THE SILVER SHIELD
The Bishop sat at the round table in the centre of the banqueting hall,
sipping water from his purple goblet while the Knight dined.
They were not alone. Lay-brethren, with sandalled feet, moved
noiselessly to and fro; and Brother Philip stood immovable behind the
Reverend Father's chair.
The Bishop discoursed pleasantly of many things, watching Hugh the
while, and blessing the efficacy of the bath. It had, undoubtedly,
cleansed away much beside travel-stains.
The thunder-cloud had lifted from the Knight's brow; his eyes, though
tired, were no longer sombre; his manner was more than usually
courteous and deferential, as if to atone for the defiant brusquerie of
his first appearance.
He listened in absolute silence to the Bishop's gentle flow of
conversation; but this was a trait the Bishop had observed in him
before; and, after all, a lapse into silence could be easily understood
when a man had travelled far, on meagre fare, and found himself seated
at a well-spread board.
Yet the Knight ate but sparingly of the good cheer, so lavishly
provided; and the famous Italian wine, he scarce touched at all.
The meal over, the Bishop dismissed Brother Philip and the attendant
monks, and, rising, went to his chair near the hearth, motioning the
Knight to the one opposite.
Thus they found themselves seated again as they had sat on the night of
the arrival of the Pope's messenger; save that now no fire burned upon
the hearth; no candles were lighted on the table. Instead, the summer
sunshine poured in through open casements.
"Well, my dear Hugh," said the Bishop, "suppose you now tell me the
reason which brings you hither. It must surely be a matter of grave
importance which could cause so devoted a lover and husband to leave
his bride, and go a five days' journey from her, within two weeks of
the bridal day."
"I have come, my lord," said the Knight, speaking slowly and with
evident effort, "to learn from your lips the entire truth concerning
that vision which caused the Prioress of the White Ladies to hold
herself free to renounce her vows, leave her Nunnery, and give herself
in marriage where she had been betrothed before entering the Cloister."
"Tut!" said the Bishop. "The White Ladies have no Prioress. Mother
Sub-Prioress doth exercise the functions of that office until such time
as the Prior and myself shall make a fresh appointment. We are not
here to talk of prioresses, my son, but of that most noble and gracious
lady who, by the blessing of God and our Lady's especial favour, is now
your wife. See to it that you continue to deserve your great good
fortune."
The Knight made no protest at the mention of our Lady; but his left
hand moved to the medallion hanging by a gold chain from his neck,
covered it and clasped it firmly.
The Bishop paused; but finding that the Knight had relapsed into
silence, continued:
"So you wish the entire history of the inspired devotion of the old
lay-sister, Mary Antony--may God rest her soul." Both men crossed
themselves devoutly, as the Bishop named the Dead. "Shall I give it
you now, my son, or will you wait until the morrow, when a good night's
rest shall fit you better to enjoy the recital?"
"My lord," said Hugh, "ere this sun sets, I hope to be many miles on my
homeward way."
"In that case," said the Bishop, "I must tell you this moving story,
without further delay."
So, beginning with her custom of counting the White Ladies by means of
the dried peas, the Bishop gave the Knight the whole history of Mary
Antony's share in the happenings in the Nunnery on the day of his
intrusion, and those which followed; laying especial stress on her
devotion to Mora, and her constant prayers to our Lady to sharpen her
old wits.
The Bishop had undoubtedly intended to introduce into the recital
somewhat more of mysticism and sublimity than the actual facts
warranted. But once launched thereon, his sense of humour could not be
denied its full enjoyment in this first telling of the entire tale.
Full justice he did to the pathos, but he also shook with mirth over
the ludicrous. As he quoted Mary Antony, the old lay-sister's odd
manner and movements could be seen; her mumbling lips, and cunning
wink. And here was Mother Sub-Prioress, ferret-faced and peering; and
here Sister Mary Rebecca, long-nosed, flat-footed, eager to scent out
and denounce wrong doing. And at last the Bishop told of his talk with
Mora in the arbour of golden roses; and lo, there was Mora, devout,
adoring, wholly believing. "Thou hast hid these things from the wise
and prudent and hast revealed them unto babes"; and here, the Bishop
himself, half amused, half incredulous: "An ancient babe! Truly, a
most wise and prudent babe." Then the scene outside the Prioress's
cell when the Bishop unlocked the door; the full confession and the
touching death of old Mary Antony.
To it all the Knight listened silently, shading his face with his right
hand.
"Therefore, my son," concluded Symon of Worcester, "when on a sudden I
remembered our conversation on the lawn, and that I had told you of my
belief that the old lay-sister knew of your visit to the Convent and
had seen you in Mora's cell, I hastened to send you a warning, lest you
should, unwittingly, mention this fact to Mora, and raise a doubt in
her mind concerning the genuineness of the vision, thus destroying her
peace, and threatening her happiness and your own. Hath she already
told you of the vision?"
Still shielding his face the Knight spoke, very low:
"The evening before the messenger arrived, bringing your letter, my
lord, Mora told me of the vision."
"Said you aught concerning my words to you?"
"So soon as she mentioned the name of Mary Antony, I said that I seemed
to recall that you, my lord, had told me she alone knew of my visit to
the Convent. But Mora at once said nay, that it was she herself who
had told me so, even while I stood undiscovered in her cell; but that
afterward the lay-sister had confessed herself mistaken. This seemed
to me to explain the matter, therefore I said no more; nor did I, for a
moment, doubt the truth and wonder of the vision."
"For that, the saints be praised," said the Bishop. "Then no harm is
done. You and I, alone, know the entire story; and you and I, who
would safeguard Mora's happiness with our lives, must see to it that
she never has cause for misgivings."
Hugh d'Argent lifted his head, and looked full at the Bishop.
"My lord," he said, "had there been no vision, no message from our
Lady, no placing by her of Mora's hand in mine, think you she would
have left the Nunnery and come to me?"
"Nay, dear lad, that I know she would not. On that very morning, as I
told you, she set her foot upon the Pope's mandate, and would accept no
absolving from her vows. Naught would suffice, said she, but a direct
vision and revelation from our Lady herself."
"But," said the Knight, slowly, "was there a vision, my lord? Was
there a revelation? Was there a spoken message or a given sign?"
The Bishop met the earnest eyes, full of a deep searching. He stirred
uneasily; then smiled, waving a deprecatory hand.
"Between ourselves, my dear Hugh--though even so, it is not well to be
too explicit--between ourselves of course nothing--well--miraculous
happened, beyond the fact that our Lady most certainly sharpened the
wits of old Antony. Therefore is it, that you undoubtedly owe your
wife to those same wits, and may praise our Lady for sharpening them."
Then it was that the Knight rose to his feet.
"And I refuse," he said, "to owe my wife to sacrilege, fraud, and
falsehood."
The Bishop leaned forward, gripping with both hands the arms of his
chair. His face was absolutely colourless; but his eyes, like blue
steel, seemed to transfix the Knight, who could not withdraw his regard
from those keen points of light.
The Bishop's whisper, when at length he spoke, was more alarming than
if he had shouted.
"Fool!" he said. "Ungrateful, unspeakable fool! What mean you by such
words?"
"Call me fool if you will, my Lord Bishop," said the Knight, "so long
as I give not mine own conscience cause to call me knave."
"What mean you by such words?" persisted the Bishop. "I mean, my lord,
that if the truth opened out an abyss which plunged me into hell, I
would sooner know it than attempt to enter Paradise across the flimsy
fabric of a lie."
Now during many days, Symon of Worcester had worked incessantly,
suffered much, accomplished much, surrendered much, lost much. Perhaps
it is hardly to be wondered at, that, at this juncture, he lost his
temper.
"By Saint Peter's keys!" he cried, "I care not, Sir Knight, whether you
drop to hell or climb to Paradise. But it is my business to see to it
that you do not disturb the peace of mind of the woman you have wed.
Therefore I warn you, that if you ride from here set upon so doing, you
will not reach your destination alive."
The Knight smiled. The film of weariness lifted as if by magic from
his eyes, and they shone bright and serene.
"I cannot draw my sword upon threats, my Lord Bishop; but let those
threats take human shape, and by Saint George, I shall find pleasure in
rendering a good account of them. With this same sword I once did hew
my way through a score of Saracens. Think you a dozen Worcester
cut-throats could keep me from reaching my wife?"
Something in the tone with which the Knight spoke these final words
calmed the Bishop; something in the glance of his eye quelled the angry
Prelate. In the former he recognised a depth of love such as he had
not hitherto believed possible to Hugh d'Argent; in the latter, calm
courage, nay, a serene joy at the prospect of danger, against which his
threats and fury could but break themselves, even as stormy waves
against the granite rocks of the Cornish coast.
The Bishop possessed that somewhat rare though valuable faculty, the
ability to recognise instantly, and instantly to accept, the
inevitable. Also when he had made a false move, he knew it, and was
preparing to counteract it almost before his opponent had perceived the
mistake.
So rarely was the Bishop angry, that his anger now affected him
physically, with a sickening sense of faintness. With closed eyes, he
leaned his head against the back of the chair. His face, always white
and delicate, now appeared as if carved in ivory. His lips fell apart,
but no breath issued from them. Except for a slight twitching of the
eyelids, the Bishop's countenance was lifeless.
Startled and greatly alarmed, Hugh looked around for some means whereby
he might summon help, but could see none.
Hastening to the table, he poured wine into the Venetian goblet,
brought it back, and moistened the Bishop's lips. Then kneeling on one
knee loosed the cold fingers from their grip.
Presently the Bishop opened his eyes--no longer points of blue steel,
but soft and dreamy like a mist of bluebells on distant hills. He
looked, with unseeing gaze, into the anxious face on a level with his
own; then turned his eyes slowly upon the ruby goblet which the Knight
had lifted from the floor and was trying to hold to his lips.
Waving it away, the Bishop slipped the finger and thumb of his left
hand into his sash, and drew out a small gold box of exquisite
workmanship, set with emeralds.
At this he gazed for some time, as if uncertain what to do with it;
then touched a spring and as the lid flew open, sat up and took from
the box a tiny white tablet. This he dropped into the wine.
The Knight, watching with anxious eyes, saw it rapidly dissolve as it
sank to the bottom.
But all consciousness of the tablet, the wine, or the kneeling Knight,
appeared to have instantly faded from the Bishop's mind. He lay back
gazing dreamily at a banner which, for no apparent reason, stirred and
wafted to and fro, as it hung from an oaken beam, high up among the
rafters.
"Wherefore doth it waft?" murmured the Bishop, thereby adding greatly
to the Knight's alarm. "Wherefore?--Wherefore?--Wherefore doth it
waft?"
"Drink this, Reverend Father," urged the Knight. "I implore you, my
dear lord, raise yourself and drink."
"Methinks there must be a draught," mused the Bishop.
"Yea, truly," said the Knight, "of your famous Italian wine. Father, I
pray you drink."
"Among the rafters," said the Bishop. But he sat up, took the goblet
from the Knight's hand, and slowly sipped its contents.
Almost at once, a faint tinge of colour shewed in his cheeks and on his
lips; his eyes grew bright. He smiled at the Knight, as he placed the
empty goblet on the table beside him.
"Ah, my dear Hugh," he said, extending his hand; "it is good to find
you here. Let us continue our conversation, if you are sufficiently
rested and refreshed. I have much to say to you."
In the reaction of a great relief, Hugh d'Argent seized the extended
hand and fervently kissed the Bishop's ring.
It was the reverent homage of a loyal heart. Symon of Worcester, as
with a _Benedicite_ he graciously acknowledged it, suffered a slight
twinge of conscience; almost as unusual an experience as the ebullition
of temper. He took up the conversation exactly at that point to which
it best suited him to return, namely, there where he had made the first
false step.
"Therefore, my dear Hugh, I have now given you in detail the true
history of the vision, making it clear that we owe it, alas! to earthly
devotion, rather than to Divine interposition--though indeed the one
may well be the means used by the other. It remains for us to
consider, and to decide upon, the best line to take with Mora in order
to safeguard most surely her peace of mind, and permanently to secure
her happiness."
"I have considered, Reverend Father," said the Knight, simply; "and I
have decided."
"What have you decided to do, my son?" questioned Symon of Worcester,
in his smoothest tones.
"To make known to Mora, so soon as I return, the entire truth."
The Bishop cast his eyes upward, to see whether the banner still waved.
It did.
Undoubtedly there must be a current of air among the rafters.
"And what effect do you suppose such a communication will have, my son,
upon the mind of your wife?"
"I am not called to face suppositions, Reverend Father; I am simply
confronted by facts."
"Precisely, my son, precisely," replied the Bishop, pressing his
finger-tips together, and raising them to his lips. "Yet even while
dealing with causes, it is well sometimes to consider effects, lest
they take us wholly unawares. Do you realise that, as your wife felt
justified in leaving the Nunnery and wedding you, solely by reason of
our Lady's miraculously accorded permission, when she learns that that
permission was not miraculous, she will cease to feel justified?"
"I greatly fear it," said the Knight.
"Do you yourself now consider that she was not justified?"
"Nay!" answered the Knight, with sudden vehemence. "Always, since I
learned how we had been tricked by her sister, I have held her to be
rightfully mine. Heaven knew, when she made her vows, that I was
faithful, and she therefore still my betrothed. Heaven allowed me to
discover the truth, and to find her--alive, and still unwed. To my
thinking, no Divine pronouncement was required; and when the Holy
Father's mandate arrived bringing the Church's sanction, why then
indeed naught seemed to stand between us. But Mora thought otherwise."
A tiny gleam came into the Bishop's eyes; an exceedingly refined
edition of the look of cunning which used to peep out of old Mary
Antony's.
"Have you ever heard tell, my son, that two negatives make an
affirmative? Think you not that, in something the same way, two
deceptions may make a truth. Mora was deceived into entering the
Convent, and deceived into leaving it; but from out that double
deception arises the great truth that she has, in the sight of Heaven,
been all along yours. The first deception negatives the second, and
the positive fact alone remains that Mora is wedded to you, is yours to
guard and shield from sorrow; and those whom God hath joined together,
let no man put asunder."
Hugh d'Argent passed his hand across his brow.
"I trust the matter may appear thus to Mora," he said.
The banner still wafted, gently. The Bishop gave himself time to
ponder whence that draught could come.
Then: "It will not so appear," he said. "My good Hugh, when your wife
learns from you that she was tricked by Mary Antony, she will go back
in mind to where she was before the spurious vision, and will feel
herself to be still Prioress of the White Ladies."
"I have so felt her, since the knowledge reached me," agreed the Knight.
The efficacy of the soothing drug taken by the Bishop was strained to
its utmost.
"And what then do you propose to do, my son, with this wedded Prioress?
Do you expect her to remain with you in your home, content to fulfil
her wifely duties?"
"I fear," said the Knight sadly, "that she will leave me."
"And I am certain she will leave you," said the Bishop.
"It was largely this fear for the future which brought me at once to
you, my lord. If Mora desires, as you say, to consider herself as she
was, before she was tricked into leaving the Convent, will you arrange
that she shall return, unquestioned, to her place as Prioress of the
White Ladies of Worcester?"
"Impossible!" said the Bishop, shortly. "It is too late. We can have
no Madonna groups in Nunneries, saving those carven in marble or stone."
To which there followed a silence, lasting many minutes.
Then the Knight said, with effort, speaking very low: "It is _not_ too
late."
Instantly the keen eyes were searching his face. A line of crimson
leapt to the Bishop's cheek, as if a whip-lash had been drawn across it.
Presently: "Fool!" he whispered, but the word savoured more of pitying
tenderness than of scorn. Alas! was there ever so knightly a fool, or
so foolish a knight! "What was the trouble, boy? Didst find that
after all she loved thee not?"
"Nay," said Hugh, quickly, "I thank God, and our Lady, that my wife
loves me as I never dreamed that such as I could be loved by one so
perfect in all ways as she. But--at first--all was so new and strange
to her. It was wonder enough to be out in the world once more, free to
come and go; to ride abroad, looking on men and things. I put her
welfare first. . . . Nay, it was easy, loving her as I loved, also
greatly desiring the highest and the best. Father, I wanted what you
spoke of as the Madonna in the Home. Therefore--'twas I who made the
plan--we agreed that, the wedding having of necessity been so hurried,
the courtship should follow, and we would count ourselves but
betrothed, even after reaching Castle Norelle, for just so many days or
weeks as she should please; until such time as she herself should tell
me she was wishful that I should take her home. But--each day of the
ride northward had been more perfect than that which went before; each
hour of each day, sweeter than the preceding. Thus it came to pass
that on the very evening of our arrival at Mora's home, after parting
for the night at the door of her chamber, we met again on the
battlements, where years before we had said farewell; and there, seated
in the moonlight, she told me the wonder of our Lady's grace in the
vision; and, afterwards, in words of perfect tenderness, the even
greater wonder of her love, and that she was ready on the morrow to
ride home with me. So we parted in a rapture so deep and pure, that
sleep came, for very joy of it. But early in the morning I was wakened
by a rapping at my door, and there stood Brother Philip, holding your
letter, Reverend Father."
"Alas!" said the Bishop. "Would that I had known she would have
whereby to explain away thy memory of that which I had said."
Yet the Bishop spoke perfunctorily; he spoke as one who, even while
speaking, muses upon other matters. For, within his secret soul, he
was fighting the hardest temptation yet faced by him, in the whole
history of his love for Mora.
By rapid transition of mind, he was back on the seat in the garden of
the White Ladies' Nunnery, left there by Mary Antony while she went to
fetch the Reverend Mother. He was looking up the sunny lawn toward the
cloisters, from out the shade of the great beech tree. Presently he
saw the Prioress coming, tall and stately, her cross of office gleaming
upon her breast, her sweet eyes alight with welcome. And at once they
were talking as they always talked together--he and she--each word
alive with its very fullest meaning; each thought springing to meet the
thought which matched it.
Next he saw himself again on that same seat, looking up the lawn to the
sunlit cloisters; realising that never again would the Prioress come to
greet him; facing for the first time the utter loneliness, the
irreparable loss to himself, of that which he had accomplished for Hugh
and Mora.
The Bishop's immeasurable loss had been Hugh's infinite gain. And now
that Hugh seemed bent upon risking his happiness, the positions were
reversed. Would not his loss, if he persisted, be the Bishop's gain?
How easy to meet her on the road, a few miles from Worcester; to
proceed, with much pomp and splendour, to the White Ladies' Nunnery; to
bid them throw wide the great gates; to ride in and, then and there,
reinstate Mora as Prioress, announcing that the higher service upon
which the Holy Father had sent her had been duly accomplished. Picture
the joy in the bereaved Community! But, above and beyond all, picture
what it would mean to have her there again; to see her, speak with her,
sit with her, when he would. No more loneliness of soul, no more
desolation of spirit; and Mora's conscience at rest; her mind content.
But at that, being that it concerned the woman he loved, the true soul
of him spoke up, while his imaginative reason fell silent.
Never again could the woman who had told Hugh d'Argent, in words of
perfect tenderness, the wonder of her love, and that she was ready on
the morrow to ride home with him, be content in the calm of the
Cloister.
If Hugh persisted in this folly of frankness and disturbed her peace,
she might leave him.
If the Bishop made the way easy, she might return to the Nunnery.
But all the true life of her would be left behind with her lover.
She would bring to the Cloister a lacerated conscience, and a broken
heart.
Surely the two men who loved her, if they thrust away all thought of
self, and thought only of her, could save her this anguish.
At once the Bishop resolved to do his part.
"My dear Hugh," he said, "you did well to come to me in order to
consult over these plans before taking the irrevocable step which
should set them in motion. I, alone, could reinstate your wife as
Prioress of the White Ladies; moreover my continued presence here would
be essential, to secure her comfort in that reinstatement. And I shall
not be here. I am shortly leaving Worcester, leaving this land and
returning to my beauteous Italy. The Holy Father has been pleased to
tell me privately of high preferment shortly to be offered me. I have
to-day decided to accept it. I return to Italy a Cardinal of Holy
Church."
Hugh rose to his feet and bowed. An immense scorn blazed in his eyes.
"My Lord High Cardinal, I congratulate you! That a cardinal's hat
should tempt you from your cathedral, from this noble English city,
from your people who love you, from the land of your birth, may perhaps
be understood. But that, for the sake of Church preferment, however
high, you should willingly depart, leaving Mora in sorrow, Mora in
difficulty, Mora needing your help----"
The Knight paused, amazed. The Bishop, who seldom laughed aloud, was
laughing. Yet no! The Bishop, who never wept, seemed near to weeping.
The scales fell from Hugh's eyes, even before the Bishop spoke. He
realised a love as great as his own.
"Ah, foolish lad!" said Symon of Worcester; "bent upon thine own ways,
and easy to deceive. When I spoke of going, I said it for her sake,
hoping the prospect of my absence might hold you from your purpose.
But now truly am I convinced that you are bent upon risking your own
happiness, and imperilling hers. Therefore will I devise some means of
detaining the Holy Father's messenger, so that my answer need not be
given until two weeks are past. You will reach Mora, at longest, five
days from this. As soon as she decides what she will do, send word to
me by a fast messenger. Should she elect to return to the Nunnery,
state when and where, upon the road, I am to meet her. Her habit as
Prioress, and her cross of office, I have here. The former you
returned to me, from the hostel; the latter I found in her cell. You
must take them with you. If she returns, she must return fully robed.
If, on the other hand, she should decide to remain with you; if--as may
God grant--she is content, and requires no help from me, send me this
news by messenger. I can then betake myself to that fair land to which
I first went for her sake; left for her sake, and to which I shall most
gladly return, if her need of me is over. The time I state allows a
four days' margin for vacillation."
"My lord," said the Knight, humbly, "forgive the wrong I did you.
Forgive that I took in earnest that which you meant in jest; or rather,
I do truly think, that which you hoped would turn me from my purpose.
Alas, I would indeed that I might rightly be turned therefrom."
"Hugh," said the Bishop, eagerly, "you deemed her justified in coming
to you, apart from any vision."
"True," replied the Knight, "but I cannot feel justified in taking her,
and all she would give me, knowing she gives it, with a free heart,
because of her faith in the vision. Moments of purest joy would be
clouded by my secret shame. Being aware of the deception, I too should
be deceiving her; I, whom she loves and trusts."
"To withhold a truth is not to lie," asserted the Bishop.
"My lord," replied Hugh d'Argent, rising to his feet and standing
erect, his hand upon his sword, "I cannot reason of these things; I
cannot define the difference between withholding a truth and stating a
lie. But when mine Honour sounds a challenge, I hear; and I ride out
to do battle--against myself, if need be; or, if it must so be, against
another. On Eastern battle-fields, in Holy War, I won a name known
throughout all the camp, known also to the enemy: 'The Knight of the
Silver Shield.' Our name is Argent, and we ever have the right to
carry a pure silver shield. But I won the name because my shield was
always bright; because not once in battle did it fall in the dust;
because it never was allowed to tarnish. So bright it was, that as I
rode, bearing it before me, reflecting the rays of the sun, it dazzled
and blinded the enemy. My lord, I cannot tarnish my silver shield by
conniving at falsehood, or keeping silence when mine Honour bids me
speak."
Looking at the gallant figure before him, the Bishop's soul responded
to the noble words, and he longed to praise them and applaud. But he
thought of Mora's peace of mind, Mora's awakened heart and dawning
happiness. For her sake he must make a final stand.
"My dear Hugh," he said, "all this talk, of a silver shield and of the
challenge of honour, is well enough for the warrior on the
battle-field. But the lover has to learn the harder lesson; he has to
give up Self, even the Self which holds honour dear. When you polished
your silver shield, keeping it so bright, what saw you reflected
therein? Why, your own proud face. Even so, now, you fear the
faintest tarnish on your sense of honour, but you will keep that silver
shield bright at Mora's expense, riding on proudly alone in your glory,
reflecting the sun, dazzling all beholders, while your wife who loved
and trusted you, Mora, who told you the sweet wonder of her love in
words of deepest tenderness, lies desolate in the dark, with a
shattered life, and a broken heart. Hugh, I would have you think of
the treasure of her golden heart, rather than of the brightness of your
own selfish, silver shield."
"Selfish!" cried the Knight. "Selfish! Is it selfish to hold honour
dear? Is it selfish to be ashamed to deceive the woman one loves?
Have I, who have so striven in all things to put her welfare first,
been selfish towards my wife in this hour of crisis?"
He sat down, heavily; leaned his elbows on his knees, and dropped his
head into his hands.
This attitude of utter dejection filled the Bishop with thankfulness.
Was he, in the very moment when he had given up all hope of winning,
about to prove the victor?
"Perilously selfish, my dear Hugh," he said. "But, thank Heaven, no
harm has yet been done. Listen to me and I will shew you how you may
keep your honour safely untarnished, yet withhold from Mora all
knowledge which might cause her disquietude of mind, thus securing her
happiness and your own."