STRONG TO ACT; ABLE TO ENDURE
Back to Worcester rode the Bishop.
Gallop! Gallop! along the grassy rides, beside the hard highway.
Hasten good Shulamite, black and comely still, though flecked with foam.
Important work lies ahead. Every moment is precious.
If Mother Sub-Prioress should send to the Palace, mischief will be
done, which it will not be easy to repair.
If news of the flight of the Prioress reaches the city of Worcester, a
hundred tongues, spiteful, ignorant, curious, or merely idle, will at
once start wagging.
Gallop, gallop, Shulamite!
How impossible to overtake a rumour, if it have an hour's start of you.
As well attempt to catch up the water which first rushed through the
sluice-gates, opened an hour before you reached the dam.
How impossible to remake a reputation once broken. Before the
priceless Venetian goblet fell from the table on to the flagged floor,
one hand put forth in time might have hindered its fall. But--failing
that timely hand--when, a second later, it lies in a hundred pieces,
the hands of the whole world are powerless to make it again as it was
before it fell.
Faster, faster, Shulamite!
When the messenger of Mother Sub-Prioress reports the absence of the
Bishop, he will most certainly be sent in haste to Father Benedict, who
will experience a sinister joy at the prospect of following his long
nose into the Prioress's empty cell, who will scent out scandal where
there is but a fragrance of lilies, and tear to pieces Mora's
reputation, with as little compunction as a wolf tears a lamb.
Gallop, gallop, Shulamite! If no hand be put forth to save it, between
Mother Sub-Prioress and Father Benedict, this crystal bowl will be
broken into a hundred pieces.
At length the Bishop drew rein, and walked his mare a mile. He had
left Warwick ten miles behind him. He would soon be half-way to
Worcester.
He had left Warwick behind him!
It seemed to the Bishop that, ever since he had first known Mora de
Norelle, he had always been riding away and leaving behind.
For her sake he rode away, leaving behind the Court, his various
offices, his growing influence and popularity.
For her sake he left his identity as Father Gervaise at the bottom of
the ocean, taking up his life again, in Italy, under his other name.
For her sake, when he heard that she had entered the Convent of the
White Ladies, he obtained the appointment to the see of Worcester,
leaving the sunny land he loved, and the prospect of far higher
preferment there.
And now for her sake he rode away from Warwick as fast as steed could
carry him, leaving her the bride of another, in whose hand he had
himself placed hers, pronouncing the Church's blessing upon their union.
Riding away--leaving behind; leaving behind--riding away. This was
what his love had ever brought him.
Yet he felt rich to-day, finding himself in possession of the certain
knowledge that he had been right in judging necessary, that first
departure into exile long years ago.
For had not Mora told him--little dreaming to whom she spoke--that
there was a time when he had stood to her for all her heart held
dearest; yet that she had loved him, not as a girl loves a man, but
rather as a nun loves her Lord.
But surely a man would need to be divine to be so loved, and to hold
such love aright. And, even then, when that other man arrived who
would fain woo her to love him as a girl loves a man, would her heart
be free to respond to the call of nature? Nay. To all intents and
purposes, her heart would be a cloistered thing; yet would she be
neither bride of Christ nor bride of man. The fire in his eyes would
indeed have called her to an altar, and the sacrifice laid thereon
would be the full completion of her womanhood.
"I did well to pass into exile," said the Bishop, reviewing the past,
as he rode. Yet deep in his heart was the comfort of those words she
had said: that once he had stood to her for all her heart held dearest.
Mora, the girl, had felt thus; Mora, the woman, remembered it; and the
Bishop, as he thought of both, offered up a thanksgiving that neither
he nor Father Gervaise had done aught which was unworthy of the ideal
of her girlhood's dream.
Gathering up the reins, he urged Shulamite to a rapid trot. There must
be no lingering by the way.
Hasten, Shulamite! Even now the sluice-gates may be opening. Even now
the crystal bowl may be slipping from its pedestal, presently to lie in
a hundred fragments on the ground.
Nay, trotting will scarce do. Gallop, gallop, brave black mare!
The city walls are just in sight.
Well done!
* * * * * *
Not far from the Convent gate, the Bishop chanced, by great good
fortune, upon Brother Philip, trying in the meadows the paces of a
young horse, but lately purchased.
The Bishop bade the lay-brother ride with him to the Nunnery and, so
soon as he should have dismounted, lead Shulamite to the Palace
stables, carefully feed and tend her; then bring him out a fresh mount.
As they rode forward: "Hath any message arrived at the Palace from the
Convent, Philip?" inquired the Bishop.
"None, my lord."
"Or at the Priory?"
"Nay, my lord. But I did hear, at the Priory, a strange rumour"----
"Rumours are rarely worth regarding or repeating, Brother Philip."
"True, my lord. Yet having so lately aided her to ride upon Icon"----
"'Her'? With whom then is rumour making free? And what saith this
Priory rumour concerning 'her'?"
"They say the old lay-sister, Mary Antony, hath fled the Convent."
"Mary Antony!" exclaimed the Bishop, and his voice held the most
extraordinary combination of amazement, relief, and incredulity. "But,
in heaven's name, good brother, wherefore should the old lay-sister
leave the Convent?"
"They say she was making her way into the city in search of you, my
lord; but she hath not reached the Palace."
"Any other rumour, Philip?"
"Nay, my lord, none; save that the Prioress is distraught with anxiety
concerning the aged nun, and has commanded that the underground way to
the Cathedral crypt be searched; though, indeed, the porteress
confesses to having let Sister Mary Antony out at the gate."
"Rumour again," said the Bishop, "and not a word of truth in it, I
warrant. Deny it, right and left, my good Philip; and say, on my
authority, that the Reverend Mother hath most certainly not caused the
crypt way to be searched. I would I could lay hands on the originator
of these foolish tales."
The Bishop spoke with apparent vexation, but his heart had bounded in
the upspring of a great relief. Was he after all in time to save with
outstretched hand that most priceless crystal bowl?
The Bishop dismounted outside the Convent gate. He took Shulamite's
nose into his hand, and spoke gently in her ear.
Then: "Lead her home, Philip," he said, "and surround her with
tenderest care. Her brave heart hath done wonders this day. It is for
us to see that her body doth not pay the penalty. Here! Take her
rein, and go."
Mary Mark looked out through the wicket, in response to a knocking on
the door. She gasped when she saw the Lord Bishop, on foot, without
the gate.
Quickly she opened, wide, and wider; hiding her buxom form behind the
door.
But the Bishop had no thought for Mary Mark, nor inclination to play
hide-and-seek with a conscience-stricken porteress.
Avoiding the front entrance, he crossed the courtyard to the right,
passed beneath the rose-arch, along the yew walk, and over the lawn, to
the seat under the beech, where two days before he had awaited the
coming of the Prioress.
Here he paused for a moment, looking toward the silent cloisters, and
picturing her tall figure, her flowing veil and stately tread,
advancing toward him over the sunny lawn.
Yet no. Even in these surroundings he could not see her now as
Prioress. Even across the Convent lawn there moved to meet him the
lovely woman with jewelled girdle, white robe, and coronet of golden
hair--the bride of Hugh.
Perhaps this was the hardest moment to Symon of Worcester, in the whole
of that hard day.
It was the one time when he thought of himself.
"I have lost her!" he said. "Holy Jesu--Thou Whose heart did break
after three hours of darkness and of God-forsaken loneliness--have
pity! The light of my life is gone from me, yet must I live."
Overwhelmed by this sudden realisation of loss, worn out in mind and
exhausted in body, the Bishop sank upon the seat.
Mora was safe with Hugh. That much had been accomplished.
For the rest, things must take their own course. He could do no
more--go no further.
Then he heard again her voice in the arbour of golden roses, saying, in
those low sweet tones which thrilled his very soul: "He stood to me for
all that was vital and alive, in life and in religion; strong to act;
able to endure."
During five minutes the Bishop sat, eyes closed, hands firmly clasped.
So still he sat, that the little Knight of the Bloody Vest, watching,
with bright eyes, from the tree overhead, almost made up his mind to
drop to the other end of the seat. He was missing Sister Mary Antony,
who had not appeared at all that morning. This meant neither crumbs
nor cheese, and the "little vain man" was hungry.
But at the end of five minutes the Bishop rose, calm and purposeful;
moved firmly up the lawn, mounted the steps, and passed into the
cloisters.