THE ANGEL-CHILD
Symon of Worcester turned, walked slowly across the courtyard, made his
way to the parapet above the river, and stood long, with bent head,
watching the rapid flow of the Severn.
His eyes rested upon the very place where the Knight had cleft the
water in his impulsive dive after the white stone, made, by the
Bishop's own words, to stand to him for his chances of winning the
Prioress.
Yet should that sudden leap be described as "impulsive"? The Bishop,
ever a stickler for accuracy in descriptive words, considered this.
Nay, not so much "impulsive" as "prompt." Even as the warrior who,
having tested his trusty sword, knowing its readiness in the scabbard
and the strength of his own right arm, draws, on the instant, when
surprised by the enemy. Prompt, not impulsive. A swift action, based
upon an assured certainty of power, and a steadfast determination, of
long standing, to win at all costs.
The Bishop's hand rested upon the parapet. The stone in his ring held
neither blue nor purple lights. Its colour had paled and faded. It
shone--as the Prioress had once seen it shine--like a large tear-drop
on the Bishop's finger.
Deep dejection was in the Bishop's attitude. With the riding away of
the Knight, something strong and vital seemed to have passed out of his
life.
A sense of failure oppressed him. He had not succeeded in bending Hugh
d'Argent to his will, neither had he risen to a frank appreciation of
the loyal chivalry which would not enjoy happiness at the expense of
honour.
While his mind refused to accept the Knight's code, his soul yearned to
rise up and acclaim it.
Yet, working to the last for Mora's peace of mind, he had maintained
his tone of scornful disapproval.
He would never again have the chance to cry "Hail!" to the Silver
Shield. The deft fingers of his sophistry had striven to loosen the
Knight's shining armour. How far they had succeeded, the Bishop could
not tell. But, as he watched the swiftly moving river, he found
himself wishing that his task had been to strengthen, rather than to
weaken; to gird up and brace, rather than subtly to unbuckle and
disarm. Yet by so doing, would he not have been ensuring his own
happiness, bringing back the joy of life to his own heart, at the
expense of the two whom he had given to be each other's in the Name of
the Divine Trinity?
If Hugh persisted in his folly, he would lose his bride, yet would the
Bishop meet and reinstate the Prioress with a clear conscience, having
striven to the very last to dissuade the Knight.
If, on the other hand, Hugh, growing wiser as he rode northward,
decided to keep silence, why then the sunny land he loved, and the
Cardinal's office, for Symon, Bishop of Worcester.
But meanwhile, two weeks of uncertainty; and the Bishop could not abide
uncertainty.
He turned from the river and began to pace the lawn slowly from end to
end, his head bent, his hands clasped behind him.
Each time he reached the wall between the garden and the courtyard, he
found himself confronted by two rose trees, a red and a white, climbing
so near together that their branches intertwined, crimson blooms
resting their rich petals against the fragrant fairness of their white
neighbours.
Presently these roses became symbolic to the Bishop--the white, of the
fair presence of the Prioress; the red, of the high honour awaiting him
in Rome.
He was seized by the whimsical idea that, were he to close his eyes,
beseech the blessèd Saint Joseph to guide his hand, take three steps
forward, and pluck the first blossom his fingers touched, he might put
an end to this tiresome uncertainty.
But he smiled at the childishness of the fancy. It savoured of the old
lay-sister, Mary Antony, playing with her peas and confiding in her
robin. Moreover the Bishop never did anything with his eyes shut. He
would have slept with them open, had not Nature decreed otherwise.
Once again he paced the full length of the lawn, his hands clasped
behind his back, his eyes looking beyond the river to the distant hills.
"Will she come, or shall I go? Shall I depart, or will she return?"
As he turned at the parapet, a voice seemed to whisper with insistence:
"A white rose for her pure presence in the Cloister. A red rose for
Rome."
And, as he reached the wall again, the bright eyes of a little maiden
peeped at him through the archway.
He stood quite still and looked at her.
Never had he seen so lovely an elf. A sunbeam had made its home in
each lock of her tumbled hair. Her little brown face had the soft
bloom of a ripe nectarine; her eyes, the timid glance of a startled
fawn.
The Bishop smiled.
The bright eyes lost their look of fear, and sparkled responsive.
The Bishop beckoned.
The little maid stole through the archway; then, gaining courage flew
over the turf, and stood between the Bishop and the roses.
"How camest thou here, my little one?" questioned Symon of Worcester,
in his softest tones.
"The big gate stood open, sir, and I ran in."
"And what is thy name, my little maid?"
"Verity," whispered the child, shyly, blushing to speak her own name.
"Ah," murmured the Bishop. "Hath Truth indeed come in at my open gate?"
Then, smiling into the little face lifted so confidingly to his: "Dost
thou want something, Angel-child, that I can give thee?"
One little bare, brown foot rubbed itself nervously over the other.
Five little brown, bare toes wriggled themselves into the grass.
"Be not afraid," said the Bishop. "Ask what thou wilt and I will give
it thee, unto the half of my kingdom. Yea, even the head of Father
Benedict, in a charger."
"A rose," said the child, eagerly ignoring the proffered head of Father
Benedict and half the Bishop's kingdom. "A rose from that lovely tree!
Their pretty faces looked at me over the wall."
The Bishop's lips still smiled; but his eyes, of a sudden, grew grave.
"Blessèd Saint Joseph!" he murmured beneath his breath, and crossed
himself.
Then, bending over the little maid, he laid his hand upon the tumbled
curls.
"Truly, my little Verity," he said, "thou shalt gather thyself a rose,
and thou shall gather one for me. I leave thee free to make thy
choice. See! I clasp my hands behind me--thus. Then I shall turn and
walk slowly up the lawn. So soon as my back is turned, pluck thou two
roses. Fly with those little brown feet after me, and place one of the
roses--whichever thou wilt--in my hands. Then run home thyself, with
the other. Farewell, little Angel-child. May the blessing of
Bethlehem's purple hills be ever thine."
The Bishop turned and paced slowly up the lawn, head bent, hands
clasped behind him.
The small bare feet made no sound on the turf. But before the Bishop
was half-way across the lawn, the stem of a rose was thrust between his
fingers. As they closed over it, a gay ripple of laughter sounded
behind him, fading fleetly into the distance.
The Angel-child had made her choice, and had flown with her own rose,
leaving the Bishop's destiny in his clasped hands.
Without pausing or looking round, he paced onward, gazing for a while
at the sparkling water; then beyond it, to the distant woods through
which the Knight was riding.
Presently he turned, still with his hands behind him, passed to the
garden-door, left standing wide, and entered the library.
But not until he kneeled before the shrine of Saint Joseph did he move
forward his right hand, and bring into view the rose placed therein by
Verity.
It was many years since the Bishop had wept. He had not thought ever
to weep again. Yet, at sight of the rose, plucked for him by the
Angel-child, something gave way within him, and he fell to weeping
helplessly.
Saint Joseph, bearded and stalwart, seemed to look down with compassion
upon the bowed head with its abundant silvery hair.
Even thus, it may be, had he himself wept when, after his time of hard
mental torture, the Angel of the Lord appeared unto him, saying: "Fear
not."
After a while the Bishop left the shrine, went over to the deed chest,
and laid the rose beside the white stone.
"There, my dear Hugh," he murmured; "thy stone, and my rose. Truly
they look well together. Each represents the triumph of firm resolve.
Yet mine will shortly fade and pass away; while thine, dear lad, will
abide forever."
The Bishop seated himself at his table, and sounded the silver gong.
A lay-brother appeared.
"_Benedicite_," said the Bishop. "Request Fra Andrea Filippo at once
to come hither. I must have speech with him, without delay."