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

where Hugh d'Argent waited.

The Bishop led him, through a postern, into the garden; and there on a wide lawn, out of earshot of any possible listeners, the Bishop and the Knight walked up and down in earnest conversation.

At length: "To-morrow, in the early morn," said the Knight, "I send her tire-woman on to Warwick, with all her effects, keeping back only the riding suit. Should she elect to come, we must be free to ride without drawing rein. Even so we shall reach Warwick only something before midnight."

"She tore it up and planted her foot upon it," remarked the Bishop.

"I will not give up hope," said the Knight.

"Nothing short of a miracle, my son, will change her mind, or move her from her fixed resolve."

"Then our Lady will work a miracle," declared the Knight bravely. "I prayed 'Send her to me!' and our blessed Lady smiled."

"A sculptured smile, dear lad, is ever there. Had you prayed 'Hold her from me!' our Lady would equally have smiled."

"Nay," said the Knight; "I keep my trust in prayer."

They paused at the parapet overhanging the river.

"I was successful," said the Knight, "in dealing with Eustace, her nephew. There will be no need to apply to the King. The ambition was his mother's. Now Eleanor is dead, he cares not for the Castle. Next month he weds an heiress, with large estates, and has no wish to lay claim to Mora's home. All is now once more as it was when she left it. Her own people are in charge. I plan to take her there when we leave Warwick, riding northward by easy stages."

The Bishop, stooping, picked up a smooth, white stone, and flung it into the river. It fell with a splash, and sank. The water closed upon it. It had vanished instantly from view.

Then the Bishop spoke. "Hugh, my dear lad, she thought it was the Pope's own deed and signature, yet she tore it across, and then again across; flung it upon the ground, and set her foot upon it. I deem it now as impossible that the Prioress should change her mind upon this matter, as that we should ever see again that stone which now lies deep on the river-bed."

It was a high dive from the parapet; and, to the Bishop, watching the spot where the Knight cleft the water, the moments seemed hours.

But when the Knight reappeared, the white stone was in his hand.

The Bishop went down to the water-gate.

"Bravely done, my son!" he called, as the Knight swam to the steps. "You deserve to win."

But to himself he said: "Fighting men and quick-witted women will be ever with us, gaining their ends by strenuous endeavour. But the age of miracles is past."

Hugh d'Argent mounted the steps.

"I _shall_ win," he said, and shook himself like a great shaggy dog.

The Bishop, over whom fell a shower, carefully wiped the glistening drops from his garments with a fine Italian handkerchief.

"Go in, boy," he said, "and get dry. Send thy man for another suit, unless it would please thee better that Father Benedict should lend thee a cassock! Give me the stone. It may well serve as a reminder of that famous sacred stone from which the Convent takes its name. Methinks we have, between us, contrived something of an omen, concluding in thy favour."

Presently the Bishop, alone in his library, stood the white stone upon the iron-bound chest within which he had placed the Pope's mandate.

"The age of miracles is past," he said again. "Iron no longer swims, neither do stones rise from the depths of a river, unless the Divine command be supplemented by the grip of strong human fingers.

"Stand there, thou little tombstone of our hopes. Mark the place where lies the Holy Father's mandate, ecclesiastically all-powerful, yet rendered null and void by the faithful conscience and the firm will of a woman. God send us more such women!"

The Bishop sounded a silver gong, and when his body-servant appeared, pointed to the handkerchief, damp and crumpled, upon the table.

"Dry this, Jasper," he said, "and bring me another somewhat larger. These dainty trifles cannot serve, when 'tears run down like a river.' Nay, look not distressed, my good fellow. I do but jest. Yonder wet Knight hath given me a shower-bath."


CHAPTER XXIX


THE VISION OF MARY ANTONY

On the afternoon following the Bishop's unexpected visit to the Nunnery, the Prioress elected to walk last in the procession to and from the Cathedral, placing Mother Sub-Prioress first. It was her custom occasionally to vary the order of procession. Sometimes she walked thirteenth, with twelve before, and twelve behind her.

She had at first inclined on this day, after her strenuous time with the Bishop, followed by the hour's ride upon Icon, not to go to Vespers.

Then her heart failed her, and she went. On these two afternoons--this and the morrow--Hugh would still be in the crypt. She should not so much as glance toward the pillar at the foot of the winding stairway leading to the clerestory; yet it would be sweet to feel him to be standing there as she passed; sweet to know that he heard the same sounds as fell upon her ear.

To-day, and again on the morrow, she might yield to this yearning for the comfort of his nearness; but never again, for Hugh would not return.

She had wondered whether she dared ask him, by the Bishop, on a given date once a year to attend High Mass in the Cathedral, so that she might know him to be under the same roof, worshipping, at the same moment, the same blessed manifestation of the Divine Presence.

But almost at once she had dismissed the desire, realising that comfort such as this, could be comfort but to the heart of a woman, more likely torment to a man. Also that should his fancy incline him to seek companionship and consolation in the love of another, a yearly pilgrimage to Worcester for her sake, would stand in the way of his future happiness.

Walking last in that silent procession back to the Nunnery, the Prioress walked alone with her sadness. Her heart was heavy indeed.

She had angered her old friend, Symon of Worcester. After being infinitely patient, when he might well have had cause for wrath, he had suddenly taken a sterner tone, and departed in a certain aloofness, leaving her with the fear that she had lost him, also, beyond recall.

Thus she walked in loneliness and sorrow.

As she passed up the steps into the cloisters, she noted that Mary Antony was not in her accustomed place.

Slightly wondering, and half unconsciously explaining to herself that the old lay-sister had probably for some reason gone forward with the Sub-Prioress, the Prioress moved down the now empty passage and entered her own cell.

On the threshold she paused, astonished.

In front of the shrine of the Madonna, knelt Mary Antony in a kind of trance, hands clasped, eyes fixed, lips parted, the colour gone from her cheeks, yet a radiance upon her face, like the after-glow of a vision of exceeding glory.

She appeared to be wholly unconscious of the presence of the Prioress, who recovering from her first astonishment, closed the door, and coming forward laid her hand gently upon the old woman's shoulder.

Mary Antony's eyes remained fixed, but her lips moved incessantly. Bending over her, the Prioress could make out disjointed sentences.

"Gone! . . . But it was at our Lady's bidding. . . . Flown? Ah, gay little Knight of the Bloody Vest! Nay, it must have been the archangel Gabriel, or maybe Saint George, in shining armour. . . . How shall we live without the Reverend Mother? But the will of our blessed Lady must be done."

"Antony!" said the Prioress. "Wake up, dear Antony! You are dreaming again. You are thinking of the robin and the pea. I have not gone from you; nor am I going. See! I am here."

She turned the old face about, and brought herself into Mary Antony's field of vision.

Slowly a light of recognition dawned in those fixed eyes; then came a cry, as of fear and of a great dismay; then a gasping sound, a clutching of the air. Mary Antony had fallen prone, before the shrine of the Madonna.

An hour later she lay upon her bed, whither they had carried her. She had recovered consciousness, and partaken of wine and bread.

The colour had returned to her cheeks, when the Prioress came in, dismissed the lay-sister in attendance, closed the door, and sat down beside the couch.

"Thou art better, dear Antony," said the Prioress. "They tell me thy strength has returned, and this strange fainting is over. Thou must lie still yet awhile; but will it weary thee to speak?"

"Nay, Reverend Mother, I should dearly love to speak. My soul is full of wonder; yet to none saving to you, Reverend Mother, can I tell of that which I have seen."

"Tell me all, dear Antony," said the Prioress. "Sister Mary Rebecca says thy symptoms point to a Divine Vision."

Mary Antony chuckled. "For once Sister Mary Rebecca speaks the truth," she said. "Have patience with me, Reverend Mother, and I will tell you all."

The Prioress gently stroked the worn hands lying outside the coverlet.

Mary Antony looked very old in bed. Were it not for the bright twinkling eyes, she looked too old ever again to stand upon her feet. Yet how she still bustled upon those same old feet! How diligently she performed her own duties, and shewed to the other lay-sisters how they should have performed theirs!

Forty years ago, she had chosen her nook in the Convent burying-ground. She was even then, among the older members of the Community; yet most of those who saw her choose it, now lay in their own.

"She will outlive us all," said Mother Sub-Prioress one day, sourly; angered by some trick of Mary Antony's.

"She is like an ancient parrot," cried Sister Mary Rebecca, anxious to agree with Mother Sub-Prioress.

Which when Mary Antony heard, she chuckled, and snapped her fingers.

"Please God, I shall live long enough," she said, "to thrust Mother Sub-Prioress into a sackcloth shroud; also, to crack nuts upon the sepulchre of Sister Mary Rebecca."

But none of these remarks reached the Prioress. She loved the old lay-sister, knowing the aged body held a faithful and zealous heart, and a mind which, in its quaint simplicity, oft seemed to the Prioress like the mind of a little child--and of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.

"There is no need for patience, dear Antony," said the Prioress. "I can sit in stillness beside thee, until thy tale be fully told. Begin at the beginning."

The slanting rays of the late afternoon sun, piercing through the narrow window, fell in a golden band of light upon the folded hands, lighting up the aged face with an almost unearthly radiance.

"I was in the cloisters," began Mary