The White Ladies of Worcester A Romance of the Twelfth Century

CHAPTER XXV

MARY ANTONY RE­CEIVES THE BISH­OP

The morn­ing af­ter the re­turn from Rome of the Bish­op's mes­sen­ger, the old lay-​sis­ter, Mary Antony, chanced to be cross­ing the Con­vent court­yard, when there came a loud knock­ing on the out­er gates.

Mary Antony, has­ten­ing, thrust aside the bux­om porter­ess, and her­self opened the _guichet_, and looked out.

The Lord Bish­op, mount­ed up­on his white pal­frey, wait­ed with­out; Broth­er Philip in at­ten­dance.

What a be­wil­der­ing sur­prise! What a for­tu­nate thing, thought old Antony, that she should chance to be there to deal with such an emer­gen­cy.

Nev­er did the Bish­op vis­it the Nun­nery, with­out send­ing a mes­sen­ger be­fore­hand to know whether the Pri­oress could see him, stat­ing the ex­act hour of his pro­posed ar­rival; so that, when the great doors were flung wide and the Bish­op rode in­to the court­yard, the Pri­oress would be stand­ing at the top of the steps to re­ceive him; Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress in at­ten­dance in the back­ground; the oth­er holy ladies up­on their knees with­in the en­trance; Mary Antony, well out of sight, yet where peep­ing was pos­si­ble, be­cause she loved to see the Rev­erend Moth­er kneel and kiss the Bish­op's ring, ris­ing to her feet again with­out pause, mak­ing of the whole move­ment one grace­ful, deep obei­sance. Af­ter which, Mary Antony, still peep­ing, great­ly loved to see the Pri­oress mount the wide, stone stair­case with the Bish­op; each shew­ing a court­ly def­er­ence to the oth­er.

(One of Mary Antony's most ex­alt­ed dreams of heav­en, was of a place where she should sit up­on a jasper seat and see the Rev­erend Moth­er and the great Lord Bish­op mount­ing to­geth­er in­ter­minable flights of gold­en stairs; while Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress and Sis­ter Mary Re­bec­ca looked through black bars, some­where down be­low, whence they would have a good view of Mary Antony on her jasper seat, but no glimpse of the gold­en stairs or of the ra­di­ant fig­ures which she watched as­cend­ing.)

So much for the usu­al vis­its of the Bish­op, when ev­ery­thing was in readi­ness for his re­cep­tion.

But now, all un­ex­pect­ed, the Bish­op wait­ed with­out the gate, and Mary Antony had to deal with this emer­gen­cy.

Cry­ing to the porter­ess to open wide, she has­tened to the steps. . . . It was im­pos­si­ble to sum­mon the Rev­erend Moth­er in time. . . . The Lord Bish­op must not be kept wait­ing! . . . Even now the great doors were rolling back.

Mary Antony mount­ed the six steps; then turned in the door­way.

The Lord Bish­op must be re­ceived. There was no­body else to do it. She would re­ceive the Lord Bish­op!

As she saw him rid­ing in up­on Icon, bless­ing the porter­ess as he passed, she re­mem­bered how she had rid­den round the riv­er mead­ow as the Bish­op. Now she must play her part as the Pri­oress.

So it came to pass that, as he rode up to the door and dis­mount­ed, fling­ing his rein to Broth­er Philip, the Bish­op found him­self con­front­ed by the queer lit­tle fig­ure of the aged lay-​sis­ter, drawn up to its full height and ob­vi­ous­ly up­held by a sense of im­por­tance and dig­ni­ty.

As the Bish­op reached the en­trance, she knelt and kissed his ring; then tried to rise quick­ly, failed, and clutch­ing at his hand, ex­claimed: “Dev­il take my old knee-​joints!”

Nev­er be­fore had the Bish­op been re­ceived with such a for­mu­la! Nev­er had his ring been kissed by a lay-​sis­ter! But re­mem­ber­ing the scene when old Antony rode round the field up­on Icon, he un­der­stood that she now was play­ing the part of Pri­oress.

“Good-​day, wor­thy Moth­er,” he said, as he raised her. “The spir­it is will­ing I know, but, in your case, the knee-​joints are weak. But no won­der, for they have done you long ser­vice. Why, I get up slow­ly from kneel­ing, yet my knees are thir­ty years younger than yours. . . . Nay I will not mount to the Rev­erend Moth­er's cham­ber un­til you ac­quaint her of my ar­rival. Take me round to the gar­den, and there let me wait in the shade, while you seek her.”

Great­ly elat­ed at the suc­cess of her ef­fort, and em­bold­ened by his charm­ing con­de­scen­sion, Mary Antony led the Bish­op through the rose-​arch; and, cast­ing a furtive glance at his face from be­hind the cur­tain of her veil, ven­tured to hope there was naught afoot which could bring trou­ble or care to the Rev­erend Moth­er.

Mary Antony was trot­ting be­side the Bish­op, down the long walk be­tween the yew hedges, when she gave vent to this anx­ious ques­tion.

At once the Bish­op slack­ened speed.

“Not so fast, Sis­ter Antony,” he said. “I pray you to re­mem­ber mine age, and to mod­er­ate your pace. Why should you ex­pect trou­ble or anx­iety for the Rev­erend Moth­er?”

“Nay,” said Mary Antony, “I ex­pect naught; I saw naught; I heard naught! 'Twas all mine own mis­take, count­ing with my peas. I told the Rev­erend Moth­er so, and set her mind at rest by car­ry­ing up _six_ peas, say­ing that I had found _six_ and not _five_ in my wal­let.”

“Let us pause,” said the Bish­op, “and look at this lily. How love­ly are its petals. How tall and white it shews against the hedge. Why did you need to set the Rev­erend Moth­er's mind at rest, Sis­ter Antony, by car­ry­ing up six peas?”

“Be­cause,” said the old lay-​sis­ter, “when I had count­ed as they re­turned, the twen­ty holy ladies who had gone to Ves­pers, yet an­oth­er passed mak­ing twen­ty-​one. Up­on which I ran and re­port­ed to the Rev­erend Moth­er, say­ing in my fol­ly, that I feared the twen­ty-​first was Sis­ter Agatha, re­turned to walk amongst the Liv­ing, she be­ing over fifty years num­bered with the Dead. Yet many a time, just be­fore dawn, have I heard her rap­ping on the clois­ter door; aye, many a time--tap! tap! tap! But what good would there be in open­ing to a poor la­dy you helped thrust in­to her shroud, nigh up­on six­ty years be­fore? So 'Tap away!' says I; 'tap away, Sis­ter Agatha! Try Saint Pe­ter at the gates of Par­adise. Old Antony knows bet­ter than to let you in.'”

“What said the Rev­erend Moth­er when you re­port­ed on a twen­ty-​first White La­dy?” asked the Bish­op.

“Rev­erend Moth­er bid me be­gone, while she her­self dealt with the wraith of Sis­ter Agatha.”

“And why did you _not_ go?” asked the Bish­op, qui­et­ly.

Com­plete­ly tak­en aback, Mary Antony's ready tongue failed her. She stood stock still and stared at the Bish­op. Her gums be­gan to rat­tle and she clapped her knuck­les against them, hor­ror and dis­may in her eyes.

The Bish­op looked search­ing­ly in­to the fright­ened old face, and there read all he want­ed to know. Then he smiled; and, tak­ing her gen­tly by the arm, paced on be­tween the yew hedges.

“Sis­ter Antony,” he said, and the low tones of his voice fell like qui­et mu­sic up­on old Antony's per­turbed spir­it; “you and I, dear Sis­ter Antony, love the Rev­erend Moth­er so tru­ly and so faith­ful­ly, that there is noth­ing we would not do, to save her a mo­ment's pain. _We_ know how no­ble and how good she is; and that she will al­ways de­cide aright, and fol­low in the foot­steps of our blessèd La­dy and all the holy saints. But oth­ers there are, who do not love her as we love her, or know her as we know her; and they might judge her wrong­ly. There­fore we must tell to none, that which we know--how the Rev­erend Moth­er, alone, dealt with that vis­itor, who was not the wraith of Sis­ter Agatha.”

Mary Antony peeped up at the Bish­op. A light of great joy was on her face. Her eyes had lost their look of ter­ror, and be­gan to twin­kle cun­ning­ly.

“I know naught,” she said. “I saw naught; I heard naught.”

The Bish­op smiled.

“How many peas were left in your wal­let, Sis­ter Antony ?”

“Five,” chuck­led Mary Antony.

“Why did you shew six to the Rev­erend Moth­er?”

“To set her mind at rest,” whis­pered the old lay-​sis­ter.

“To cause her to think that you had heard naught, seen naught, and knew naught?”

Mary Antony nod­ded, chuck­ling again.

“Faith­ful old heart!” said the Bish­op. “What gave thee this thought?”

“Our blessèd La­dy, in an­swer to her pe­ti­tion, sharp­ened the wits of old Antony.”

The Bish­op sighed. “May our blessèd La­dy keep them sharp,” he mur­mured, half aloud.

“Amen,” said Mary Antony with fer­vour.