The White Ladies of Worcester A Romance of the Twelfth Century

CHAPTER XV

“SHARP­EN THE WITS OF MARY ANTONY”

When the Pri­oress start­ed up­on her pil­grim­age to the Cathe­dral with the Knight, she locked the door of her cham­ber, know­ing that thus her ab­sence would re­main undis­cov­ered; for if any, knock­ing on the door, re­ceived no an­swer, or try­ing it, found it fast, they would has­ten away with­out ques­tion; con­clud­ing that some spe­cial hour of de­vo­tion or time of study de­mand­ed that the Rev­erend Moth­er should be free from in­tru­sion.

The at­mo­sphere of the emp­ty cell, charged dur­ing the past hour with such un­ac­cus­tomed forces of con­flict and of pas­sion, set­tled in­to the qui­etude of an un­bro­ken still­ness.

The Madon­na smiled serene­ly up­on the Holy Babe. The dead Christ, with bowed head, hung for­lorn up­on the wood­en cross. The pon­der­ous vol­umes in black and sil­ver bind­ings, lay undis­turbed up­on the ta­ble; and the Bish­op's chair stood emp­ty, with that ob­tru­sive empti­ness which, in an emp­ty seat, seems to sug­gest an un­seen pres­ence fill­ing it. The si­lence was com­plete.

But present­ly a queer shuf­fling sound be­gan in the in­ner cell, as of some­thing stiff and tor­pid com­pelling it­self to ac­tion.

Then a weird fig­ure, the wiz­en face dis­tort­ed by grief and ter­ror, ap­peared in the door­way--old Mary Antony, hold­ing a meat chop­per in her shak­ing hands, and star­ing, with chat­ter­ing gums, in­to the emp­ty cell.

That faith­ful soul, al­though dis­missed, had re­solved that the adored Rev­erend Moth­er should not go forth to meet dan­gers--ghost­ly or cor­po­re­al--alone and un­pro­tect­ed.

Has­ten­ing to the kitchens, she had giv­en in­struc­tions that the evening meal was not to be served un­til the Rev­erend Moth­er her­self should sound the bell.

Then, catch­ing up a meat chop­per, as be­ing the most mur­der­ous-​look­ing weapon at hand, and the most like­ly to strike ter­ror in­to the ghost­ly heart of Sis­ter Agatha, old Antony had has­tened back to the pas­sage.

Creep­ing up the stairs, hug­ging the wall, she had reached the top just in time to see, in the dim dis­tance, the two tall white fig­ures con­fronting one an­oth­er.

Cling­ing to her chop­per, mo­tion­less with hor­ror, she had watched them, un­til they be­gan, to come to­ward her, mov­ing in the di­rec­tion of the Rev­erend Moth­er's cell. They were still thir­ty yards away, at the clois­ter end of the pas­sage. Old Antony was close to the open door.

Through it she had scur­ried, un­heard, un­seen, a ter­ri­fied black shad­ow; yet brave with­al; for with her went the meat chop­per. Al­so she might have turned and fled back down the stairs, rather than in­to the very place whith­er she knew the Rev­erend Moth­er was con­duct­ing this tall spec­tre of the long dead Sis­ter Agatha, grown to most alarm­ing pro­por­tions dur­ing her fifty years' en­tomb­ment! But be­ing brave and faith­ful old Antony had sped in­to the in­ner cell, and crouched there in a cor­ner; ready to call for help or strike with her chop­per, should need arise.

Thus it came to pass that this old weaver of ro­mances had per­force be­come a lis­ten­er to a true ro­mance so thrilling, so soul-​stir­ring, that she had had to thrust the end of the wood­en han­dle of the chop­per in­to her mouth, lest she should ap­plaud the no­ble Knight, cry coun­sel in his ex­trem­ities, or in­voke bless­ings on his en­ter­prise. At each men­tion of the Ladies Eleanor and Al­fri­da, she shook her fist, and made signs with her old fin­gers, as of throt­tling, in the air. And when the clerk­ly mes­sen­ger, ar­riv­ing to speak with the La­dy Al­fri­da--who, Saint Luke be praised, was by that time dy­ing--found the Knight await­ing him with a noose flung over a strong bough, old Antony had laid down the chop­per that she might the bet­ter hug her­self with silent glee; and when the Knight rode away and left him hang­ing, she had whis­pered “Pie­man! Pie­man!” then clapped her hands over her mouth, rock­ing to and fro with mer­ri­ment. When the Knight made men­tion that they called him “Knight of the Bloody Vest,” old Antony had start­ed; then had shak­en her fin­ger to­ward the en­trance, as she was used to shake it at the robin, and had opened her wal­let to search for crumbs of cheese. But soon again the sto­ry held her and, obliv­ious of the present, she had been back in the realms of ro­mance.

Not un­til the Knight ceased speak­ing and the Rev­erend Moth­er's sad voice fell up­on her ear, had old Antony re­alised the true bear­ing of the tale. There­after her heart had been torn by grief and ter­ror. When they kneeled to­geth­er, be­fore the Madon­na, with up­lift­ed faces, Mary Antony had crawled for­ward and peeped. She had seen them kneel­ing--a no­ble pair--had seen the Pri­oress catch at his hand and clasp it; then, crawl­ing back had fall­en pros­trate, over­whelmed, a hud­dled heap up­on the floor.

The ring­ing of the Re­fec­to­ry bell had roused her from her stu­por in time to hear the im­pas­sioned ap­peal of the Knight, as he kneeled alone be­fore the Vir­gin's shrine.

Then, the Knight and the Pri­oress both be­ing gone, Mary Antony had arisen, lift­ed her chop­per with hands that trem­bled, and now stood with dis­traught mien, sur­vey­ing the emp­ty cell.

At length it dawned up­on her that she and her weapon were locked in­to the Rev­erend Moth­er's cell; she, who had been most ex­plic­it­ly bid­den to go to the kitchens and to re­main there. It had been a sense of the enor­mi­ty of her of­fence in hav­ing dis­obeyed the Rev­erend Moth­er's or­ders which, un­con­scious­ly, had caused her to sti­fle all ejac­ula­tions and move with­out noise, lest she should be dis­cov­ered.

Yet now her first care was not for her own predica­ment, but for the two no­ble hearts, of whose trag­ic grief she had se­cret­ly been a wit­ness.

Her eye fell on the Madon­na, calm­ly smil­ing.

She tot­tered for­ward, kneel­ing where the Pri­oress had knelt.

“Holy Moth­er of God,” she whis­pered, “teach him that she can­not do this thing!”

Then, mov­ing along on her knees to where the Knight had kneeled: “Blessèd Vir­gin!” she cried, “shew her that she can­not leave him des­olate!”

Then shuf­fling back to the cen­tre, and kneel­ing be­tween the two places: “Sweet­est La­dy,” she said, “be pleased to sharp­en the old wits of Mary Antony.”

Look­ing furtive­ly at the Madon­na, she saw that our La­dy smiled. The blessèd In­fant, al­so, looked mer­ry. Mary Antony chuck­led, and took heart. When the Rev­erend Moth­er smiled, she al­ways knew her­self for­giv­en.

More­over, with­out de­lay, her re­quest was grant­ed; for scarce­ly had she arisen from her knees, when she re­mem­bered the place where the Rev­erend Moth­er kept the key of her cell; and she, hav­ing locked the door, on leav­ing, with her own mas­ter-​key, the oth­er was quick­ly in old Antony's hand, and she out once more in the pas­sage, lock­ing the door be­hind her; sure of be­ing able to re­store the key to its place, be­fore it should be missed by the Rev­erend Moth­er.

Sis­ter Mary Antony slipped un­seen past the Re­fec­to­ry and in­to the kitchens. Once there, she fussed and scold­ed and made her pres­ence felt, im­ply­ing that she had been wait­ing, a good hour gone, for the thing for which she had but that mo­ment asked.

The younger lay-​sis­ters might make no re­tort; but Sis­ter Mary Martha present­ly asked: “What have you been do­ing since Ves­pers, Sis­ter Antony?”

By aid of the wits our La­dy had sharp­ened, old Antony, at that mo­ment, re­alised that some­times, when you needs must de­ceive, there is noth­ing so de­cep­tive as the ac­tu­al truth.

“Lis­ten­ing to a won­drous ro­man­tic tale,” she made an­swer, “told by the Knight of the Bloody Vest.”

“You ver­ily are fool­ish about that robin, Sis­ter Antony,” re­marked Mary Martha; “and you will take your death of cold, sit­ting out in the gar­den in the damp, af­ter sun­set.”

“Well--so long as I take on­ly that which is mine own, oth­ers have no cause to grum­ble,” snapped Mary Antony, and turned her mind up­on the mak­ing of a savoury broth, favoured by the Rev­erend Moth­er.

And all the while the Dev­il was whis­per­ing in the old wom­an's ear: “She will not re­turn. . . . Make thy broth, fool; but she will not be here to drink it. . . . The World and the Flesh have called; the Rev­erend Moth­er will not come back. . . . Stir the broth well, but flavour it to thine own taste. Thou wilt sup on it thy­self this night. When the World and the Flesh call loud­ly enough, the best of wom­en go to the Dev­il.”

“Liar!” said Mary Antony, bran­dish­ing her wood­en spoon. “Get thee be­hind me--nay, rather, get thee in front of me! I have had thee skulk­ing be­hind me long enough. Al­so in front of me, just now, be­ing in­to the fire, thou wilt feel at home, Mas­ter Dev­il! On­ly, put not thy tail in­to the Rev­erend Moth­er's broth.”

When the White Ladies passed up from the Re­fec­to­ry, Mary Antony chanced to be pol­ish­ing the pan­elling around the pic­ture of Saint Mary Mag­dalen, be­side the door of the Rev­erend Moth­er's cell.

Present­ly Sis­ter Mary Re­bec­ca, ar­riv­ing, lift­ed her hand to knock.

“Stay!” whis­pered Mary Antony. “The Rev­erend Moth­er may not be dis­turbed.”

Sis­ter Mary Re­bec­ca veiled her scowl with a smile.

“And where­fore not, good Sis­ter Antony?”

“'Where­fore not' is not my busi­ness,” re­tort­ed old Antony, as rude­ly as she knew how. “It may be for spe­cial study; it may be for an hour of ex­tra de­vo­tion; it may be on­ly the very nat­ural de­sire for a lit­tle respite from the sight of two such ug­ly faces as yours and mine. But, be the rea­son what it may, Rev­erend Moth­er has locked her door, and sees no­body this even.” Af­ter which old Antony pro­ceed­ed to pol­ish the out­side of the Rev­erend Moth­er's door pan­els.

Sis­ter Mary Re­bec­ca lift­ed her knuck­les to rap; but old Antony's not over clean clout was pushed each time be­tween Sis­ter Mary Re­bec­ca's tap, and the wood­work.

Mut­ter­ing con­cern­ing the re­port she would make to the Pri­oress in the morn­ing, Sis­ter Mary Re­bec­ca went to her cell.

When all was qui­et, when ev­ery door was closed, the old lay-​sis­ter crept in­to the clois­ters and, crouch­ing in an arch­way just be­yond the flight of steps lead­ing to the un­der­ground way, watched and wait­ed.

Storm clouds were gath­er­ing again, black on a pur­ple sky. The af­ter-​glow in the west had fad­ed. It was dark in the clois­ters. Thun­der growled in the dis­tance; an owl hoot­ed in the Pie­man's tree.

Mary Antony's old bones ached sore­ly, and her heart failed her. She had sat so long in cramped po­si­tions, and she had not tast­ed food since the mid-​day meal.

The Dev­il drew near, as he is wont to do, when those who have fast­ed long, seek to keep vig­il.

“The Rev­erend Moth­er will not re­turn,” he whis­pered. “What wait you for?”

“Be off!” said Mary Antony. “I am too old to be keep­ing com­pa­ny, even with thee. Al­so Sis­ter Mary Re­bec­ca awaits thee in her cell.”

“The Rev­erend Moth­er ev­er walked with her head among the stars,” sneered the Dev­il. “Why do the high­est fall the low­est, when temp­ta­tion comes?”

“Ask that of Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress,” said Mary Antony, “next time she bids thee to sup­per.”

Then she clasped her old hands up­on her breast; for, very soft­ly, in the lock be­low, a key turned.

Steps, felt rather than heard, passed up in­to the clois­ter.

Then, in the dim light, the tall fig­ure of the Pri­oress moved noise­less­ly over the flag­stones, passed through the open door and up the de­sert­ed pas­sage.

Peer­ing ea­ger­ly for­ward, the old lay-​sis­ter saw the Pri­oress pause out­side the door of her cham­ber, lift her mas­ter-​key, un­lock the door, and pass with­in.

As the faint sound of the clos­ing of the door reached her strain­ing ears, old Mary Antony be­gan to sob, help­less­ly.