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 ident.i.ty 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, p.r.o.nouncing 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 pa.s.s 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, pa.s.sed 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.