tint for the
pomegranates. My lord, to a mind thus intent upon needle-work for the
Altar of God, I could scarce have brought myself to mention the call of
an earthly lover, even had I believed your Knight to be seeking
Seraphine. Her heart is now wedded to the Cloister.'"
The Bishop looked up.
"Therefore, my son, we must conclude that your secret interview,
whenever or wherever it took place, had no effect--will bear no lasting
fruit." The Bishop could not resist this allusion to the pomegranates
of Seraphine.
But Hugh d'Argent, face to face with the suspended portcullis of his
fate, trampled all such gossamer beneath impatient feet.
He moistened his dry lips.
"The message," he said.
The Bishop lifted the letter.
"'But,'" he read, "'if you still believe your noble Knight to be the
lover of Seraphine, then I pray you to tell him this from me. No nun
worthy of a brave man's love, would consent to break her vows. A nun
who could renounce her vows to go to him, would wrong herself and him,
bringing no blessing to his home. Better an empty hearth, than a
hearth where broods a curse. I ask you, my lord, to give this as a
message to that noble Knight from me--the Prioress of this House--and
to bid him go in peace, praying for a heart submissive to the will of
God.'"
The Bishop's voice fell silent. He had maintained its quiet tones, yet
perforce had had to rise to something of the dignity of this final
pronouncement of the Prioress, and he spoke the last words with deep
emotion.
Hugh d'Argent leaned forward, his elbows on his knees; then dropped his
head upon his hands, and so stayed motionless.
The portcullis had fallen. Its iron spikes transfixed his very soul.
She was his, yet lost to him.
This final word of her authority, this speaking, through the Bishop's
mouth, yet with the dignity of her own high office, all seemed of set
intent, to beat out the last ray of hope within him.
As he sat silent, with bowed head, wild thoughts chased through his
brain. He was back with her in the subterranean way. He knelt at her
feet in the yellow circle of the lantern's light. Her tender hands,
her woman's hands, her firm yet gentle hands, fell on his head; the
fingers moved, with soothing touch, in and out of his hair. Then--when
his love and longing broke through his control--came her surrender.
Ah, when she was in his arms, why did he loose her? Or, when she had
unlocked the door, and the dim, grey light, like a pearly dawn at sea,
stole downward from the crypt, why, like a fool, did he mount the steps
alone, and leave her standing there? Why did he not fling his cloak
about her, and carry her up, whether she would or no? "Why?" cried the
demon of despair in his soul. "Ah, why!"
But, even then, his own true heart made answer. He had loosed her
because he loved her too well to hold her to him when she had seemed to
wish to stand free. And he had gone alone, because never would he
force a woman to come with him against her will. His very strength was
safeguard to her weakness.
Presently Hugh heard the Bishop folding the Prioress's letter. He
lifted his head and held out his hand.
The Bishop was slipping the letter into his sash.
He paused. Those eyes implored. That outstretched hand demanded.
"Nay, dear lad," said the Bishop. "I may not give it you, because it
mentions the White Ladies by name, the Order, and poor little shallow,
changeful Seraphine herself, But this much I will do: as _you_ may not
have it, none other shall." With which the Bishop, unfolding the
Prioress's letter, flung it upon the burning logs.
Together they watched it curl and blacken; uncurl again, and slowly
flake away. Long after the rest had fallen to ashes, this sentence
remained clear: "Better an empty hearth; than a hearth where broods a
curse." The flames played about it, but still it remained legible;
white letters, upon a black ground; then, letters of fire upon grey
ashes.
Of a sudden the Knight, seizing the faggot-fork, dashed out the words
with a stroke.
"I would risk the curse," he cried, with passion. "By Pilate's water,
I would risk the curse!"
"I know you would, my son," said the Bishop, "and, by our Lady's crown,
I would have let you risk it, believing, as I do, that it would end in
blessing. But--listen, Hugh. In asking what you asked, you scarce
know what you did. You need not say 'yea,' nor 'nay,' but I incline to
think with the Reverend Mother, that the woman you sought was not
foolish little Seraphine, turned one way by the neighing of a palfrey,
another by the embroidering of a pomegranate. There are women of finer
mould in that Nunnery, any one of whom may be your lost betrothed. But
of this we may be sure: whosoever she be, the Prioress knows her, and
knew of whom she wrote when she sent you that message. She has the
entire confidence of all in the Nunnery. I verily believe she knows
them better than does their confessor--a saintly old man, but dim.
"Now, listen to me. I said you knew not what you asked. Hugh, my lad,
if you had won your betrothed away, you would have had much to learn
and much to unlearn. Believe me, I know women, as only a priest of
many years' standing can know them. Women are either bad or good. The
bad are bad below man's understanding, because their badness is not
leavened by one grain of honour; a fact the worst of men will ever fail
to grasp. The good are good above man's comprehension, because their
perfect purity of heart causeth the spirit ever to triumph over the
flesh; and their love-instinct is the instinct of self-sacrifice.
Every true woman is a Madonna in the home, or fain would be, if her man
would let her. To such a woman, each promise of a child is an
Annunciation; our Lady's awe and wonder, whisper again in the temple of
her inner being; for her love has deified the man she loves; and, it
seems to her, a child of his and hers must be a holy babe, born into
the world to help redeem it. And so it would be, could she but have
her way. But too often the man fails to understand, and so spoils the
perfect plan. And she to whom love means self-sacrifice, sacrifices
all--even her noblest ideals--sooner than fail a call upon her love.
Yet I say again, could the Madonna instinct have had full sway, the
world would have been redeemed ere now to holiness, to happiness, to
health.
"You looked high, my son, by your own shewing. You loved high. Your
love was worthy, for you remained faithful, when you believed you had
been betrayed. Let your consolation now be the knowledge that she also
was faithful, and that it is a double faithfulness which keeps her from
responding to the call of your love. Seek union with her on the
spiritual plane, and some day--in the Realm where all noble things
shall attain unto full perfection--you may yet give thanks that your
love was not allowed to pass through the perilous pitfalls of an
earthly union."
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."