The White Ladies of Worcester A Romance of the Twelfth Century

CHAPTER VII

THE MADON­NA IN THE CLOIS­TER

The Pri­oress knelt, in prayer and med­ita­tion, be­fore the fig­ure of the Vir­gin Moth­er hold­ing up­on her knees the holy Babe.

Moon­light flood­ed the cell with a pure ra­di­ance.

Mary Antony's posy of weeds, of­fered, ac­cord­ing to promise, at the Vir­gin's shrine, took on, in that sil­ver splen­dour, the sem­blance of lilies and ros­es.

The Pri­oress knelt long, with clasped hands and bowed head, as white and as mo­tion­less as the mar­ble be­fore her. But at length she lift­ed her face, and broke in­to low plead­ing.

“Moth­er of God,” she said, “help this poor aching heart; still the wild hunger at my breast. Make me con­tent to be at one with the Di­vine, and to let Na­ture go. . . . Thou know­est it is not the _man_ I want. In all the long years since he played traitor to his troth to me, I have not want­ed the man. The wom­an he wed may have him, un­be­grudged by me. I do not en­vy her the en­cir­cling of his arms, though time was when I felt them strong and ten­der. I do not want the man, but--O, sweet Moth­er of God--I want the man's lit­tle child! I en­vy her the moth­er­hood which, but for her, would have been mine. . . . I want the soft dark head against my breast. . . . I want sweet ba­by lips draw­ing fresh life from mine. . . . I want the lit­tle feet, rest­ing to­geth­er in my hand. . . . All Na­ture sings of life, and the pow­er to be­stow life. Yet mine arms are emp­ty, and my strength does but car­ry mine own self to and fro. . . . Oh, give me grace to turn my thoughts from Life to Sac­ri­fice.”

The Pri­oress rose, crossed the floor, and knelt long in prayer and con­tem­pla­tion be­fore the cru­ci­fix.

The moon­light fell up­on the dy­ing face of the suf­fer­ing Saviour, up­on the crown of thorns, the help­less arms out-​stretched, the bleed­ing feet.

O, In­fi­nite Re­deemer! O, mighty Sac­ri­fice! O, Love of God, made man­ifest!

The Pri­oress knelt long in ador­ing con­tem­pla­tion. At in­ter­vals she pros­trat­ed her­self, press­ing her fore­head against the base of the cross.

At length she rose and moved to­ward the in­ner room, where stood her couch.

But even as she reached the thresh­old she turned quick­ly back, and kneel­ing be­fore the Vir­gin and Child clasped the lit­tle mar­ble foot of the Babe, cov­ered it with kiss­es, and pressed it to her breast.

Then, lift­ing de­spair­ing eyes to the ten­der face of the Madon­na: “O, Moth­er of God,” she cried, “grant un­to me to love the pier­cèd feet of thy dear Son cru­ci­fied, more than I love the lit­tle, ba­by feet of the In­fant Je­sus on thy knees.”

A great calm fell up­on her af­ter this fi­nal prayer. It seemed, of a sud­den, more ef­fi­ca­cious than all the long hours of vig­il. She felt per­suad­ed that it would be grant­ed.

She rose to her feet, al­most too much dazed and too weary to cross to the in­ner cell.

A breath of exquisite fra­grance filled the air.

At the feet of the Madon­na stood a won­drous bou­quet of lilies of the val­ley and white ros­es.

Pale but ra­di­ant, the Pri­oress passed in­to her sleep­ing-​cham­ber. The lov­ing heart of old Mary Antony had been full of lilies and ros­es. It was not her fault that her old hands had been filled with weeds. Di­vine Love, un­der­stand­ing, had wrought this gra­cious mir­acle.

As the Pri­oress stretched her­self up­on her couch, she mur­mured soft­ly: "The Lord seeth not as man seeth: for man looketh on the out­ward ap­pear­ance, but the Lord looketh on the heart.

"And, af­ter all, this mir­acle of the Di­vine per­cep­tion doth take place dai­ly.

"Alas, when our vaunt­ed ros­es and lilies ap­pear, in His sight, as mere worth­less weeds.

“The Lord looketh on the heart.”

* * * * * *

When the Pri­oress awoke, the sun­light filled her cham­ber.

She has­tened to the arch­way be­tween the cells, and looked.

The dan­de­lions seemed more gai­ly gold­en, in the morn­ing light. The bindweed had fad­ed.

The Pri­oress was dis­ap­point­ed. She had count­ed up­on send­ing ear­ly for old Mary Antony. She had pic­tured her be­wil­dered joy. Yet now the nosegay was as be­fore.

Morn­ing light is ev­er a test for trans­for­ma­tions. Things are apt to look again as they were.

But a fra­grance of ros­es and lilies still lin­gered in the cham­ber.

The blessèd Vir­gin smiled up­on the Babe.

And there was peace in the heart of the Pri­oress. Her long vig­il, her hours of prayer, had won for her the sense of a calm cer­tain­ty of com­ing vic­to­ry.

Strong in that cer­tain­ty, she bent, and gen­tly kissed the lit­tle feet of the holy Babe.

Then, as was her wont, she sound­ed the bell which called the en­tire com­mu­ni­ty to arise, and to be­gin a new day.