The White Ladies of Worcester, Florence Louisa Barclay [books to read in your 20s female .TXT] 📗

behind; and, without glancing to right or left, passed quickly in and out amongst the forest of columns, and was lost to view. The entrance he had to guard from within, was out of sight of the altar. To all intents and purposes, the two who still stood motionless in the shadow, were now alone.

Then the Knight turned to the Prioress, took her right hand with his left, and led her forward to the altar.

There he loosed her hand as they knelt side by side; he clasping his upon the crossed hilt of his sword; she crossing hers upon her breast.

Presently the Prioress drew the marriage ring from the third finger of her left hand, and gave it to the Knight.

Divining her desire, he rose, laid the ring upon the altar, then knelt again.

Then rising, he took the ring, kissed it reverently, and slipped it upon the little finger of his own left hand.

The sad eyes of the Prioress, watching him, said to this neither "yea" nor "nay."

Rising she waited meekly to know his will for her. The Knight, the blue cloak over his arm, turned to the stretcher, picked up the bandages, then, spoke, very low, without looking at the Prioress.

"Lay thyself down thereon," he said. "I grieve to ask it of thee, Mora; but there is no other way of taking thee hence, unobserved."

The Prioress took two steps forward, and stood beside the stretcher.

It was many years since she had lain in any human presence. Standing, walking, sitting, kneeling, she had been seen by the nuns; but lying--never.

Though her cross of office and sacred ring were gone, her dignity and authority seemed still to belong to her while she stood, stately and tall, upon her feet.

She hesitated. The apologetic tone the Knight had used, seemed warrant for her hesitancy, and rendered compliance more difficult.

Each moment it became more impossible to place herself upon the stretcher.

"Lie down," said the Knight, sternly.

At the curt word of command, the Prioress shuddered again; but, without a word, she laid herself down upon the stretcher, closing her eyes, and crossing her hands upon her breast. So white she was, so still, so rigid; as Hugh d'Argent, the bandages in his hand, stood looking down upon her, she seemed the marble effigy of a recumbent Prioress, graven upon a tomb; save that, as the Knight looked upon that beautiful, proud face, two burning tears forced their way from beneath the closed lids and rolled helplessly down the pale cheeks.

She did not see the look of tender compunction, of adoring love, in Hugh's eyes.

Her shame, her utter humiliation, seemed complete.

Not when she took off her jewelled cross, and placed it upon our Lady's hand; not when she stepped aside and allowed herself to be hidden by the cloak; not even when she removed her ring and handed it to Hugh, did she cease to be Prioress of the White Ladies of Worcester; but when she laid herself down before the shrine of Saint Oswald, full length upon the stretcher, at her lover's feet.

Hugh stooped, and hid the bandages beside her. He could not bring himself to touch or to disguise that lovely head. Instead, he covered her completely with the cloak; saying, in deep tones of infinite tenderness:

"Our Lady be with thee. It will not be for long."

Then, shrill through the silent crypt, rang the dear call of the blackbird.


CHAPTER XXXII


A GREAT RECOVERY AND RESTORATION

Symon, Bishop of Worcester, attended by his Chaplain, chanced to be walking through the Precincts on his way from the Priory to the Palace, just as the men-at-arms bearing the stretcher came through the great door of the Cathedral.

Father Benedict, cowled, and robed completely in black, a head and shoulders taller than the Bishop, walked behind him, a somewhat sinister figure.

The Bishop stopped. "Precede me to the Palace, Father Benedict," he said. "I wish to have speech with yonder Knight who, I think, comes this way."

The Chaplain stood still, made deep obeisance, jerked his cowl more closely over his face, and strode away.

The Bishop waited, a radiant figure, in the afternoon sunshine. His silken cassock, his silvery hair, his blue eyes, so vivid and searching, not only made a spot on which light concentrated, but almost seemed themselves to give forth light.

The steady tramp of the men-at-arms drew nearer.

Hugh d'Argent walked beside the stretcher, head erect, eyes shining, his hand upon the hilt of his sword.

When the Bishop saw the face of the Knight, he moved to meet the little procession as it approached.

He held up his hand, and the men-at-arms halted.

"Good-day to you, Sir Hugh," said the Bishop. "Hath your pilgrimage to the shrine of the blessed Saint Oswald worked the recovery you hoped?"

"Aye, my lord," replied the Knight, "a great recovery and restoration. We start for Warwick in an hour's time."

"Wonderful!" said the Bishop. "Our Lady and the holy Saint be praised! But you are wise to keep the patient well covered. However complete the restoration, great care is required at first, and over-exertion must be avoided."

"Your blessing for the patient, Reverend Father," said the Knight, uncovering.

The Bishop moved nearer. He laid his hand upon the form beneath the blue and silver cloak.

"_Benedictio Domini sit vobiscum_," he said. Then added, in a lower tone: "Be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed. . . . Go in peace."

The two men who loved the Prioress, looked steadily at one another.

The men-at-arms moved forward with their burden.

The Knight smiled as he walked on beside the stretcher.

The Bishop hastened to the Palace.

It was the Knight who had smiled, and there was glory in his eyes, and triumph in the squaring of his broad shoulders, the swing of his stride, and the proud poise of his head.

The Bishop was white to the lips. His hands trembled as he walked.

He feared--he feared sorely--this that they had accomplished.

It was one thing to theorize, to speculate, to advise, when the Prioress was safe in her Nunnery. It was quite another, to know that she was being carried through the streets of Worcester, helpless, upon a stretcher; that when that blue pall was lifted, she would find herself in a hostel, alone with her lover, surrounded by men, not a woman within call.

The heart of a nun was a thing well known to the Bishop, and he trembled at thought of this, which he had helped to bring about.

Also he marvelled greatly that the Prioress should have changed her mind; and he sought in vain to conjecture the cause of that change.

Arrived in the courtyard of the Palace, he called for Brother Philip.

"Saddle me Shulamite," he said. "Also mount Jasper on our fastest nag, with saddle-bags. We ride to Warwick; and must start within a quarter of an hour."

A portion of that time the Bishop spent writing in the library.

When he was mounted, he stooped from the saddle and spoke to Brother Philip.

"Philip," he said, "a very noble lady, betrothed to Sir Hugh d'Argent, has just arrived at the Star hostel, where for some days he has awaited her. She rides with the Knight forthwith to Warwick, where they will join me at the Castle. It is my wish to lend Iconoklastes to the lady. Therefore I desire thee to saddle the palfrey precisely as he was saddled when he went to the Convent of the White Ladies for their pleasuring and play. Lead him, without delay, to the hostel; deliver him over to the men-at-arms of Sir Hugh d'Argent, and see that they hand this letter at once to the Knight, that he may give it to his lady. Lose not a moment, my good Philip. Look to see me return to-morrow."

The Bishop gathered up the reins, and started out, at a brisk pace, for the Warwick road.

The letter he had intrusted to Brother Philip, sealed with his own signet, was addressed to Sir Hugh d'Argent. But within was written:

_Will the Countess of Norelle be pleased to accept of the palfrey Iconoklastes as a marriage gift from her old friend Symon Wygorn._


CHAPTER XXXIII


MARY ANTONY HOLDS THE FORT

Mary Antony awaited in the cloisters the return of the White Ladies from Vespers.

The old lay-sister was not in the mood for gay chatter to the robin, nor even for quaint converse with herself.

She sat upon the stone seat, looking very frail, and wearing a wistful expression, quite unlike her usual alert demeanour.

As she sat, she slowly dropped the twenty-five peas from her right hand, to her left, and back again.

A wonderful thing had happened on that afternoon, just before the White Ladies set forth to the Cathedral.

All were assembling in the cloisters, when word arrived that the Reverend Mother wished to speak, in her cell, with Sister Mary Antony.

Hastening thither she found the Reverend Mother standing, very white and silent, very calm and steadfast, looking out from the oriel window.

At first she did not turn; and Mary Antony stood waiting, just within the doorway.

Then she turned, and said: "Ah, dear Antony!" in tones which thrilled the heart of the old lay-sister.

"Come hither, Antony," she said; and even as she said it, moved to meet her.

A few simple instructions she gave, concerning matters in the Refectory and kitchen. Then said: "Now I must go. The nuns wait."

Then of a sudden she put her arms about the old lay-sister.

"Good-bye, my Antony," she said. "Thy love and devotion have been very precious to me. The Presence of the Lord abide with thee in blessing, while we are gone."

And, stooping, she kissed her gently on the brow; then passed from the cell.

Mary Antony stood as one that dreamed.

It was so many years since any touch of tenderness had reached her.

And now--those gracious arms around her; those serene eyes looking upon her with love in their regard, and a something more, which her old heart failed to fathom; those lips, whose every word of command she and the whole Community hastened to obey, leaving a kiss upon her brow!

Long after the White Ladies had formed into procession and left the cloisters, Mary Antony stood as one that dreamed. Then, remembering her duties, she hurried to the cloisters, but found them empty; down the steps to the crypt passage; the door was locked on the inside; the key gone.

The procession had started, and Mary Antony had failed to be at her post. The White Ladies had departed uncounted. Mary Antony had not been there to count them.

Never before had the Reverend Mother sent for her when she should have been on duty elsewhere.

Hastening to remedy her failure, Mary Antony drew the bag of peas from her wallet, opened it, and hurrying from cell to cell, took out a pea at each, as she verified its emptiness; until five-and-twenty peas lay in her hand.

So now she waited, her error repaired; yet ever with her--then, as