The White Ladies of Worcester. Florence L. Barclay
Table of Contents
When the Prioress entered her cell, she stood for a moment bewildered by the rapid walk in the darkness. She could hardly realise that the long strain was over; that she had safely regained her chamber.
All was as she had left it. Apparently she had not been missed, and had returned unobserved. Hugh was by now safely in the hostel at Worcester. None need ever know that he had been here.
None need ever know—Yet, alas, it was that knowledge which held the
Prioress rooted to the spot on which she stood, gazing round her cell.
Hugh had been here; and when he was here, her one desire had been to get him speedily away.
But now?
Dumb with the pain of a great yearning, she looked about her.
Yes; just there he had stood; here he had knelt, and there he had stood again.
This calm monastic air had vibrated to the fervour of his voice.
It had grown calm again.
Would her poor heart in time also grow calm? Would her lips stop trembling, and cease to feel the fire of his?
Yet for one moment, only, her mind dwelt upon herself. Then all thought of self was merged in the realisation of his loneliness, his suffering, his bitter disillusion. To have found her dead, would have been hard; to have lost her living, was almost past bearing. Would it cost him his faith in God, in truth, in purity, in honour?
The Prioress felt the insistent need of prayer. But passing the gracious image of the Virgin and Child, she cast herself down at the foot of the crucifix.
She had seen a strong man in agony, nailed, by the cruel iron of circumstance, to the cross-beams of sacrifice and surrender. To the suffering Saviour she turned, instinctively, for help and consolation.
Thus speedily had her prayer of the previous night been granted. The piercèd feet of our dear Lord, crucified, had become more to her than the baby feet of the Infant Jesus, on His Mother's knee.
Yet, even as she knelt—supplicating, interceding, adoring—there echoed in her memory the wicked shriek of Mary Seraphine: "A dead God cannot help me! I want life, not death!" followed almost instantly by Hugh's stern question: "Is this religion?"
Truly, of late, wild voices had taken liberty of speech in the cell of the Prioress, and had left their impious utterances echoing behind them.
CHAPTER XVII
THE DIMNESS OF MARY ANTONY
The Prioress had been back in her cell for nearly an hour, when a gentle tap came on the door.
"Enter," commanded the Prioress, and Mary Antony appeared, bearing broth and bread, fruit and a cup of wine.
The Prioress sat at her table, parchment and an open missal before her.
Her face was very white; also there were dark shadows beneath her eyes.
She did not smile at sight of old Antony, thus laden.
"How now, Antony?" she said, almost sternly. "I did not bid thee to bring me food."
"Reverend Mother," said the old lay-sister, in a voice which strove to be steady, yet quavered; "for long hours you have studied, not heeding that the evening meal was over. Chide not old Antony for bringing you some of that broth, which you like the best. You will not sleep unless you eat."
The Prioress looked at her uncomprehendingly; as if, for the moment, words conveyed no meaning to her mind. Then she saw those old hands trembling, and a sudden flood of colour flushed the pallor of her face.
This sweet stirring of fresh life within her own heart gave her to see, in the old woman's untiring devotion, a human element hitherto unperceived. It brought a rush of comfort, in her sadness.
She closed the volume, and pushed aside the parchment. "How kind of thee, dear Antony, to take so much thought for me. Place the bowls on the table. … Now draw up that stool, and stay near me while I sup. I am weary this night, and shall like thy company."
Had the golden gates of heaven opened before her, and Saint Peter himself invited her to enter, Sister Mary Antony would not have been more astonished and certainly could hardly have been more gratified. It was a thing undreamed of, that she should be bidden to sit with the Reverend Mother in her cell.
Drawing the carven stool two feet from the wall, Mary Antony took her seat upon it.
"Nearer, Antony, nearer," said the Prioress. "Place the stool here, close beside the corner of my table. I have much to say to thee, and would wish to speak low."
Truly Sister Antony found herself in the seventh heaven!
Yet, quietly observing, the Prioress could not fail to note the drawn weariness on the old face, the yellow pallor of the wizen skin, which usually wore the bright tint of a russet apple.
The Prioress took a portion of the broth; then pushed the bowl from her, and turned to the fruit.
"There, Antony," she said. "The broth is excellent; but I have enough.
Finish it thyself. It will pleasure me to see thee enjoy it."
Faint and thankful, old Antony seized the bowl. And as she drank the broth, her shrewd eyes twinkled. For had not the Devil said she would sup on it herself; knowing that much, yet not knowing that she would receive it from the hand of the Reverend Mother?
It has been ever so, from Eden onwards, when the Devil tries his hand at prophecy.
For a while the Prioress talked lightly, of flowers and birds; of the garden and the orchard; of the gift of three fine salmon, sent to them by the good monks of the Priory at Worcester.
But, presently, when the broth was finished and a faint colour tinted the old cheeks, she passed on to the storm and the sunset, the rolling thunder and the torrents of rain. Then of a sudden she said:
"By the way, Antony, hast thou made mention, to any, of thy fearsome tale of the walking through the cloisters, in line with the White Ladies, of the Spectre of the saintly Sister Agatha?"
"Nay, Reverend Mother," said Mary Antony. "Did not you forbid me to speak of it?"
"True," said the Prioress. "Well, Antony, I went in the storm, to look for her; but—I found not Sister Agatha."
"That I already knew," said Mary Antony, nodding her head sagaciously.
The Prioress cast upon her a quick, anxious look.
"What mean you, Antony?"
Then old Mary Antony fell upon her knees, and kissed the hem of the Prioress's robe. "Oh, Reverend Mother," she stammered, "I have a confession to make!"
"Make it," said the Prioress, with white lips.
"Reverend Mother, when you sent me from you, after making my report, I went first, as commanded, to the kitchens. But afterward, in my cell, I found these."
Mary Antony opened her wallet and drew out the linen bag in which she kept her peas. Shaking its contents into the palm of her hand, she held out six peas to view.
"Reverend Mother," she said, "there were twenty-five in the bag. I thought I had counted twenty out into my hand; so when all the peas had dropped and yet another holy Lady passed, I thought that made twenty-one. But when I found six peas in my bag, I became aware of my folly. I had but counted nineteen, and had no pea to let fall for the twentieth holy Lady. Yet I ran in haste with my false report, when, had I but thought to look in my wallet, all would have been made clear. Will the Reverend Mother forgive old Mary Antony?"
She shot a quick glance at the Prioress; and,