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; but--I 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 now--God 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.
At length she sought her couch. But sleep refused to come, and
presently she crept back in the white moonlight, and kneeling pressed
her lips to the stone on which Hugh had kneeled; then fled, in shame
that our Lady should see such weakness; and dared not glance toward the
shadowy form of the dead Christ, crucified. For with the coming of
Love to seek her, Life had come; and where Life enters, Death is put to
flight; even as before the triumphant march of the rising sun, darkness
and shadows flee away.
Yet, even then, our Lady gently smiled, and the Babe on her knees
looked merry.