"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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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, pa.s.ses 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 pa.s.ses 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 grat.i.tude; 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 grat.i.tude. 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 grat.i.tude is due to me for failing to fall into the sin of omission.

"Also, my son, many who seem to deserve the grat.i.tude 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 pa.s.sion 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 n.o.ble 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 sailed in her were seen again."

The Knight spoke with conviction; yet, even as he spoke, the amazing truth rushed in upon him, and struck him dumb. Of a sudden he knew why the Bishop's eyes had instantly won his fearless confidence. A trusted friend of his childhood had looked out at him from their dear depths.

Often he had searched his memory, since the Bishop had claimed knowledge of him in his boyhood, and had marvelled that no recollection of Symon as a guest in his parents' home came back to him.

Now--in this moment of revelation--how clearly he could see the figure of the famous priest, in brown habit, cloak, and hood, a cord at his waist, with tonsured head, full brown beard, and sandalled feet, pacing the great hall, standing in the armoury, or climbing the c.u.mberland hills to visit the chapel of the Holy Mount and the hermit who dwelt beside it.

As is the way with childhood's memories, the smallest, most trivial details leapt up vivid, crystal clear. The present was forgotten, the future disregarded, in the sudden intimate dearness of that long-ago past.

The Bishop allowed time for this realisation. Then he spoke.

"True, the ship foundered, Hugh; true, none who sailed in her were seen again. And, if I tell you that one swimmer, after long buffeting, was flung up on a rocky coast, lay for many weeks sick unto death in a fisherman's humble cot, rose at last the frail shadow of his former self, to find that his hair had turned white in that desperate night, to find that none knew his name nor his estate, that--leaving Father Gervaise and his failures at the bottom of the ocean--he could shave his beard, and make his way to Rome under any name he pleased; if I tell you all this, I trust you with a secret, Hugh, known to one other only, during all these years--His Holiness, the Pope."

"Father!" exclaimed the Knight, with deep emotion; "Father"-- Then, his voice broke. He dropped on one knee in front of the Bishop, and clasped the bands stretched out to him.

What strange thing had happened? One, greatly loved and long mourned, had risen from the dead; yet she who had best loved and most mourned him, had herself pa.s.sed to the Realm of Shadows, and was not here to wonder and to rejoice.

"Father," said Hugh, when he could trust his voice, "in her last words to me, my mother spoke of you. I went to her chamber to bid her sleep well, and together we knelt before the crucifix. 'Let us repeat,'

whispered my mother, 'those holy words of comfort which Father Gervaise ever bid his penitents to say, as they kneeled before the dying Redeemer.' 'Mother,' said I, 'I know them not.' 'Thou wert so young, my son,' she said, 'when Father Gervaise last was with us.' 'Tell me the words,' I said; 'I should like well to have them from thy lips.'

So, lifting her eyes to the dead Christ, my mother said, with awe and reverence in her voice and a deep gladness on her face: 'He--ever--liveth--to make intercession for us.' And, in the dawn of the new day, her spirit pa.s.sed."

The Bishop laid his hand upon the Knight's bowed head. "My son," he said, "of all the women I have known, thy gentle mother bore the most beautiful and saintly character. I would there were more such as she, in our British homes."

"Father," said Hugh, brokenly, "knew you how much she had to bear? My father's fierce feuds with all, shut her up at last to utter loneliness. His anger against Holy Church and his contempt of Her priests, cost my mother the comfort of your visits. His life-long quarrel with Earl Eustace de Norelle caused that our families, though dwelling within a three hours' ride, were allowed no intercourse.

Never did I enter Castle Norelle until I rode up from the South, with a message for Mora from the King. And, to this day, Mora has never been within the courtyard of my home! When we were betrothed, I dared not tell my parents--though Earl Eustace and his Countess both were dead--lest my father's wrath might reach Mora, when I had gone. News of his death, chancing to me in a far-off land, brought me home. And truly, it was home indeed, at last! Peace and content, where always there had been turbulence and strain. Father, I tell you this because I know my gentle mother feared you did not understand, and that you may have thought her love for you had failed."

Symon of Worcester smiled.

"Dear lad," he said, "I understood."

"Ah why," cried Hugh, with sudden pa.s.sion, "why should a woman's whole life be spoiled, and other lives be darkened and made sad, just by the angry, churlish, sullen whims of----"

"Hush, boy!" said the Bishop, quickly. "You speak of your father, and you name the Dead. Something dies in the Living, each time they speak evil of the Dead. I knew your father; and, though he loved me not, yet, to be honest, I must say this of him: Sir Hugo was a good man and true; upright, and a man of honour. He carried his shield untarnished.

If he was feared by his friends, he was also feared by his foes. Brave he was and fearless. One thing he lacked; and often, alas, they who lack just one thing, lack all.

"Hugo d'Argent knew not love for his fellow-men. To be a man, was to earn his frown; all things human called forth his disdain. To view the same landscape, breathe the same air, in fact walk the same earth as he, was to stand in his way, and raise his ire. Yet in his harsh, vexed manner he loved his wife, and loved his little son. Nor had he any self-conceit. He realised in himself his own worst foe. Lest we fall into this snare, it is well daily to pray: 'O Lover of Mankind, grant unto me truly to love my fellow-men; to honour them, until they prove worthless; to trust them, until they prove faithless; and ever to expect better of them, than I expect of myself; to think better of them, than I think of myself.' Let us go through life, my son, searching for good in others, not for evil; we may miss the good, if we search not for it; the evil, alas, will find us, quite soon enough, unsought."

Suddenly Hugh lifted his head.

"Father," he said, "the starling! Mind you the starling with the broken wing, which you and I found in the woods and carried home; and you did set his wing, and tamed him, and taught him to say 'Hugh'?

Each time I brought him food, you said: 'Hugh! Hugh!' And soon the starling, seeing me coming, also said: 'Hugh! Hugh!' Do you remember, Father?"

"I do remember," said the Bishop. "I see thee now, coming across the courtyard, bread and meat in thy hands--a little lad, bareheaded in the sunshine, glowing with pleasure because the starling ran to meet thee, shouting 'Hugh!'"

"Then listen, dear Father. (Ah, how often have I wished to tell you this!) Soon after you were gone, that starling rudely taught me a hard lesson. Gaining strength, one day he left the courtyard, ran through the b.u.t.tery, and wandered in the garden. I followed, whistling and watching. It greatly delighted the bird to find himself on turf.

There had been rain. The gra.s.s was wet. Presently a rash worm, gliding from its hole, adventured forth. The starling ran to the worm, calling it 'Hugh.' 'Hugh! Hugh!' he cried, and tugged it from the earth. 'Hugh! Hugh!' and pecked it, where helpless it lay squirming.

Then, shouting 'Hugh!' once more, gobbled it down. I stood with heavy heart, for I had thought that starling loved me with a true, personal love, when he ran at my approach shouting my name. Yet now I knew it was the food I carried, he called 'Hugh'; it was the food, not me, he loved. Glad was I when, his wing grown strong, he flew away. It cut me to the heart to hear the worms, the grubs, the snails, the caterpillars, all called 'Hugh'!"

The Bishop smiled, then sighed. "Poor little eager heart," he said, "learning so hard a lesson, all alone! Yet is it a lesson, lad, sooner or later learned in sadness by all generous hearts. . . . And now, leaving the past, with all its memories, let us return to the present, and face the uncertain future. Also, dear Knight, I must ask you to remember, even when we are alone, that your old friend, Father Gervaise, in his brown habit, lies at the bottom of the ocean; yet that your new friend, Symon of Worcester, holds you and your interests very near his heart."

The Bishop put out his hand.

Hugh seized and kissed it, knowing this was his farewell to Father Gervaise.