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."
"Wellso 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 menay, 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.
CHAPTER XVI
THE ECHO OF WILD VOICES
When the Prioress entered her cell, she stood for a moment bewildered by the rapid walk in the darkness. She could hardly realise that the long strain was over; that she had safely regained her chamber.
All was as she had left it. Apparently she had not been missed, and had returned unobserved. Hugh was by now safely in the hostel at Worcester. None need ever know that he had been here.
None need ever knowYet, alas, it was that knowledge which held the Prioress rooted to the spot on which she stood, gazing round her cell.
Hugh had been here; and when he was here, her one desire had been to get him speedily away.
But now?
Dumb with the pain of a great yearning, she looked about her.
Yes; just there he had stood; here he had knelt, and there he had stood again.
This calm monastic air had vibrated to the fervour of his voice.
It had grown calm again.
Would her poor heart in time also grow calm? Would her lips stop trembling, and cease to feel the fire of his?
But now?
Dumb with the pain of a great yearning, she looked about her.
Yes; just there he had stood; here he had knelt, and there he had stood again.
This calm monastic air had vibrated to the fervour of his voice.
It had grown calm again.
Would her poor heart in time also grow calm? Would her lips stop trembling, and cease to feel the fire of his?
Yet for one moment, only, her mind dwelt upon herself. Then all thought of self was merged in the realisation of his loneliness, his suffering, his bitter disillusion. To have found her dead, would have been hard; to have lost her living, was almost past bearing. Would it cost him his faith in God, in truth, in purity, in honour?
The Prioress felt the insistent need of prayer. But passing the gracious image of the Virgin and Child, she cast herself down at the foot of the crucifix.
She had seen a strong man in agony, nailed, by the cruel iron of circumstance, to the cross-beams of sacrifice and surrender. To the suffering Saviour she turned, instinctively, for help and consolation.
Thus speedily had her prayer of the previous night been granted. The piercèd feet of our dear Lord, crucified, had become more to her than the baby feet of the Infant Jesus, on His Mother's knee.
Yet, even as she kneltsupplicating, interceding, adoringthere echoed in her memory the wicked shriek of Mary Seraphine: "A dead God cannot help me! I want life, not death!" followed almost instantly by Hugh's stern question: "Is this religion?"
Truly, of late, wild voices had taken liberty of speech in the cell of the Prioress, and had left their impious utterances echoing behind them.
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; butI 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 nowGod 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.