LOVE NEVER FAILETH
The Bishop awaited the Prioress on that stone seat under the beech,
from which the robin had carried off the pea.
He saw her coming through the sunlit cloisters.
As she moved down the steps, and came swiftly toward him, he was
conscious at once of an indefinable change in her.
Had that ride upon Icon set her free from trammels in which she had
been hitherto immeshed?
As she reached him, he took both her hands, so that she should not
kneel.
"Already I have been received with obeisance, my daughter," he said;
and told her of old Mary Antony's quaint little figure, standing to do
the honours in the doorway.
The Prioress, at this, laughed gaily, and in her turn told the Bishop
of the scene, on this very spot, when old Antony displayed her peas to
the robin.
"What peas?" asked the Bishop; and so heard the whole story of the
twenty-five peas and the daily counting, and of the identifying of
certain of the peas with various members of the Community. "And a
large, white pea, chosen for its fine aspect, was myself," said the
Prioress; "and, leaving the Sub-Prioress and Sister Mary Rebecca,
Master Robin swooped down and flew off with me! Hearing cries of
distress, I hastened hither, to find Mary Antony denouncing the robin
as 'Knight of the Bloody Vest,' and making loud lamentations over my
abduction. Her imaginings become more real to her than realities."
"She hath a faithful heart," said the Bishop, "and a shrewd wit."
"Faithful? Aye," said the Prioress, "faithful and loving. Yet it is
but lately I have realised, the love, beneath her carefulness and
devotion." The Prioress bent her level brows, looking away to the
overhanging branches of the Pieman's tree. "How quickly, in these
places, we lose the very remembrance of the meaning of personal, human
love. We grow so soon accustomed to allowing ourselves to dwell only
upon the abstract or the divine."
"That is a loss," said the Bishop. He turned and began to pace slowly
toward the cloister; "a grievous loss, my daughter. Sooner than that
you should suffer that loss, beyond repair, I would let the daring
Knight of the Bloody Vest carry you off on swift wing. Better a
robin's nest, if, love be there, than a nunnery full of dead hearts."
He heard the quick catch of her breath, but gave her no chance to speak.
"'And now abideth faith, hope, love, these three,'" quoted the Bishop;
"'but the greatest of these is love.'"
They were moving through the cloisters. The Prioress turned in the
doorway, pausing that the Bishop might pass in before her.
"This, my lord," she said, with a fine sweep of her arm, "is the abode
of Faith and Hope, and also of that divine Love, which excelleth both
Hope and Faith."
"Nay," said the Bishop, "I pray you, listen. 'Love suffereth long, and
is kind; love envieth not; love vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up;
doth not behave itself unseemly; seeketh not her own; is not easily
provoked, thinking no evil; rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in
the truth; beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things,
endureth all things. Love never faileth.' Methinks," said the Bishop,
in a tone of gentle meditation, as he entered the Prioress's cell, "the
apostle was speaking of a most human love; yet he rated it higher than
faith and hope."
"Are you still dwelling upon Sister Mary Seraphine, my lord?" inquired
the Prioress, and in her voice he heard the sound of a gathering storm.
"Nay, my dear Prioress," said the Bishop, seating himself in the
Spanish chair, and laying his biretta upon the table near by; "I speak
not of self-love, nor does the apostle whose words I quote. I take it,
he writes of human love, sanctified; upborne by faith and hope, yet
greater than either; just as a bird is greater than its wings, yet
cannot mount without them. We must have faith, we must have hope; then
our poor earthly loves can rise from the lower level of self-seeking
and self-pleasing and take their place among those things that are
eternal."
The Prioress had placed her chair opposite the Bishop. She was very
pale, and her lips trembled. She made so great an effort to speak with
calmness, that her voice sounded stern and hard.
"Why this talk of earthly loves, my Lord Bishop, in a place where all
earthly love has been renounced and forgotten?"
The Bishop, seeing those trembling lips, ignored the hard tones, and
answered, very tenderly, with a simple directness which scorned all
evasion:
"Because, my daughter, I am here to plead for Hugh."