Notwithstanding the fatigue of the previous day, the strain and stress of heart, and the late hour at which she had at length fallen asleep, the mental habit of years overcame the physical need of further slumber.

Her first conscious thought was for the rope which worked over a pulley through a hole in the wall of her cell, enabling her from, within to ring the great bell in the passage, thus rousing the entire community. It had been her invariable habit to do this herself. She liked the nuns to feel that the call to begin a new day came to them from the hand of their Prioress. Realising the difficulty of early rising, especially after night vigils, it pleased her that her nuns should know that the fact of the bell resounding through the Convent proved that the Reverend Mother was already on her feet.

Yet now, looking toward the door, she could see no rope. And what meant those sumptuous tapestry hangings?

She leapt from her couch, and gazed around her.

Why fell her hair about her, as a golden cloud?—that beautiful hair, which in some Orders would have been shorn from her head; and, in this, must ever be closely braided, covered, and never seen. Still half-bewildered, she flung it back; gazing at the unfamiliar, yet well-remembered, garments laid ready for her use.

Sometimes she had had such dreams as this—dreams in which she was back in the world, wearing its garments, tasting its pleasures, looking again upon forbidden things.

Why should she not now be dreaming?

Then a sound fell upon her ear; a sound, long forgotten, yet so familiar that as she heard it, she felt herself a child at home again—the soft, contented snoring of old Debbie, fast asleep.

Sound is ever more convincing than sight. The blind live in a world of certainties. Not so, the deaf.

Mora needed not to turn and view the comely countenance of her old nurse sleeping upon a couch in a corner. At sound of that soft purring snore, she knew all she needed to know—knew she was no longer Prioress, knew she had renounced her vows; knew that even now the Convent was waking and wondering, as last night it must have marvelled and surmised, and to-morrow would question and condemn; knew that this was her wedding morn; that this robe of softest white, with jewelled girdle, and jewelled circlet to crown her hair, were old Debbie's choice for her of suitable attire in which to stand beside her bridegroom at the altar.

Passing into an alcove, she bathed and clothed herself, even putting on the jewelled band to clasp the shining softness of her hair. Debbie's will on these points had never been disputed, and truly it mattered little to Mora what she wore, since wimple and holy veil were forever laid aside.

She passed softly from the chamber, without awakening the old nurse, made her way down a winding stair, out through a postern door, and so into the gardens bathed in early morning sunshine.

Seeking to escape observation from the Castle walls or windows, she made her way through a rose-garden to where a high yew hedge surrounded a bowling-green. At the further end of this secluded place stood a rustic summer-house, now a veritable bower of yellow roses.

Bending her head, Mora passed through an archway of yew, down three stone steps, and so on to the lawn.

Then, out from the arbour stepped the Bishop, in his violet cassock and biretta, his breviary in his hand.

If this first sight of Hugh's bride, in bridal array, on her wedding morning, surprised or stirred him, he gave no sign of unusual emotion.

As he came to meet her, his lips smiled kindly, and in his eyes was that half whimsical, half tender look, she knew so well. He might have been riding into the courtyard of the Nunnery, and she standing on the steps to receive him, so natural was his greeting, so wholly as usual did he appear.

"You are up betimes, my daughter, as I guessed you would be; also you have come hither, as I hoped you might do. Am I the first to wish you joy, on this glad day?"

"The first," she said. "Even my good Deborah slept through my rising. I woke at the accustomed hour, to ring the Convent bell, and found myself Prioress no longer, but bride—an earthly bride—expected to deck herself with jewels for an earthly bridal."

"'Even the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is in the sight of God of great price,'" quoted, the Bishop, a retrospective twinkle in his eye.

"Alas, my lord, I fear that ornament was never mine."

"Yet you must wear it now, my daughter. I have heard it is an ornament greatly admired by husbands."

Standing in the sunlight, all unconscious of her wondrous beauty, she opened startled eyes on him; then dropped to her knees upon the turf. "Your blessing, Reverend Father," she said, and there was a wild sob in her voice. "Oh, I entreat your blessing, on this my bridal day!"

The Bishop laid his hands upon the bright coronet of her hair, and blessed her with the threefold Aaronic blessing; then raised her, and bade her walk with him across the turf.

Into the arbour he led her, beneath a cascade of fragrant yellow roses. There, upon a rustic table was spread a dainty repast—new milk, fruit freshly gathered, white rolls, and most golden pats of butter, the dew of the dairy yet upon them.

"Come, my daughter," said Symon of Worcester, gaily. "We of the Church, who know the value of these early hours, let us break our fast together."

"Is it magic, my lord?" she asked, suddenly conscious of unmistakable hunger.

"Nay," said the Bishop, "but I was out a full hour ago. And the dairy wench was up before me. So between us we contrived this simple repast."

So, while the bridegroom and old Deborah still slumbered and slept, the bride and the Bishop broke their fast together in a bower of roses; and his eyes were the eyes of a merry schoolboy out on a holiday; and the colour came back to her cheeks and she smiled and grew light-hearted, as always in their long friendship, when he came to her in this gay mood.

Yet, presently, when she had eaten well, and seemed strengthened and refreshed, the Bishop leaned back in his seat, saying with sudden gravity:

"And now, my daughter, will you tell me how it has come to pass that you have been led to feel it right to take this irrevocable step, renouncing your vows, and keeping your troth to Hugh? When last we spoke together you declared that naught would suffice but a clear sign, vouchsafed you from our Lady herself, making it plain that your highest duty was to Hugh, and that Heaven absolved you from your vows. Was such a sign vouchsafed?"

"Indeed it was, my lord, in wondrous fashion, our Lady choosing as the mouthpiece of her will, by means of a most explicit and unmistakable revelation, one so humble and so simple, that I could but exclaim: 'Thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes.'"

"And who," asked the Bishop, his eyes upon a peach which he was peeling with extreme care; "who, my daughter, was the babe?"

"The old lay-sister, Mary Antony."

"Ah," murmured the Bishop, "an ancient babe. Yet truly, a most worthy babe. Almost, I should be inclined to say, a wise and prudent babe."

"Nay, my Lord Bishop," cried Mora, with a sharp decision of tone which made it please him to imagine that, should he look up from the peach, he would see the severe lines of the wimple and scapulary: "you and I were the wise and prudent, arguing for and against, according to our own theories and reason. But to this babe, our Lady vouchsafed a clear vision."

"Tell me of it," said the Bishop, splitting his peach and removing the stone which he carefully washed, and slipped into his sash. The Bishop always kept peach stones, and planted them.

She told him. She began at the beginning, and told him all, to the minutest detail; the full description of Hugh—the amazingly correct repetition, in the vision, of the way in which she and Hugh had actually kneeled together before the shrine of the blessèd Virgin, of their very words and actions; and, finally, the sublime and gracious tenderness of our Lady's pronouncement, clearly heard at the close of the vision, by the old lay-sister: "Take her; she hath been ever thine. 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 blessèd 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 blessèd 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 blessèd 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 God 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 principal 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 Mass 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 blessèd 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 pronouncement. 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 blessèd 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 passage 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 belovèd. 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 noblest 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 XXXVI

STRONG TO ACT; ABLE TO ENDURE

Back to Worcester rode the Bishop.

Gallop! Gallop! along the grassy 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.

How impossible to remake a reputation once broken. Before the priceless Venetian goblet fell from the table on to the flagged floor, one hand put forth in time might have hindered its fall. But—failing that timely hand—when, a second later, it lies in a hundred pieces, the hands of the whole world are powerless to make it again as it was before it fell.

Faster, faster, Shulamite!

When the messenger of Mother Sub-Prioress reports the absence of the Bishop, he will most certainly be sent in haste to Father Benedict, who will experience a sinister joy at the prospect of following his long nose into the Prioress's empty cell, who will scent out scandal where there is but a fragrance of lilies, and tear to pieces Mora's reputation, with as little compunction as a wolf tears a lamb.

Gallop, gallop, Shulamite! If no hand be put forth to save it, between Mother Sub-Prioress and Father Benedict, this crystal bowl will be broken into a hundred pieces.

At length the Bishop drew rein, and walked his mare a mile. He had left Warwick ten miles behind him. He would soon be half-way to Worcester.

He had left Warwick behind him!

It seemed to the Bishop that, ever since he had first known Mora de Norelle, he had always been riding away and leaving behind.

For her sake he rode away, leaving behind the Court, his various offices, his growing influence and popularity.

For her sake he left his identity as Father Gervaise at the bottom of the ocean, taking up his life again, in Italy, under his other name.

For her sake, when he heard that she had entered the Convent of the White Ladies, he obtained the appointment to the see of Worcester, leaving the sunny land he loved, and the prospect of far higher preferment there.

And now for her sake he rode away from Warwick as fast as steed could carry him, leaving her the bride of another, in whose hand he had himself placed hers, pronouncing the Church's blessing upon their union.

Riding away—leaving behind; leaving behind—riding away. This was what his love had ever brought him.

Yet he felt rich to-day, finding himself in possession of the certain knowledge that he had been right in judging necessary, that first departure into exile long years ago.

For had not Mora told him—little dreaming to whom she spoke—that there was a time when he had stood to her for all her heart held dearest; yet that she had loved him, not as a girl loves a man, but rather as a nun loves her Lord.

But surely a man would need to be divine to be so loved, and to hold such love aright. And, even then, when that other man arrived who would fain woo her to love him as a girl loves a man, would her heart be free to respond to the call of nature? Nay. To all intents and purposes, her heart would be a cloistered thing; yet would she be neither bride of Christ nor bride of man. The fire in his eyes would indeed have called her to an altar, and the sacrifice laid thereon would be the full completion of her womanhood.

"I did well to pass into exile," said the Bishop, reviewing the past, as he rode. Yet deep in his heart was the comfort of those words she had said: that once he had stood to her for all her heart held dearest. Mora, the girl, had felt thus; Mora, the woman, remembered it; and the Bishop, as he thought of both, offered up a thanksgiving that neither he nor Father Gervaise had done aught which was unworthy of the ideal of her girlhood's dream.

Gathering up the reins, he urged Shulamite to a rapid trot. There must be no lingering by the way.

Hasten, Shulamite! Even now the sluice-gates may be opening. Even now the crystal bowl may be slipping from its pedestal, presently to lie in a hundred fragments on the ground.

Nay, trotting will scarce do. Gallop, gallop, brave black mare!

The city walls are just in sight.

Well done!

* * * * * *

Not far from the Convent gate, the Bishop chanced, by great good fortune, upon Brother Philip, trying in the meadows the paces of a young horse, but lately purchased.

The Bishop bade the lay-brother ride with him to the Nunnery and, so soon as he should have dismounted, lead Shulamite to the Palace stables, carefully feed and tend her; then bring him out a fresh mount.

As they rode forward: "Hath any message arrived at the Palace from the Convent, Philip?" inquired the Bishop.

"None, my lord."

"Or at the Priory?"

"Nay, my lord. But I did hear, at the Priory, a strange rumour"–

"Rumours are rarely worth regarding or repeating, Brother Philip."

"True, my lord. Yet having so lately aided her to ride upon Icon"–

"'Her'? With whom then is rumour making free? And what saith this Priory rumour concerning 'her'?"

"They say the old lay-sister, Mary Antony, hath fled the Convent."

"Mary Antony!" exclaimed the Bishop, and his voice held the most extraordinary combination of amazement, relief, and incredulity. "But, in heaven's name, good brother, wherefore should the old lay-sister leave the Convent?"

"They say she was making her way into the city in search of you, my lord; but she hath not reached the Palace."

"Any other rumour, Philip?"

"Nay, my lord, none; save that the Prioress is distraught with anxiety concerning the aged nun, and has commanded that the underground way to the Cathedral crypt be searched; though, indeed, the porteress confesses to having let Sister Mary Antony out at the gate."

"Rumour again," said the Bishop, "and not a word of truth in it, I warrant. Deny it, right and left, my good Philip; and say, on my authority, that the Reverend Mother hath most certainly not caused the crypt way to be searched. I would I could lay hands on the originator of these foolish tales."

The Bishop spoke with apparent vexation, but his heart had bounded in the upspring of a great relief. Was he after all in time to save with outstretched hand that most priceless crystal bowl?

The Bishop dismounted outside the Convent gate. He took Shulamite's nose into his hand, and spoke gently in her ear.

Then: "Lead her home, Philip," he said, "and surround her with tenderest care. Her brave heart hath done wonders this day. It is for us to see that her body doth not pay the penalty. Here! Take her rein, and go."

Mary Mark looked out through the wicket, in response to a knocking on the door. She gasped when she saw the Lord Bishop, on foot, without the gate.

Quickly she opened, wide, and wider; hiding her buxom form behind the door.

But the Bishop had no thought for Mary Mark, nor inclination to play hide-and-seek with a conscience-stricken porteress.

Avoiding the front entrance, he crossed the courtyard to the right, passed beneath the rose-arch, along the yew walk, and over the lawn, to the seat under the beech, where two days before he had awaited the coming of the Prioress.

Here he paused for a moment, looking toward the silent cloisters, and picturing her tall figure, her flowing veil and stately tread, advancing toward him over the sunny lawn.

Yet no. Even in these surroundings he could not see her now as Prioress. Even across the Convent lawn there moved to meet him the lovely woman with jewelled girdle, white robe, and coronet of golden hair—the bride of Hugh.

Perhaps this was the hardest moment to Symon of Worcester, in the whole of that hard day.

It was the one time when he thought of himself.

"I have lost her!" he said. "Holy Jesu—Thou Whose heart did break after three hours of darkness and of God-forsaken loneliness—have pity! The light of my life is gone from me, yet must I live."

Overwhelmed by this sudden realisation of loss, worn out in mind and exhausted in body, the Bishop sank upon the seat.

Mora was safe with Hugh. That much had been accomplished.

For the rest, things must take their own course. He could do no more—go no further.

Then he heard again her voice in the arbour of golden roses, saying, in those low sweet tones which thrilled his very soul: "He stood to me for all that was vital and alive, in life and in religion; strong to act; able to endure."