ON THE WINGS OF THE STORM
In the afternoon of that day, Mary Antony awaited, in the cloisters,
the return of the White Ladies from Vespers. Twenty only, had gone;
and, fearful lest she should make mistake with the unusual number, the
old lay-sister spent the time of waiting in counting the twenty peas
afresh, passing them back and forth from one hand to the other.
Mother Sub-Prioress was still unable to leave her bed.
Sister Mary Augustine stayed to tend her.
Sister Teresa was in less pain, but fevered still, and strangely weak.
The Reverend Mother forbade her to rise.
Shortly before the bell rang calling the nuns to form procession in the
cloisters, Sister Seraphine declared herself unable for the walk, and
begged to be allowed to remain behind. The Prioress found herself
misdoubting this sudden indisposition of Sister Seraphine who, though
flushed and excited, shewed none of the usual signs of sickness.
Not wishing, however, to risk having a third patient upon her hands,
the Reverend Mother gave leave for her to stay, but also elected to
remain behind, herself; letting Sister Mary Rebecca, who had recovered
from her indisposition, lead the procession.
Thus the Reverend Mother contrived to keep Sister Seraphine with her
during the absence of the other nuns, giving her translations from the
Sacramentaries to copy upon strips of vellum, until shortly before the
hour when the White Ladies would return from Vespers, when she sent her
to her cell for the time of prayer and meditation.
Left alone, the Prioress examined the copies, fairly legible, but sadly
unlike her own beautiful work. She sighed and, putting them away, rose
and paced the room, questioning how best to deal with the pretty but
wayward young nun.
Two definite causes led the Prioress to mistrust Sister Seraphine: one,
that she had called upon "Wilfred" to come and save her, and had
admitted having expected him to appear and carry her off before she
made her final profession; the other, that she had tried to start an
evil report concerning the old lay-sister, Mary Antony. The Prioress
pondered what means to take in order to bring Sister Seraphine to a
better mind.
As the Prioress walked to and fro, unconsciously missing the daily
exercise of the passage to the Cathedral, she noted a sudden darkening
of her chamber. Going to the window, she saw the sky grown black with
thunder clouds. So quickly the storm gathered, that the bright summer
world without seemed suddenly hung over with a deep purple pall.
Birds screamed and darted by, on hurried wing; then, reaching home,
fell silent. All nature seemed to hold its breath, awaiting the first
flash, and the first roll of thunder.
Still standing at her window, the Prioress questioned whether the nuns
were returned, and safely in their cells. While underground they would
know nothing of it; but they loved not passing along the cloisters in a
storm.
The Prioress wondered why she had not heard the bell announcing their
return, and calling to the hour of prayer and silence. Also why Mary
Antony had not brought in the key and her report.
Thinking to inquire into this, she turned from the window, just as a
darting snake of fire cleft the sky. A crash of thunder followed; and,
at that moment, the door of the chamber bursting open, old Mary Antony,
breathless, stumbled in, forgetting to knock, omitting to kneel, not
waiting leave to speak, both hands outstretched, one tightly clenched,
the other holding the great key: "Oh, Reverend Mother!" she gasped.
Then the stern displeasure on that loved face silenced her. She
dropped upon her knees, ashen and trembling.
Now the Prioress held personal fear in high scorn; and if, after ninety
years' experience of lightning and thunder, Mary Antony was not better
proof against their terrors, the Prioress felt scant patience with her.
She spoke sternly.
"How now, Mary Antony! Why this unseemly haste? Why this rush into my
presence; no knock; no pause until I bid thee enter? Is the
storm-fiend at thy heels? Now shame upon thee!"
For only answer, Mary Antony opened her clenched hand: whereupon twenty
peas fell pattering to the floor, chasing one another across the
Reverend Mother's cell.
The Prioress frowned, growing suddenly weary of these games with peas.
"Have the Ladies returned?" she asked.
Mary Antony grovelled nearer, let fall the key, and seized the robe of
the Prioress with both hands, not to carry it to her lips, but to cling
to it as if for protection.
With the clang of the key on the flags, a twisted blade of fire rent
the sky.
As the roar which followed rolled away, echoed and re-echoed by distant
hills, the old lay-sister lifted her face.
Her lips moved, her gums rattled; the terror in her eyes pleaded for
help.
This was the moment when it dawned on the Prioress that there was more
here than fear of a storm.
Stooping she laid her hands firmly, yet with kindness in their
strength, on the shaking shoulders.
"What is it, dear Antony?" she said.
"Twenty White Ladies went," whispered the old lay-sister. "I counted
them. Twenty White Ladies went; but----"
"Well?"
"_Twenty-one_ returned," chattered Mary Antony, and hid her face in the
Reverend Mother's robe.
Two flashes, with their accompanying peals of thunder passed, before
the Prioress moved or spoke. Then raising Mary Antony she placed her
in a chair, disengaged her robe from the shaking hands, passed out into
the cell passage, and herself sounded the call to silence and prayer.
Returning to her cell she shut the door, poured out a cordial and put
it to the trembling lips of Mary Antony. Then taking a seat just
opposite, she looked with calm eyes at the lay-sister.
"What means this story?" said the Prioress.
"Reverend Mother, twenty holy Ladies went----"
"I know. And twenty returned."
"Aye," said the old woman more firmly, nettled out of her
speechlessness; "twenty returned; and twenty peas I dropped from hand
to hand. Then--when no pea remained--yet another White Lady glided by;
and with her went an icy wind, and around her came the blackness of the
storm.
"Down the steps I fled, locked the door, and took the key. How I
mounted again, I know not. As I drew level with the cloisters, I saw
that twenty-first White Lady, for whom--Saint Peter knows--I held no
pea, passing from the cloisters into the cell passage. As I hastened
on, fain to see whither she went, a blinding flash, like an evil
twisting snake, shot betwixt her and me. When I could see again, she
was gone. I fled to the Reverend Mother, and ran in on the roar of the
thunder."
"Saw you her face, Mary Antony?"
"Nay, Reverend Mother. But, of late, the holy Ladies mostly walk by
with their faces shrouded."
"I know. Now, see here, dear Antony. Two peas dropped together, the
while you counted one."
"Nay, Reverend Mother. Twenty peas dropped one by one; also I counted
twenty White Ladies. And, after I had counted twenty, yet another
passed."
"But how could that be?" objected the Prioress. "If twenty went, but
twenty could return. Who should be the twenty-first?"
Then old Mary Antony leaned forward, crossing herself.
"Sister Agatha," she whispered, tremulously. "Poor Sister Agatha
returned to us again."
But, even as she said it, swift came a name to the mind of the
Prioress, answering her own question, and filling her with
consternation and a great anger. "Wilfred! Wilfred, are you come to
save me?" foolish little Seraphine had said. Was such sacrilege
possible? Could one from the outside world have dared to intrude into
their holy Sanctuary?
Yet old Antony's tale carried conviction. Her abject fear was now
explained.
That the Dead should come again, and walk and move among the haunts of
men, seeking out the surroundings they have loved and left, seems
always to hold terror for the untutored mind, which knows not that the
Dead are more alive than the living; and that there is no death, saving
the death of sin.
But to the Reverend Mother, guarding her flock from sin or shame, a
visitor from the Unseen World held less of horror than a possible
intruder from the Seen.
A rapid glance as she sounded the bell, had shown her that the passage
was empty.
Which cell now sheltered two, where there should be but one?
The Prioress walked across to a recess near the south window, touched a
spring, and slid back a portion of the oak panelling. Passing her hand
into a secret hiding place in the wall, she drew forth a beautifully
fashioned dagger, with carved ivory handle, crossed metal thumb-guard,
blade of bevelled steel, polished and narrowing to a sharp needle
point. She tested the point, then slipped the weapon into her belt,
beneath her scapulary. As she closed the panel, and turned back into
the chamber, a light of high resolve was in her eyes. Her whole
bearing betokened so fine a fearlessness, such noble fixity of purpose
that, looking on her, Mary Antony felt her own fears vanishing.
"Now listen, dear Antony," said the Prioress, holding the old woman
with her look. "I must make sure that this twenty-first White Lady of
thine is but a trick played on thee by thy peas. Should she be
anywhere in the Convent I shall most certainly have speech with her.
"Meanwhile, go thou to thy kitchens, and give thy mind to the preparing
of the evening meal. But ring not the Refectory bell until I bid thee.
Nay, I myself will sound it this evening. It may suit me to keep the
nuns somewhat longer at their devotions.
"Should I sound the alarm bell, let all thy helpers run up here; but go
thou to the cell of Mother Sub-Prioress and persuade her not to rise.
If needful say that it is my command that she keep her bed. . . .
Great heavens! What a crash! May our Lady defend us! The lightning
inclines to strike. I shall pass to each cell and make sure that none
are too greatly alarmed."
"Now, haste thee, Antony; and not a word concerning thy fears must pass
thy lips to any; no mention of a twenty-first White Lady nor"--the
Prioress crossed herself--"of Sister Agatha, to whom may our Lord grant
everlasting rest."
Mary Antony, kneeling, kissed the hem of the Prioress's robe. Then,
rising, she said--with unwonted solemnity and restraint: "The Lord
defend you, Reverend Mother, from foes, seen and unseen," and, followed
by another blinding flash of lightning, she left the cell.