The White Ladies of Worcester A Romance of the Twelfth Century

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, at sight of the im­mense re­lief on that loved face, felt ready for any pun­ish­ment with which it might please Heav­en to vis­it her de­ceit.

“Dear Antony,” be­gan the Rev­erend Moth­er, smil­ing.

“Dear Antony--” she said, and laughed aloud.

Then she placed her hand be­neath the old wom­an's arm, and gen­tly raised her. “Mis­takes arise so eas­ily,” she said. “With the best of in­ten­tions, we all some­times make mis­takes. There is noth­ing to for­give, my Antony.”

“I am old, and dim, and stupid,” said the lay-​sis­ter, humbly; “but I have begged of our sweet La­dy to sharp­en the old wits of Mary Antony.”

Af­ter which state­ment, made in a voice of hum­ble pen­itence, Mary Antony, un­seen by the thank­ful Pri­oress, did give a know­ing wink with the eye next to the Madon­na. Our blessèd La­dy smiled. The sweet Babe looked mer­ry. The Pri­oress rose, a great light of re­lief il­lu­min­ing her weary face.

“Let us to bed, dear Antony; then, with the dawn of a new day we shall all arise with hearts re­freshed and wits more keen. So now--God rest thee.”

Left alone, the Pri­oress knelt long in prayer be­fore the shrine of the Madon­na. Once, she reached out her right hand to the emp­ty space where Hugh had knelt, striv­ing to feel re­mem­brance of his strong clasp.

At length she sought her couch. But sleep re­fused to come, and present­ly she crept back in the white moon­light, and kneel­ing pressed her lips to the stone on which Hugh had kneeled; then fled, in shame that our La­dy should see such weak­ness; and dared not glance to­ward the shad­owy form of the dead Christ, cru­ci­fied. For with the com­ing of Love to seek her, Life had come; and where Life en­ters, Death is put to flight; even as be­fore the tri­umphant march of the ris­ing sun, dark­ness and shad­ows flee away.

Yet, even then, our La­dy gen­tly smiled, and the Babe on her knees looked mer­ry.