The White Ladies of Worcester A Romance of the Twelfth Century

CHAPTER LX

THE CON­VENT BELL

The slant­ing rays of the set­ting sun lay, in gold­en bands, up­on the flags of the Con­vent clois­ter.

Com­plete si­lence reigned.

The White Ladies had re­turned from Ves­pers. Each, in the soli­tude of her own cell, was spend­ing, in prayer and med­ita­tion, the hour un­til the Re­fec­to­ry bell should ring.

The great door in­to the clois­ters stood wide.

Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress ap­peared in the far dis­tance, mov­ing down the pas­sage. As she passed be­tween the long line of closed doors, she turned her face quick­ly from side to side, paus­ing oc­ca­sion­al­ly to lis­ten, ear laid against the pan­elling.

Present­ly she stepped from the cool shad­ow in­to the sun­ny bright­ness of the clois­ter.

She did not blink, as old Mary Antony used to blink. Her small eyes peered from out her veil as sharply in sun­shine as in shad­ow.

Yet was there some­thing cu­ri­ous­ly furtive about Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress, when she en­tered the clois­ter. Lis­ten­ing at the doors in the cell pas­sage, she had been mere­ly of­fi­cial, act­ing with a pre­cise celer­ity which be­spoke long prac­tice. Now she hes­itat­ed; looked around as if to make sure she was not ob­served, and ob­vi­ous­ly held, with her left hand, some­thing con­cealed.

Mov­ing along the clois­ter, she seat­ed her­self up­on the stone slab in the arch­way over­look­ing the lawn and the pie­man's tree; then drew forth from be­neath her scapu­lary, the worn leath­ern wal­let which had be­longed to the old lay-​sis­ter, Mary Antony.

At the same mo­ment there came a gen­tle flick of wings, and the robin alight­ed on the stone cop­ing, not three feet from the el­bow of Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress.

Very bright-​eyed, and tall on his legs, was Mary Antony's lit­tle vain man. With his head on one side, he looked in­quir­ing­ly at Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress; and Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress, from out the cur­tain of her veil, frowned back at him.

There was a solemn qual­ity in the com­plete si­lence. No naughty tales of bak­ers' boys or piemen. No gay chirps of ex­pec­ta­tion. Re­ceiv­ing cheese from Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress, be­stowed for con­science' sake, par­took of the na­ture of a sa­cred cer­emo­ny. Yet the robin had come for his cheese, and the Sub-​Pri­oress had come to give it to him.

Present­ly she slow­ly opened the wal­let, took there­from some choice morsels, and strewed them on the cop­ing.

“Here, bird,” she said, grim­ly; “I can­not let thee miss thy cheese be­cause the fool­ish old crea­ture who taught thee to look for it, comes this way no more. Take it and be­gone!”

This was the dai­ly for­mu­la.

The “jaun­ty lit­tle lay­man,” undis­mayed--though the look was aus­tere, and the voice, for­bid­ding--hopped gai­ly near­er, peck­ing ea­ger­ly. No gap­ing mouths now wait­ed his re­turn. His nestlings were grown and flown. At last he could af­ford to feast him­self.

Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress turned her back up­on the cop­ing and stared at the arch­way op­po­site. She had no wish to see the bird's en­joy­ment.

Then a strange thing hap­pened.

Hav­ing pecked up all he want­ed, the robin turned his bright eye up­on the mo­tion­less fig­ure, seat­ed so near him, wrapped in the aloof­ness of an im­pen­etra­ble si­lence.

Ex­cept­ing in her dy­ing mo­ments, Mary Antony's much loved lit­tle bird had nev­er ad­ven­tured near­er to her than to hop along the cop­ing, peck­ing at her fin­gers when, to test his bold­ness, she reached out and with them cov­ered the cheese.

Yet now, with a gen­tle flick of wings, lo, he alight­ed on the knee of Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress! Then, while she scarce dared breathe, for won­der and amaze, hopped to her arm and pecked gen­tly at her veil.

Where­upon some­thing broke in the cold heart of Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress. Tears ran slow­ly down the thin face. She would not stir nor lift her hand to wipe them away, and they fell in heavy drops up­on her fold­ed fin­gers.

At length she spoke, in a bro­ken whis­per.

“Oh, thou lit­tle winged thing,” she said, “who so eas­ily could'st fly from me! Dost thou use those wings of lib­er­ty to draw yet near­er? In this place of high walls and nar­row cells, they who have not full free­dom, use to the full what free­dom they pos­sess, to turn, at my ap­proach and fly from me. Not one if she could choose, would choose to come to me. . . . Is there any hon­our so great as that of be­ing feared by all? Is there any lone­li­ness so great as by all to be hat­ed? That hon­our, lit­tle bird, is mine; al­so that lone­li­ness. Who then hath sent thee thus to es­say to take both from me?”

Heavy tears con­tin­ued to fall up­on the clasped hands; the worn face was dis­tort­ed by men­tal suf­fer­ing. The frozen soul of Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress hav­ing melt­ed, the iron of self-​knowl­edge was en­ter­ing in­to it, caus­ing the dull ache of a pain un­speak­able. Yet she dared not sob, lest the heav­ing of her bo­som should fright­en away the lit­tle bird perched so light­ly on her arm.

This ev­idence of the trust in her of a lit­tle liv­ing thing, was the one rope to which Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress clung in those first mo­ments, dur­ing which the black wa­ters of re­morse and de­spair passed over her head--a rope made of frail enough strands, God knows: bright eyes alert, small cling­ing feet, a pair of fold­ed wings. Yet do the frailest threads of love and trust, make a safer rope to which to cling when ship­wreck threat­ens the heart, than the iron chains of obli­ga­tion and du­ty.

Present­ly a sor­did doubt seized up­on Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress. Had the robin fin­ished the cheese, and come to her thus, mere­ly to ask for more?

Very slow­ly she ven­tured to turn her head, un­til the stone cop­ing at her el­bow came in­to her range of vi­sion.

Then a glow of pride and hap­pi­ness warmed her heart. Three--four--five frag­ments re­mained! Not for greed or favour had this lit­tle wild thing of his own free will drawn near.

For what, then? . . .

Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress whis­pered the an­swer; and as she whis­pered it, her tears fell afresh; but now they were tears with­out bit­ter­ness; a heal­ing fount seemed to well up with­in her soft­en­ing heart.

For love? Yea, ver­ily! For love of her, those small brown wings had brought him near, those bright eyes were un­afraid.

“For love of me,” she whis­pered. “For love of me.”

When at length he chirped and flew, she still sat mo­tion­less, lis­ten­ing as he sang his evening song high up in the pie­man's tree.

Then she rose and swept the un­touched frag­ments back in­to the wal­let. There was tri­umph in the ac­tion.

“For love!” she said. “Not of that which I brought and gave, but of that which he thought me to be.”

Slow­ly she left the clois­ter, mov­ing, with bent head, un­til she reached the open door of the emp­ty cham­ber which had been the Rev­erend Moth­er's.

Be­fore long this cham­ber would be hers. At noon she had re­ceived word from the Bish­op that it was his in­ten­tion to ap­point her to be Pri­oress, for the years which yet re­mained of the Rev­erend Moth­er's term of of­fice.

She had ex­pe­ri­enced a sin­is­ter plea­sure in be­ing thus pro­mot­ed to this high of­fice by the Bish­op, ow­ing to the cer­tain­ty that had the usu­al elec­tion by bal­lot tak­en place, her name would not have been in­scribed by a sin­gle mem­ber of the Com­mu­ni­ty.

Yet now, in this strange­ly soft­ened mood, she be­gan wist­ful­ly to de­sire that there might be looks of plea­sure and sat­is­fac­tion on at least a few faces, when the an­nounce­ment should be made on the mor­row.

Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress passed in­to the cell, and closed the door.

She was drawn, by the glow of the sun­set, to the oriel win­dow. But on her way thith­er she found her­self un­ex­pect­ed­ly ar­rest­ed be­fore the mar­ble group of the Vir­gin and Child.

Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress nev­er could see a naked babe with­out ex­pe­ri­enc­ing a feel­ing of ir­ri­ta­tion against those who had failed to pro­vide it with suit­able cloth­ing. Pos­si­bly this was why she had hur­ried­ly looked the oth­er way if her eye chanced to fall up­on the beau­ti­ful sculp­ture in the Pri­oress's cell.

Now, for the first time, she re­al­ly saw it.

She stood and gazed; then knelt, and tried to un­der­stand.

The ten­der­ness reached her heart and shook it. The en­cir­cling arms, the lov­ing breast, the watch­ful moth­er-​eyes; the exquisite hu­man love, called forth by the ne­ces­si­ty, the de­pen­dence, the help­less­ness of a lit­tle child.

And were there not souls equal­ly help­less, and hearts just as de­pen­dent up­on sym­pa­thy and ten­der­ness?

The Pri­oress had un­der­stood this, and had ruled by love.

But Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress had ev­er pre­ferred the briers and the burn­ing.

She re­called a con­ver­sa­tion she had had a day or two be­fore with the Pri­or and the Chap­lain, when they came to con­sult with her con­cern­ing the fu­ture of the Com­mu­ni­ty, and her pos­si­ble ap­point­ment. In speak­ing of the late Pri­oress, the Pri­or had said: “She ev­er seemed as one apart, who walked among the stars; yet full, to over­flow­ing, of the milk of hu­man kind­ness and the gra­cious balm of sym­pa­thy.” He had then asked Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress if she felt able to fol­low in her steps. To which Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress, vexed at the ques­tion, had an­swered, tart­ly: Nay; that she knew no Milky Way! Where­upon Fa­ther Bene­dict, a sud­den gleam of ap­proval on his sin­is­ter face, had in­ter­posed, ad­dress­ing the Pri­or: “Nay, ver­ily! Our ex­cel­lent Sub-​Pri­oress knows no Milky Way! She is the brier, which hath sharply taught the ten­der flesh of each. She is the bed of net­tles from which the most weary moves on to rest else­where. She is the fear­some burn­ing, from which the fright­ened brands do snatch them­selves!”

These words, spo­ken in ap­pro­ba­tion, had been meant to please; and at first she had been flat­tered. Then the look up­on the kind face of the Pri­or, had giv­en her the sense of be­ing shut up with Fa­ther Bene­dict in a fear­some Pur­ga­to­ry of their own mak­ing--nay rather, in a hell, where pity, mer­cy, and lov­ing-​kind­ness were un­known.

Per­haps this was the hour when the change of mind in Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress re­al­ly had its be­gin­ning, for Fa­ther Bene­dict's ter­ri­ble yet true de­scrip­tion of her meth­ods and her rule, now came force­ful­ly back to her.

Putting out a trem­bling hand, she touched the lit­tle foot of the Babe.

“Give me ten­der­ness,” she said, and an agony of sup­pli­ca­tion was in her voice; al­so a rain of tears soft­ened the hard lines of her face.

Our blessèd La­dy smiled, and the sweet Babe looked mer­ry.

Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress passed to the win­dow. The sun, round and blood red, as at that very mo­ment re­flect­ed in Hugh d'Ar­gent's shield, was just about to dip be­low the hori­zon. When next it rose, the day would have dawned which would see her Pri­oress of the White Ladies of Worces­ter.

She turned to the place where the Pri­oress's chair of state stood emp­ty. Dur­ing the walk to and from the Cathe­dral, she had planned to come alone to this cham­ber, and seat her­self in the chair which would so soon be hers. But now a new hum­ble­ness re­strained her.

Falling up­on her knees be­fore the emp­ty chair, she lift­ed clasped hands heav­en­ward.

“O God,” she said, “I am not wor­thy to take Her place. My heart is hard and cold; my tongue is oft­times cru­el; my spir­it is cen­so­ri­ous. But I have learned a les­son from the bird and a les­son from the Babe; and that which I know not teach Thou me. Cre­ate in me a new heart, O God, and re­new a right spir­it with­in me. Grant un­to me to fol­low in Her gra­cious steps, and to rule, as She ruled, by that love which nev­er faileth.”

Then, stoop­ing to the ground, she kissed the place where the feet of the Pri­oress had been wont to rest.

The sun had set be­hind the dis­tant hills, when Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress rose from her knees.

An un­speak­able peace filled her soul. She had prayed, by name, for each mem­ber of the Com­mu­ni­ty; and as she prayed, a gift of love for each had been grant­ed to her.

Ah, would they make dis­cov­ery, be­fore the mor­row, that in­stead of the brier had come up the myr­tle tree?

With this hope fill­ing her heart, Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress has­tened along the pas­sage, and rang the Con­vent bell.

* * * * * *

And at that mo­ment, Mo­ra stood with­in her cham­ber, look­ing over ter­race, val­ley, and for­est to where the sun had van­ished be­low the hori­zon, leav­ing be­hind a deep or­ange glow, pal­ing above to clear blue where, like a lamp just lit, hung lu­mi­nous the evening star.

Hugh's arms were still wrapped about her. As they stood to­geth­er at the case­ment, she leaned up­on his heart. His strength en­veloped her. His love in­fused a won­drous sense of well-​be­ing, and of home.

Yet of a sud­den she lift­ed her head, as if to lis­ten.

“What is it,” ques­tioned Hugh, his lips against her hair.

“Hush!” she whis­pered. “I seem to hear the Con­vent bell.”

His arms tight­ened their hold of her.

“Nay, my belovèd,” he said. “There is no place for echoes of the Clois­ter, in the har­mo­ny of home.”

She turned and looked at him.

Her eyes were soft with love, yet lu­mi­nous with an in­ward light, that mo­ment kin­dled.

“Dear Heart,” she said--has­ten­ing to re­as­sure him, for an anx­ious ques­tion was in his look--“I have come home to thee with a com­plete­ness of glad giv­ing and sur­ren­der, such as I did not dream could be, and scarce yet un­der­stand. But Hugh, my hus­band, to one who has known the calm and peace of the Clois­ter there will al­ways be an in­ner sanc­tu­ary in which will sound the call to prayer and vig­il. I am not less thine own--nay, rather I shall ev­er be free to be more whol­ly thine be­cause, as we first stood to­geth­er in our cham­ber, I heard the Con­vent bell.”

One look she gave, to make sure he un­der­stood; then swift­ly hid her face against his breast.

Hugh spoke his an­swer very low, his lips close to her ear.

But his eyes--with that light in them, which her hap­py heart scarce yet dared see again--were lift­ed to the evening star.

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