TWO NOBLE HEARTS GO DIFFERENT WAYS
On that same afternoon, an hour before sunset, the two men who loved
Mora faced one another, for a final farewell.
The Bishop had said all he had to say. Without interruption, his words
had flowed steadily on; eloquent, logical, conciliatory, persuasive.
At first he had talked to the top of the Knight's head, to the clenched
hands, to the arms outstretched across the table.
He had wondered what thoughts were at work beneath the crisp thickness
of that dark hair. He had wished the rigid attitude of tense despair
might somewhat relax. He had used the most telling inflexions of his
persuasive voice in order to bring this about, but without success. He
had wished the Knight would break silence, even to rage or to disagree.
To that end he had cast as a bait an intentional slip in a statement of
facts; and, later on, a palpable false deduction in a weighty argument.
But the Knight had not risen to either.
After a while Hugh had lifted his head, and leaned back in his chair;
fixing his eyes, in his turn, upon the banner hanging from the rafters.
It had ceased to wave gently to and fro. Probably Father Benedict had
closed the trap-door, concealed behind an upright beam, through which
he was wont to peer down into the banqueting hall below, in order to
satisfy himself that all was well and that the Reverend Father needed
naught.
Let it be here recorded that this exceeding vigilance, on the part of
Father Benedict, met with but scant reward. For, having deduced a
draught, and its reason, from the slight stirring of the banner during
his conversation with the Knight, the Bishop gave certain secret
instructions to Brother Philip, with the result that the next time the
Chaplain peered down upon a private conference he found, at its close,
the door by which he had gained access to the roof chamber barred on
the outside, and, forcing it, he was in no better case, the ladder
which connected it with another disused chamber below having been
removed. Thereafter Father Benedict watched the Bishop, and his guest,
partake of three meals, before he could bring himself to make known his
predicament, and beg to be released. And, even then, the Bishop was
amazingly slow in locating the place from which issued the agitated
voice imploring assistance. Several brethren were summoned to help; so
that quite a little crowd stood gazing up at the pallid countenance of
Father Benedict, framed in the trap-door as, lying upon his very empty
stomach, he called down replies to the Bishop's questions; vainly
striving to give a plausible reason for the peculiar situation in which
he was discovered.
But, to return to the interview which brought about this later
development.
The Knight had lifted his head, yet had still remained silent and
impassive.
Where at length the Bishop had paused, awaiting comment of some kind,
Hugh d'Argent, removing his eyes from the rafters, had asked:
"When, my lord, do you propose to meet the Prioress, should my wife,
upon learning the truth, elect to return to the Nunnery?"
Thus had the Bishop been forced to realise that the flow of his
eloquence, the ripple of his humour, the strong current of his
arguments, the gentle lapping of his tenderness, the breakers of his
threats, and the thunderous billows of his denunciations, had alike
expended themselves against the rock of the Knight's unshakable
resolve, and left it standing.
Whereupon, in silence, the Bishop had risen, and had led the way to the
library.
Here they now faced one another in final farewell.
Each knew that his loss would be the other's gain; his gain, the
other's irreparable loss.
Yet, at that moment, each thought only of Mora's peace of soul. They
did but differ in their conception of the way in which that peace might
best be preserved and maintained.
"I must take her cross of office, my Lord Bishop," said the Knight,
with decision.
The Bishop went to a chest, standing in one corner of the room, opened
it, and bent over it, his back to Hugh d'Argent; then, slipping his
hand into his bosom drew therefrom a cross of gold gleaming with
emeralds. Shutting down the massive lid of the chest, he returned, and
placed the cross in the outstretched hand of the Knight.
"I entrust it to you, my dear Hugh, only on one condition: that it
shall without fail return to me in two weeks' time. Should you decide
to tell your wife the true history of the vision, I must see this cross
of office upon her breast when I meet her riding back to Worcester,
once more Prioress of the White Ladies. If, on the other hand, wiser
counsel prevails, and you decide not to tell her, you must, by swift
messenger, at once return it to me in a sealed packet."
"I shall tell her," said the Knight. "If she elects to leave me, you
will see the cross upon her breast, my lord. If she elects to stay,
you shall receive it by swift messenger."
"She will leave you," said the Bishop. "If you tell her, she will
leave you."
"She loves me," said the Knight; and he said it with a tender
reverence, and such a look upon his face, as a man wears when he speaks
of his faith in God.
"Hugh," said the Bishop, sadly; "Hugh, my dear lad, you have but little
experience of the heart of a nun. The more she loves, the more
determined will she be to leave you, if you yourself give her reason to
think her love unjustified. The very thing which is now a cause of
bliss will instantly become a cause for fear. She will flee from joy,
as all pure hearts flee from sin; because, owing to your folly, her joy
will seem to her to be sinful. My son!"--the Bishop stretched out his
hands; a passion of appeal was in his voice--"God and Holy Church have
given you your wife. If you tell her this thing, you will lose her."
"I must take with me the dress she left behind," said the Knight, "so
that, should she decide to go, she may ride back fully robed."
The Bishop went again to the chest, raised the heavy lid, and lifted
out the white garments rolled together. At sight of them both men fell
silent, as in presence of the dead; and the Knight felt his heart grow
cold with apprehension, as he received them from the Bishop's hand.
They passed together through the doorway leading to the river terrace,
and so down the lawn, under the arch, and into the courtyard.
There Brother Philip waited, mounted, while another lay-brother held
the Knight's horse.
As they came in sight of the horses: "Philip will see you a few miles
on your way," said the Bishop.
"I thank you, Father," replied the Knight, "but it is not needful. The
good Brother has had many long days in the saddle."
"It is most needful," said the Bishop. "Let Philip ride beside you
until you have passed through the Monk's Wood, and are well on to the
open ground beyond. There, if you will, you may bid him turn back."
"Is this to ensure the safety of the Worcester cut-throats, my lord?"
The Bishop smiled.
"Possibly," he said. "Saracens may be hewn in pieces, with impunity.
But we cannot allow our Worcester lads rashly to ride to such a fate.
Also, my dear Hugh, you carry things of so great value that we must not
risk a scuffle. These are troublous times, and dangers lurk around the
city. Three miles from here you may dismiss Brother Philip, and ride
forward alone."
Arrived at the horses, the Knight put away safely, that which he
carried, into his saddle-bag. Then he dropped on one knee, baring his
head for the Bishop's blessing.
Symon of Worcester gave it. Then, bending, added in low tones: "And
may God and the blessèd Saints aid thee to a right judgment in all
things."
"Amen," said Hugh d'Argent, and kissed the Bishop's ring.
Then he mounted; and, without one backward look, rode out through the
Palace gates, closely followed by Brother Philip.