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.