I have but kept her for thee."

"What say you to that, Reverend Father?" exclaimed Mora, concluding.

"I scarce know what to say," replied the Bishop. "For lack of anything better, I fall back upon my favourite motto, and I say: 'Love never faileth.'"

Now, generally, she delighted in the exceeding aptness of the Bishop's quotations; but this time it seemed to Mora that his favourite motto bore no sort of relevance.

She felt, with a chill of disappointment and a sense of vexation, that the Bishop's mind had been so intent upon the fruit, that he had not fully taken in the wonder of the vision.

"It has naught to do with love, my lord," she said, rather coldly; "unless you mean the divine lovingkindness of our blessed Lady."

"Precisely," replied the Bishop, leaning back in his seat, and at length looking straight into Mora's earnest eyes. "The divine lovingkindness of our blessed Lady never faileth."

"You agree, my lord, that the vision shed a clear light upon all my perplexities?"

"Absolutely clear," replied the Bishop. "The love which arranged the vision saw to that. Revelations, my daughter, are useless unless they are explicit. Had our Lady merely waved her marble hand, instead of stooping to take yours and place it in that of the Knight, you might have thought she was waving him away, and bidding you to remain. If her marble hand moved at all, it is well that it moved in so definite and practical a manner."

"It seems to me, Reverend Father," said Mora, leaning upon the table, her face framed in her hands, and looking with knitted brows at the Bishop; "it almost seems to me that you regard the entire vision with a measure of secret incredulity."

"Nay, my daughter, there you mistake. On the contrary I am fully convinced, by that which you tell me, that the ancient babe, Mary Antony, was undoubtedly permitted to see you and your knightly lover kneeling hand in hand before our Lady's shrine; also I praise our blessed Lady that by vouchsafing this sight to Mary Antony, and by allowing her to hear words which you yourself know to have been in very deed actually spoken, your mind has been led to accept as the divine will for you, this return to the world and union with your lover, which will, I feel sure, be not only for your happiness and his, but also a fruitful source of good to many. Yet, I admit----"

The Bishop paused, and considered; as if anxious to say just so much, and neither more nor less. Continuing, he spoke slowly, weighing each word. "Yet, I frankly admit, I would sooner for mine own guidance listen for the Voice of G.o.d within, or learn His will from the written Word, than ask for miraculous signs, or act upon the visions of others.

"No doubt you read, in the Chronicle I lately lent you, how 'in the year of our Lord eleven hundred and thirty-seven--that time of many sorrows, of burning, pillaging, rapine and torture, when the city of York was burned together with the princ.i.p.al monastery; the city of Rochester was consumed; also the Church of Bath, and the city of Leicester; when owing to the absence of King Stephen abroad and the mildness of his rule when at home, the barons greatly oppressed and ill-used the Church and the people--while many were standing at the Celebration of Ma.s.s at Windsor, they beheld the Crucifix, which was over the altar, moving and wringing its hands, now the right hand with the left, now the left with the right, after the manner of those who are in distress.'

"This wondrous sight convinced those who saw it that the crucified Redeemer sympathised with the grievous sorrows of the land.

"But no carven crucifix, wringing its hands before a gazing crowd, could so deeply convince me of the sympathy of the Redeemer as to sit alone in mine own chamber and read from the book of Isaiah the Prophet: 'Surely He hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows.'"

Mora's brow cleared.

"I think I understand, my lord; and that you should so feel, helps me to confess to you a thing which I have scarce dared admit to myself. I found it difficult in mine own soul to attach due weight to our blessed Lady's words as heard by Mary Antony. Mine own test--the robin's flight, straight from the hand of the Madonna to the world without--spoke with more sense of truth to my heart. I blame myself for this; but so it is. Yet it was the vision which decided me as to my clear path of duty."

"Doubtless," remarked the Bishop, "the medium of Mary Antony took from the solemnity of the p.r.o.nouncement. There would be a twist of quaintness in even the holiest vision, as described by the old lay-sister."

"Nay, my lord," said Mora. "Truth to tell, it was not so. Once fairly started on the telling, she seemed lifted into a strange sublimity of utterance. I marvelled at it, and at the unearthly radiance of her face. At the end, I thought she slept; but later I heard from the Sub-Prioress that she was found swooning before the crucifix and they had much ado to bring her round.

"My lord, my heart fails me when I think to-day of my empty cell, and of the sore perplexity of my nuns. How soon will it be possible that you see them and put the matter right, by giving the Holy Father's message?"

"So soon as you are wed, my daughter, I ride back to Worcester. I shall endeavour to reach the Convent before the hour when they leave for Vespers."

"May I beg, my lord, that you speak a word of especial kindness to old Antony, whose heart will be sore at my departure? I had thought to bid her be silent concerning the vision; but as she declares the shining Knight was Saint George or Saint Michael, the nuns, in their devout simplicity, will doubtless hold the vision to have been merely symbolic of my removal to 'higher service.'"

"I will seek old Antony," said the Bishop, "and speak with her alone."

"Father," said Mora, with deep emotion, "during all these years, you have been most good to me; kind beyond words; patient always. I fear I ofttimes tried you by being too firmly set on my own will and way.

But, I pray you to believe, I ever valued your counsel and could scarce have lived without your friendship. Last night, on first entering the Castle, I fear I spoke wildly and acted strangely. I was sore overwrought. I came in, out of the night, not knowing whom I should find in the hall chamber; and--for a moment, my lord, for one wild, foolish moment--I took you not for yourself but for another."

"For whom did you take me, my daughter?" asked the Bishop.

"For one of whom you have oft reminded me, my lord, if I may say so without offence, seeing I speak of a priest who was the ideal of my girlhood's dreams. Knew you, many years ago, one Father Gervaise, held in high regard at the Court, confessor to the Queen and her ladies?"

The Bishop smiled, and his blue eyes looked into Mora's with an expression of quiet interest.

"Father Gervaise?" he said. "Preacher at the Court? Indeed, I knew him, my daughter; and more than knew him. Father Gervaise and I had the same grandparents."

"Ah," cried Mora, eagerly, "then that accounts for a resemblance which from the first has haunted me, making of our friendship, at once, so sweetly intimate a thing. The voice and the eyes alone were like--but, ah, so like! Father Gervaise wore a beard, which hid his mouth and chin; but his blue eyes had in them that kindly yet searching look, though not merry as yours oft are, my lord; and your voice has ever made me think of his.

"And once--just once--his eyes looked at me, across the Castle hall at Windsor, with a deep glow of fire in them; a look which made me feel called to an altar whereon, if I could but stand the test of fire, I should be forever purified, uplifted, blest as was never earthly maid before, save only our blessed Lady. All that night I dreamed of it, and my whole soul was filled with it, yet never again did I see Father Gervaise. The next morning he left the Court, and soon after sailed for Spain; and on the pa.s.sage thither the ship foundered in a great storm, and he, with all on board, perished. Heard you of that, my lord?"

"I heard it," said the Bishop.

"All believed it, and mourned him; for by all he was beloved. But never could I feel that he was dead. Always for me it seemed that he still lived. And last night--when I entered--across the great hall chamber, it seemed as if, once more, the eyes of Father Gervaise looked upon me, with that glowing fire in them, which called me to an altar."

The Bishop smiled again, and there was in his look a gentle merriment.

"You were over-strained, my daughter. When you drew near, you found--instead of a ghostly priest with eyes of fire, drowned many years ago, off the coast of Spain--your old friend, Symon of Worcester, who had stolen a march on you, by reason of the swift paces of his good mare, Shulamite."

Mora leaned forward, and laid her hand on his.

"Mock not, my friend," she said. "There was a time when Father Gervaise stood to me for all my heart held dearest. Yet I loved him, not as a girl loves a man, but rather as a nun loves her Lord. He stood to me for all that was n.o.blest and best; and, above all, for all that was vital and alive in life and in religion; strong to act; able to endure. He confessed me once, and told me, when I kneeled before the crucifix, to say of Him Who hangs thereon: 'He ever liveth to make intercession for us.' Never have I forgotten it. And--sometimes--when I say the sacred words, and, saying them, my mind turns to Father Gervaise, an echo seems to whisper to my spirit: '_He, also, liveth_.'"

Symon of Worcester rose.

"My daughter," he said, "the sun is high in the heavens. We must not linger here. Hugh will be seeking his bride, and Mistress Deborah be waxing anxious over the escape of her charge. The morning meal will be ready in the banqueting hall; after which we must to the chapel, for the marriage. Then, without delay, I ride to Worcester to make all right at the Nunnery. Let us go."

As Mora walked beside him across the sunny lawn, "Father," she said, "think you the heart of a nun can ever become again as the heart of other women?"

CHAPTER x.x.xVI

STRONG TO ACT; ABLE TO ENDURE

Back to Worcester rode the Bishop.

Gallop! Gallop! along the gra.s.sy rides, beside the hard highway.

Hasten good Shulamite, black and comely still, though flecked with foam.

Important work lies ahead. Every moment is precious.

If Mother Sub-Prioress should send to the Palace, mischief will be done, which it will not be easy to repair.

If news of the flight of the Prioress reaches the city of Worcester, a hundred tongues, spiteful, ignorant, curious, or merely idle, will at once start wagging.

Gallop, gallop, Shulamite!

How impossible to overtake a rumour, if it have an hour's start of you.

As well attempt to catch up the water which first rushed through the sluice-gates, opened an hour before you reached the dam.