The White Ladies of Worcester by Florence Louisa Barclay (young adult books to read .txt) 📖

brain took in its full import. Yet it was clear and unmistakable--a dispensation, signed and sealed by the Pope, releasing Mora, Countess of Norelle, from all vows and promises taken and made when she entered the Nunnery of the White Ladies of Worcester, at Whytstone, in the parish of dairies, and later on when she became Prioress of that same Nunnery; and furthermore stating that this full absolution was granted because it had been brought to the knowledge of His Holiness that this noble lady had entered the cloistered life owing to a wicked and malicious plot designed to wrest her castle and estates from her, and also to part her from a valiant Knight, at that time fighting in the Holy Wars, to whom she was betrothed.

Furthermore the deed empowered Symon, Bishop of Worcester or any priest he might appoint, to unite in marriage the Knight Crusader, Hugh d'Argent, and Mora de Norelle, sometime Prioress of the White Ladies of Worcester.

The Knight walked back to the hearth and stood before the Bishop, the parchment in his hand.

"My Lord Bishop," he said, "do I dream?"

Symon of Worcester smiled. "Nay, my son. Surely no dream of thine was ever signed by His Holiness, nor bore suspended from it the great seal of the Vatican! The document you hold will be sufficient answer to all questions, and will ensure your wife's position at Court and her standing in the outer world--should she elect to re-enter it.

"But whether she shall do this, or no, is not a matter upon which the Church would give a decisive or even an authoritative pronouncement; and the Holy Father adds, in, his letter to me, further important instructions.

"Firstly: that it must be the Prioress's own wish and decision, apart from any undue pressure from without, to resign her office and to accept this dispensation, freeing her from her vows.

"Secondly; that she must leave the Nunnery and the neighbourhood, secretly; if it be possible, appearing in her new position, as your wife, without much question being raised as to whence she came.

"Thirdly: that when her absence becomes known in the Nunnery, I am authorized solemnly to announce that she has been moved on by me, secretly, with the knowledge and approval of the Holy Father, to a place where she was required for higher service."

The Bishop smiled as he pronounced the final words. There was triumph in his eye.

The Knight still looked as if he felt himself to be dreaming; yet on his face was a great gladness of expectation.

"And, my lord," he exclaimed joyously, "what news for her! Shall you send it, in the morn, or yourself take it to her?"

The Bishop's lips were pressed against his finger-tips.

"I know not," he answered, slowly; "I know not that I shall either take or send it."

"But, my lord, surely! It will settle all doubts, solve all questions, remove all difficulties----"

"Tut! Tut! Tut!" exclaimed the Bishop. "Good heavens, man! Dare I wed you to a woman you know so little? Not for one instant, into her consideration of the matter, will have entered any question as to what Church or State might say or do. For her the question stands upon simpler, truer, lines, not involved by rule or dogma: 'Is it right for me, or wrong for me? Is it the will of God that I should do this thing?'"

"But if you tell her, my lord, of the Holy Father's dispensation and permission; what will she then say?"

"What will she then say?" Symon of Worcester softly laughed, as at something which stirred an exceeding tender memory. "She will probably say: 'You amaze me, my lord! Indeed, my lord, you amaze me! His Holiness the Pope may rule at Rome; _you_, my Lord Bishop, rule in the cities of this diocese; but _I_ rule in this Nunnery, and while I rule here, such a thing as this shall never be!'"

The Bishop gently passed his hands the one over the other, as was his habit when a recollection gave him keen mental pleasure.

"That is what the Prioress would probably say, my dear Knight, were I so foolish as to flaunt before her this most priceless parchment. And yet--I know not. It may be wise to send it, or to show it without much comment, simply in order that she may see the effect upon the mind of the Holy Father himself, of a full knowledge of the complete facts of the case."

"My lord," said the Knight, with much earnestness, "how came that full knowledge to His Holiness in Rome?"

"When first you came to me," replied the Bishop, "with this grievous tale of wrong and treachery, I knew that if you won your way with Mora, we must be armed with highest authority for the marriage and for her return to the world, or sorrow and much trial for her might follow, with, perhaps, danger for you. Therefore I resolved forthwith to lay the whole matter, without loss of time, before the Pope himself. I know the Holy Father well; his openness of mind, his charity and kindliness; his firm desire to do justly, and to love mercy. Moreover, his friendship for me is such, that he would not lightly refuse me a request. Also he would, of his kindness, incline to be guided by my judgment.

"Wherefore, no sooner were all the facts in my possession, those you told me, those I already knew, and those I did for myself deduce from both, than I sent for young Roger de Berchelai, whose wits and devotion I could safely trust, gave him all he would need for board and lodging, boats and steeds, that he might accomplish the journey in the shortest possible time, and despatched him to Rome with a written account of the whole matter, under my private seal, to His Holiness the Pope."

The Knight stood during this recital, his eyes fixed in searching question upon the Bishop's face.

Then: "My lord," he said, "such kindness on your part, passes all understanding. That you should have borne with me while I told my tale, was much. That you should tacitly have allowed me the chance to have speech with my betrothed, was more. But that, all this time, while I was giving you half-confidence, and she no confidence at all, you should have been working, spending, planning for us, risking much if the Holy Father had taken your largeness of heart and breadth of mind amiss! All this, you did, for Mora and for me! That you were, as you tell me, a frequent guest in my childhood's home, holding my parents in warm esteem, might account for the exceeding kindness of the welcome you did give me. But this generosity--this wondrous goodness--I stand amazed, confounded! That you should do so great a thing to make it possible that I should wed the Prioress-- It passes understanding!"

When Hugh d'Argent ceased speaking, Symon of Worcester did not immediately make reply. He sat looking into the fire, fingering, with his left hand, the gold cross at his breast, and drumming, with the fingers of his right, upon the carved lion's head which formed the arm of his chair.

It seemed as if the Bishop had, of a sudden, grown restive under the Knight's gratitude; or as if some train of thought had awakened within him, to which he did not choose to give expression, and which must be beaten back before he allowed himself to speak.

At length, folding his hands, he made answer to the Knight, still looking into the fire, a certain air of detachment wrapping him round, as with an invisible yet impenetrable shield.

"You overwhelm me, my dear Hugh, with your gratitude. It had not seemed to me that my action in this matter would demand either thanks or explanation. There are occasions when to do less than our best, would be to sin against all that which we hold most sacred. To my mind, the most useful definition of sin, in the sacred writings, is that of the apostle Saint James, most practical of all the inspired writers, when he said: 'To him that knoweth to do good, and doeth it not, to him it is sin.' I knew quite clearly the 'good' to be done in this case. Therefore no gratitude is due to me for failing to fall into the sin of omission.

"Also, my son, many who seem to deserve the gratitude of others, would be found not to deserve it, if the entire inward truth of motive could be fully revealed.

"With me it is well-nigh a passion that all good things should attain unto full completeness.

"It may be I was better able to give full understanding to your tale because, for love of a woman, I dwelt seven years in exile from this land, fearing lest my great love for her, which came to me all unsought, should--by becoming known to her--lead her young heart, as yet fresh and unawakened, to respond. There was never any question of breaking my vows; and I hold not with love-friendships between man and woman, there where marriage is not possible. They are, at best, selfish on the part of the man. They keep the woman from entering into her kingdom. The crown of womanhood is to bear children to the man she loves--to take her place in his home, as wife and mother. The man who cannot offer this, yet stands in the way of the man who can, is a poor and an unworthy lover."

The Bishop paused, unclasped his hands, withdrew his steadfast regard from the fire, and sat back in his chair. The stone in his ring gleamed blue, the colour of forget-me-nots beside a meadow brook.

Presently he looked at the silent Knight. There was a kindly smile, in his eyes, rather than upon his lips.

"It may be, my dear Hugh, that this heart discipline of mine--of which, by the way, I have never before spoken--has made me quick to understand the sufferings of other men. Also it may explain the great desire I always experience to see a truly noble woman come to the full completion of her womanhood.

"I returned to England not long after your betrothed had entered the cloistered life in the Whytstone Nunnery. I was appointed to this See of Worcester, which appointment gave me the spiritual control of the White Ladies. My friendship with the Prioress has been a source of interest, pleasure, and true helpfulness to myself and I trust to her also. I think I told you while we supped that, many years ago, I had known her at the Court when I was confessor to the Queen, and preceptor to her ladies. But no mention has ever been made between the Prioress and myself of any previous acquaintance. I doubt whether she recognised, in the frail, white-haired, old prelate who arrived from Italy, the vigorous, bearded priest known to her, in her girlhood's days, as"--the Bishop paused and looked steadily at the Knight--"as Father Gervaise."

"Father Gervaise!" exclaimed Hugh d'Argent, lifting his hand to cross himself as he named the Dead, yet arrested in this instinctive movement by something in those keen blue eyes. "Father Gervaise, my lord, perished in a stormy sea. The ship foundered, and none who