THE VISION OF MARY ANTONY
On the afternoon following the Bishop's unexpected visit to the Nunnery,
the Prioress elected to walk last in the procession to and from the
Cathedral, placing Mother Sub-Prioress first. It was her custom
occasionally to vary the order of procession. Sometimes she walked
thirteenth, with twelve before, and twelve behind her.
She had at first inclined on this day, after her strenuous time with the
Bishop, followed by the hour's ride upon Icon, not to go to Vespers.
Then her heart failed her, and she went. On these two afternoons--this
and the morrow--Hugh would still be in the crypt. She should not so much
as glance toward the pillar at the foot of the winding stairway leading
to the clerestory; yet it would be sweet to feel him to be standing there
as she passed; sweet to know that he heard the same sounds as fell upon
her ear.
To-day, and again on the morrow, she might yield to this yearning for the
comfort of his nearness; but never again, for Hugh would not return.
She had wondered whether she dared ask him, by the Bishop, on a given
date once a year to attend High Mass in the Cathedral, so that she might
know him to be under the same roof, worshipping, at the same moment, the
same blessèd manifestation of the Divine Presence.
But almost at once she had dismissed the desire, realising that comfort
such as this, could be comfort but to the heart of a woman, more likely
torment to a man. Also that should his fancy incline him to seek
companionship and consolation in the love of another, a yearly pilgrimage
to Worcester for her sake, would stand in the way of his future happiness.
Walking last in that silent procession back to the Nunnery, the Prioress
walked alone with her sadness. Her heart was heavy indeed.
She had angered her old friend, Symon of Worcester. After being
infinitely patient, when he might well have had cause for wrath, he had
suddenly taken a sterner tone, and departed in a certain aloofness,
leaving her with the fear that she had lost him, also, beyond recall.
Thus she walked in loneliness and sorrow.
As she passed up the steps into the cloisters, she noted that Mary Antony
was not in her accustomed place.
Slightly wondering, and half unconsciously explaining to herself that the
old lay-sister had probably for some reason gone forward with the
Sub-Prioress, the Prioress moved down the now empty passage and entered
her own cell.
On the threshold she paused, astonished.
In front of the shrine of the Madonna, knelt Mary Antony in a kind of
trance, hands clasped, eyes fixed, lips parted, the colour gone from her
cheeks, yet a radiance upon her face, like the after-glow of a vision of
exceeding glory.
She appeared to be wholly unconscious of the presence of the Prioress,
who recovering from her first astonishment, closed the door, and coming
forward laid her hand gently upon the old woman's shoulder.
Mary Antony's eyes remained fixed, but her lips moved incessantly.
Bending over her, the Prioress could make out disjointed sentences.
"Gone! . . . But it was at our Lady's bidding. . . . Flown? Ah, gay
little Knight of the Bloody Vest! Nay, it must have been the archangel
Gabriel, or maybe Saint George, in shining armour. . . . How shall we
live without the Reverend Mother? But the will of our blessèd Lady must
be done."
"Antony!" said the Prioress. "Wake up, dear Antony! You are dreaming
again. You are thinking of the robin and the pea. I have not gone from
you; nor am I going. See! I am here."
She turned the old face about, and brought herself into Mary Antony's
field of vision.
Slowly a light of recognition dawned in those fixed eyes; then came a
cry, as of fear and of a great dismay; then a gasping sound, a clutching
of the air. Mary Antony had fallen prone, before the shrine of the
Madonna.
An hour later she lay upon her bed, whither they had carried her. She
had recovered consciousness, and partaken of wine and bread.
The colour had returned to her cheeks, when the Prioress came in,
dismissed the lay-sister in attendance, closed the door, and sat down
beside the couch.
"Thou art better, dear Antony," said the Prioress. "They tell me thy
strength has returned, and this strange fainting is over. Thou must lie
still yet awhile; but will it weary thee to speak?"
"Nay, Reverend Mother, I should dearly love to speak. My soul is full of
wonder; yet to none saving to you, Reverend Mother, can I tell of that
which I have seen."
"Tell me all, dear Antony," said the Prioress. "Sister Mary Rebecca says
thy symptoms point to a Divine Vision."
Mary Antony chuckled. "For once Sister Mary Rebecca speaks the truth,"
she said. "Have patience with me, Reverend Mother, and I will tell you
all."
The Prioress gently stroked the worn hands lying outside the coverlet.
Mary Antony looked very old in bed. Were it not for the bright twinkling
eyes, she looked too old ever again to stand upon her feet. Yet how she
still bustled upon those same old feet! How diligently she performed her
own duties, and shewed to the other lay-sisters how they should have
performed theirs!
Forty years ago, she had chosen her nook in the Convent burying-ground.
She was even then, among the older members of the Community; yet most of
those who saw her choose it, now lay in their own.
"She will outlive us all," said Mother Sub-Prioress one day, sourly;
angered by some trick of Mary Antony's.
"She is like an ancient parrot," cried Sister Mary Rebecca, anxious to
agree with Mother Sub-Prioress.
Which when Mary Antony heard, she chuckled, and snapped her fingers.
"Please God, I shall live long enough," she said, "to thrust Mother
Sub-Prioress into a sackcloth shroud; also, to crack nuts upon the
sepulchre of Sister Mary Rebecca."
But none of these remarks reached the Prioress. She loved the old
lay-sister, knowing the aged body held a faithful and zealous heart, and
a mind which, in its quaint simplicity, oft seemed to the Prioress like
the mind of a little child--and of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.
"There is no need for patience, dear Antony," said the Prioress. "I can
sit in stillness beside thee, until thy tale be fully told. Begin at the
beginning."
The slanting rays of the late afternoon sun, piercing through the narrow
window, fell in a golden band of light upon the folded hands, lighting up
the aged face with an almost unearthly radiance.
"I was in the cloisters," began Mary Antony, "awaiting the return from
Vespers of the holy Ladies.
"I go there betimes, because at that hour I am accustomed to hold
converse with a little vain man in a red jerkin, who comes to see me,
when he knows me to be alone. I tell him tales such as he never hears
elsewhere. To-day I planned to tell him how the great Lord Bishop,
arriving unannounced, rode into the courtyard; and, seeing old Antony
standing in the doorway, mistook her for the Reverend Mother. That was a
great moment in the life of Mary Antony, and confers upon her added
dignity.
"'So turn out thy toes, and make thy best bow, and behave thee as a
little layman should behave in the presence of one who hath been mistaken
for one holding so high an office in Holy Church.'
"Thus," explained Mary Antony, "had I planned to strike awe into the
little red breast of that over-bold robin."
"And came the robin to the cloisters?" inquired the Prioress, presently,
for Mary Antony lay upon her pillow laughing to herself, nodding and
bowing, and making her fingers hop to and fro on the coverlet, as a bird
might hop with toes out turned. Nor would she be recalled at once to the
happenings of the afternoon.
"The great Lord Bishop did address me as 'worthy Mother,'" she remarked;
"not 'Reverend Mother,' as we address our noble Prioress. And this has
given me much food for thought. Is it better to be worthy and not
reverend, or reverend and not worthy? Our large white sow, when she did
contrive to have more little pigs in her litters, than ever our sows had
before; and, after a long and fruitful life, furnished us with two
excellent hams, a boar's head, and much bacon, was a worthy sow; but
never was she reverend, not even when Mother Sub-Prioress pronounced the
blessing over her face, much beautified by decoration--grand ivory tusks,
and a lemon in her mouth! Never, in life, had she looked so fair; which
is indeed, I believe, the case with many. Yet, for all her worthiness,
she was not reverend. Also I have heard tell of a certain Prior, not
many miles from here, who, borrowing money, never repays it; who
oppresses the poor, driving them from the Priory gate; who maltreats the
monks, and is kind unto none, saving unto himself. He--it seems--is
reverend but not worthy. While thou, Master Redbreast, art certainly not
reverend; the saints, and thine own conscience, alone know whether thou
art worthy.
"This," explained Mary Antony, "was how I had planned to point a moral to
that jaunty little worldling."
"They who are reverend must strive to be also worthy," said the Prioress;
"while they who count themselves to be worthy, must think charitably of
those to whom they owe reverence. Came the robin to thee in the
cloisters, Antony?"
The old woman's manner changed. She fixed her eyes upon the Prioress,
and spoke with an air of detachment and of mystery. The very simplicity
of her language seemed at once to lift the strange tale she told, into
sublimity.
"Aye, he came. But not for crumbs; not for cheese; not to gossip with
old Antony.
"He stood upon the coping, looking at me with his bright eye.
"'Well, little vain man!' said I. But he moved not.
"'Well, Master Pieman,' I said, 'art come to spy on holy ladies?' But
never a flutter, never a chirp, gave he.
"So grave and yet war-like was his aspect, that at length I said: 'Well,
Knight of the Bloody Vest! Hast thou come to carry off again our noble
Prioress?' Upon which, instantly, he lifted up his voice, and burst into
song; then flew to the doorway, turning and chirping, as if asking me to
follow.
"Greatly marvelling at this behaviour on the part of the little bird I
love, I forthwith set out to follow him.
"Along the passage, on swift wing, he flew; in and out of the empty
cells, as if in search of something.' Then, while I was yet some little
way behind, he vanished into the Reverend Mother's cell, and came not
forth again.
"Laughing to myself at such presumption, I followed, saying: 'Ha, thou
Knight of the Bloody Vest! What doest thou there? The Reverend Mother
is away. What seekest thou in her chamber, Knight of the Bloody Vest?'
"But, reaching the doorway, at that moment, I found myself struck dumb by
what I saw.
"No robin was there, but a most splendid Knight, in shining armour,
kneeled upon his knees before the shrine of our Lady. A blood-red cross
was on his breast. His dark head was uplifted. On his noble face was a
look of pleading and of prayer.
"Marvelling, but unafraid, I crept in, and kneeled behind that splendid
Knight. The look of pleading upon his face, inclined me also to prayer.
His lips moved, as I had seen at the first; but while I stood upon my
feet, I could hear no words. As soon as I too kneeled, I heard the
Knight saying: 'Give her to me! Give her to me!' And at last: 'Mother
of God, send her to me! Take pity on a hungry heart, a lonely home, a
desolate hearth, and send her to me!'"
Mary Antony paused, fixing her eyes upon the rosy strip of sky, seen
through her narrow window. Absorbed in the recital of her vision, she
appeared to have forgotten the presence of the Prioress. She paused; and
there was silence in the cell, for the Prioress made no sound.
Presently the old voice went on, once more.
"When the splendid Knight said: 'Send her to me,' a most wondrous thing
did happen.
"Our blessèd Lady, lifting her head, looked toward the door. Then
raising her hand, she beckoned.
"No sooner did our Lady beckon, than I heard steps coming along the
passage--that passage which I knew to be empty. The Knight heard them,
also; for his heart began to beat so loudly that--kneeling behind--I
could hear it.
"Our blessèd Lady smiled.
"Then--in through the doorway came the Reverend Mother, walking with her
head held high, and sunlight in her eyes, as I have ofttimes seen her
walk in the garden in Springtime, when the birds are singing, and a scent
of lilac is all around.
"She did not see old Mary Antony; but moving straight to where the Knight
was kneeling, kneeled down beside him.
"Then the splendid Knight did hold out his hand. But the Reverend
Mother's hands were clasped upon the cross at her breast, and she would
not put her hand into the Knight's; but lifting her eyes to our Lady she
said: 'Holy Mother of God, except thou thyself send me to him, I cannot
go."
"And again the Knight said: 'Give her to me! Give her to me! Blessèd
Virgin, give her to me!'
"And the tears ran down the face of old Antony, because both those noble
hearts were wrung with anguish. Yet only the merry Babe, peeping over
the two bowed heads, saw that old Antony was there.
"Then a wondrous thing did happen.
"Stooping from her marble throne our Lady leaned, and taking the Reverend
Mother's hand in hers, placed it herself in the outstretched hand of the
Knight.
"At once a sound like many chimes of silver bells filled the air, and a
voice, so wonderful that I did fall upon my face to the floor, said:
"'TAKE HER; SHE HATH BEEN EVER THINE. I HAVE BUT KEPT HER FOR THEE.'"
"When I lifted my head once more, the Reverend Mother and the splendid
Knight had risen. Heaven was in their eyes. Her hand was in his. His
arm was around her.
"As I looked, they turned together, passed out through the doorway, and
paced slowly down the passage.
"I heard their steps growing fainter and yet more faint, until they
reached the cloisters. Then all was still."
"Then I heard other steps arriving. I still kneeled on, fearful to move;
because those earthly steps were drowning the sound of the silver chimes
which filled the air.
"Then--why, then I saw the Reverend Mother, returned--and returned alone.
"So I cried out, because she had left that splendid Knight. And, as I
cried, the silver bells fell silent, all grew | dark around me, and I
knew no more, until I woke up in mine own bed, tended by Sister Mary
Rebecca, and Sister Teresa; with Abigail--noisy hussy!--helping to fetch
and carry.
"But--when I close mine eyes--Ah, then! Yes, I hear again the sound of
silver chimes. And some day I shall hear--shall hear again--that
wondrous voice of--voice of tenderness, which said: 'Take her, she hath
been ever--ever'----"
The old voice which had talked for so long a time, wavered, weakened,
then of a sudden fell silent.
Mary Antony had dropped off to sleep.
Slowly the Prioress rose, feeling her way, as one blinded by too great a
light.
She stood for some moments leaning against the doorpost, her hand upon
the latch, watching the furrowed face upon the pillow, gently slumbering;
still illumined by a halo of sunset light.
Then she opened the door, and passed out; closing it behind her.
As the Prioress closed the door, Mary Antony opened one eye.
Yea, verily! She was alone!
She raised herself upon the couch, listening intently.
Far away in the distance, she fancied she could hear the door of the
Reverend Mother's chamber shut--yes!--and the turning of the key within
the lock.
Then Mary Antony arose, tottered over to the crucifix, and, falling on
her knees, lifted clasped hands to the dying Redeemer.
"O God," she said, "full well I know that to lie concerning holy things
doth damn the soul forever. But the great Lord Bishop said she would
thrust happiness from her with both hands, unless our Lady vouchsafed a
vision. Gladly will I bear the endless torments of hell fires, that she
may know fulness of joy and pleasures for evermore. But, oh, Son of
Mary, by the sorrows of our Lady's heart, by the yearnings of her love, I
ask that--once a year--I may come out--to sit just for one hour on my
jasper seat, and see the Reverend Mother walk, between the great Lord
Bishop and the splendid Knight, up the wide golden stair. And some day
at last, O Saviour Christ, I ask it of Thy wounds, 'Thy dying love, Thy
broken heart, may the sin of Mary Antony--her great sin, her sin of thus
lying about holy things--be forgiven her, because--because--she loved"----
Old Mary Antony fell forward on the stones. This time, she had really
swooned.
It took the combined efforts of Sister Teresa, Sister Mary Rebecca, and
Mother Sub-Prioress, to bring her back once more to consciousness.
It added to their anxiety that they could not call the Reverend Mother,
she having already sent word that she would not come to the evening meal,
and must not be disturbed, as she purposed passing the night in prayer
and vigil.