THE PRIORESS SHUTS THE DOOR
The Prioress waited until the old lay-sister's shuffling footsteps died
away.
Then she passed out into the long, stone passage, leaving her own door
open wide.
Into each cell the Prioress went.
In each she found a kneeling nun, absorbed in her devotions. In no
cell were there two white figures. So simple were the fittings of
these cells, that no place of concealment was possible. One look, from
the doorway, sufficed.
Outside the cell of Sister Seraphine the Prioress paused, hearing words
within; then entered swiftly. But Sister Seraphine was alone, reciting
aloud, for love of hearing her own voice.
The Prioress now moved toward the heavy door in the archway leading
into the cloisters. It opened inwards, and had been left standing
wide, by Mary Antony. Indeed, in summer it stood open day and night,
for coolness.
As the Prioress walked along the dimly lighted passage, she could see,
through the open door, sheets of rain driving through the cloisters.
The storm-clouds had burst, at last, and were descending in floods.
The Prioress stood in the shelter of the doorway, looking out into the
cloisters. The only places she could not view, were the entrance to
the subterranean way, and the flight of steps leading thereto. She
would have wished to examine these; but it seemed scarcely worth
passing into the driving rain, now sweeping through the cloister
arches. After all, whatever possible danger lurked down those steps,
the safety of the Convent would be assured if she closed this door,
between the passage and the cloisters, and locked it.
Stepping back into the passage, she seized the heavy door and swung it
to, noting as she did so, how far too heavy it was for the feeble arms
of old Mary Antony, and deciding for the future to allot the task of
closing it to a young lay-sister, leaving to Mary Antony merely the
responsibility of turning the key in the lock.
This the Prioress was herself proceeding to do, when something impelled
her to turn her eyes to the angle of wall laid bare by the closing of
the door.
In that dark corner, motionless, with shrouded face, stood a tall
figure, garbed in the dress of the nuns of the Order of the White
Ladies of Worcester.
Perhaps the habit of silence is never of greater value than in moments
of sudden shock and horror.
One cry from the Prioress would have meant the instant opening of many
doors, and the arrival, on flying feet, of a score of frightened nuns.
Instead of screaming, the Prioress stood silent and perfectly still;
while every pulse in her body ceased beating, during one moment of
uncontrollable, cold horror. Then, with a leap, her heart went on;
pounding so loudly, that she could hear it in the silence. Yet she
kept command of every impulse which drove to sound or motion.
Before long her pulses quieted; her heart, beating steadily, was once
again the well-managed steed upon which her high courage could ride to
victory.
And, all the while, her eyes never left the white figure; knowing it
knew itself discovered and observed.
Her hand was still upon the key.
She turned it, and withdrew it from the lock.
A deafening crash of thunder shook the walls. A swirl of wind and rain
beat on the door.
When the last echo of the thunder had died away, the Prioress spoke;
and that calm voice, sounding amid the storm, fell on the only ears
that heard it, like the Voice of Power on Galilee, which bid the
tempest cease, and the wild waves be still.
"Who art thou, and what doest thou here?"
The figure answered not.
"Art thou a ghostly visitor come back amongst us, from the Realm of the
Unseen?"
The figure made no sign. "Art thou then flesh and blood, and mortal as
ourselves?"
Slowly the figure bowed its head.
"Now I adjure thee by our blessèd Lady to tell me truly. Art thou, in
very deed a holy nun, a member of our sacred Order? Answer me, yea or
nay?"
The figure shook its head.
The Prioress advanced a step, passed the key into her left hand and,
slipping her right beneath her scapulary, took firm grip of the dagger
at her girdle.
"Then, masquerader in our sacred dress," she said, "to me you have to
answer for double sacrilege: the wearing of these robes, and your
presence here, unbidden. I warn you that your life has never hung by
frailer thread than now it hangs. Your only hope of safety lies in
doing as I bid you. Pass before me along this passage until you reach
a chamber on the right, of which the door stands open. Enter, and
place yourself against the wall on the side farthest from the door.
There I will speak with you."
With the shuffling steps of a woman, and the bent shoulders of the very
old, the figure moved slowly forward, stepped upon the front of the
white robe, stumbled, but recovered.
The Prioress watching, laughed--a short scornful laugh, holding more of
anger than of merriment.
With an abrupt movement the figure straightened, stood at its full
height, and strode forward. The Prioress marked the squaring of the
broad shoulders; the height, greater than her own, though she was more
than common tall; the stride, beneath the folds of the long robe; and
she knit her level brows, for well she knew with whom she had to deal.
She was called to face a desperate danger. Single-handed, she had to
meet a subtle foe. She asked no help from others, but she took no
needless risks.
As she passed the cell of Mary Seraphine, using her master-key, she
locked that lady in!