MARY ANTONY HOLDS THE FORT
Mary Antony awaited in the cloisters the return of the White Ladies
from Vespers.
The old lay-sister was not in the mood for gay chatter to the robin,
nor even for quaint converse with herself.
She sat upon the stone seat, looking very frail, and wearing a wistful
expression, quite unlike her usual alert demeanour.
As she sat, she slowly dropped the twenty-five peas from her right
hand, to her left, and back again.
A wonderful thing had happened on that afternoon, just before the White
Ladies set forth to the Cathedral.
All were assembling in the cloisters, when word arrived that the
Reverend Mother wished to speak, in her cell, with Sister Mary Antony.
Hastening thither she found the Reverend Mother standing, very white
and silent, very calm and steadfast, looking out from the oriel window.
At first she did not turn; and Mary Antony stood waiting, just within
the doorway.
Then she turned, and said: "Ah, dear Antony!" in tones which thrilled
the heart of the old lay-sister.
"Come hither, Antony," she said; and even as she said it, moved to meet
her.
A few simple instructions she gave, concerning matters in the Refectory
and kitchen. Then said: "Now I must go. The nuns wait."
Then of a sudden she put her arms about the old lay-sister.
"Good-bye, my Antony," she said. "Thy love and devotion have been very
precious to me. The Presence of the Lord abide with thee in blessing,
while we are gone."
And, stooping, she kissed her gently on the brow; then passed from the
cell.
Mary Antony stood as one that dreamed.
It was so many years since any touch of tenderness had reached her.
And now--those gracious arms around her; those serene eyes looking upon
her with love in their regard, and a something more, which her old
heart failed to fathom; those lips, whose every word of command she and
the whole Community hastened to obey, leaving a kiss upon her brow!
Long after the White Ladies had formed into procession and left the
cloisters, Mary Antony stood as one that dreamed. Then, remembering
her duties, she hurried to the cloisters, but found them empty; down
the steps to the crypt passage; the door was locked on the inside; the
key gone.
The procession had started, and Mary Antony had failed to be at her
post. The White Ladies had departed uncounted. Mary Antony had not
been there to count them.
Never before had the Reverend Mother sent for her when she should have
been on duty elsewhere.
Hastening to remedy her failure, Mary Antony drew the bag of peas from
her wallet, opened it, and hurrying from cell to cell, took out a pea
at each, as she verified its emptiness; until five-and-twenty peas lay
in her hand.
So now she waited, her error repaired; yet ever with her--then, as she
ran, and now, as she waited--she felt the benediction of the Reverend
Mother's kiss, the sense of her encircling arms, the wonder of her
gracious words.
"The Presence of the Lord abide with thee in blessing."
Yes, a heavenly calm was in the cloisters. The Devil had stayed away.
Heaven seemed very near. Even that little vain man, the robin,
appeared to be busy elsewhere. Mary Antony was quite alone.
"While we are gone." But they would not now be long. Mary Antony
could tell by the shadows on the grass, and the slant of the sunshine
through a certain arch, that the hour of return drew near.
She would kneel beside the topmost step, and see the Reverend Mother
pass; she would look up at that serene face which had melted into
tenderness; would see the firm line of those beautiful lips----
Suddenly Mary Antony knew that she would not be able to look. Not just
yet could she bear to see the Reverend Mother's countenance, without
that expression of wonderful tenderness. And even as she realised
this, the key grated in the lock below.
Taking up her position at the top of the steps, the five-and-twenty
peas in her right hand, Mary Antony quickly made up her mind. She
could not lift her eyes to the Reverend Mother's face. She would count
the passing feet.
The young lay-sister who carried the light, stumped up the steps, and
set down the lantern with a clatter. She plumped on to her knees
opposite to Mary Antony.
"Sister Mary Rebecca leads to-day," she chanted in a low voice, "and
all the way hath stepped upon my heels."
But Mary Antony took no notice of this information, which, at any other
time, would have delighted her.
Head bowed, eyes on the ground, she awaited the passing feet.
They came, moving slow and sedate.
They passed--stepping two by two, out of her range of vision; moving
along the cloister, dying away in the distance.
All had passed.
Nay! Not all? Another comes! Surely, another comes?
Sister Abigail, lifting the lantern, rose up noisily.
"What wait you for, Sister Antony? The holy Ladies have by now entered
their cells."
Mary Antony lifted startled eyes.
The golden bars of sunlight fell across an empty cloister.
A few white figures in the passage, seen in the distance through the
open door, were vanishing, one by one, into their cells.
Mary Antony covered her dismay with indignation.
"Be off, thou impudent hussy! Hold thy noisy tongue and hang thy
rattling lantern on a nail; or, better still, hold thy lantern, and
hang thyself, holding it, upon the nail. If I am piously minded to
pray here until sunset, that is no concern of thine. Be off, I say!"
Left alone, Mary Antony slowly opened her right hand, and peered into
the palm.
One pea lay within it.
She went over to the seat and counted, with trembling fingers, the peas
from her left hand.
Twenty-four! One holy Lady had therefore not returned. This must be
reported at once to the Reverend Mother. In her excitement, Mary
Antony forgot the emotion which had so recently possessed her.
Bustling down the steps, she drew the key from the door, paused one
moment to peep into the dank darkness, listening for running footsteps
or a voice that called; then closed the door, locked it, drew forth the
key, and hurried to the Reverend Mother's cell.
The door stood ajar, just as she had left it.
She knocked, but entered without waiting to be bidden, crying: "Oh,
Reverend Mother! Twenty-five holy Ladies went to Vespers, and but
twenty-four have"----
Then her voice died away into silence.
The Reverend Mother's cell was empty.
Stock-still stood Mary Antony, while her world crumbled from beneath
her old feet and her heaven rolled itself up like a scroll, from over
her head, and departed.
The Reverend Mother's cell was empty.
It was the Reverend Mother who had not returned.
"Good-bye, my Antony. The Presence of the Lord abide with thee in
blessing, while we are gone." Ah, gone! Never to return!
Once again the old lay-sister stood as one that dreamed; but this time
instead of beatific joy, there was a forlorn pathos in the dreaming.
Presently a door opened, and a step sounded, far away in the passage
beyond the Refectory stairs.
Instantly a look of cunning and determination replaced the helpless
dismay on the old face. She quickly closed the cell door, hung up the
crypt key in its accustomed place; then kneeling before the shrine of
the Madonna: "Blessèd Virgin," she prayed, with clasped hands uplifted;
"be pleased to sharpen once again the wits of old Mary Antony."
Rising, she found the key of the Reverend Mother's cell, passed out,
closing the door behind her; locked it, and slipped the key into her
wallet.
The passage was empty. All the nuns were spending in prayer and
meditation the time until the Refectory bell should ring.
Mary Antony appeared in the kitchen, only a few minutes later than
usual.
"Prepare _you_ the evening meal," she said to her subordinates. "_I_
care not what the holy Ladies feed upon this even, nor how badly it be
served. Reverend Mother again elects to spend the night in prayer and
fasting. So Mother Sub-Prioress will spit out a curse upon the viands;
or Sister Mary Rebecca will miaul over them like an old cat that sees a
tom in every shadow, though all toms have long since fled at her
approach. Serve at the usual hour; and let Abigail ring the Refectory
bell. I am otherwise employed. And remember. Reverend Mother is on
no account to be disturbed."
The porteress, at the gate, jumped well-nigh out of her skin when,
turning, she found Mary Antony at her elbow.
"Beshrew me, Sister Antony!" she exclaimed. "Wherefore"----
"Whist!" said Mary Antony. "Speak not so loud. Now listen, Mary Mark.
Saw you the great Lord Bishop yesterday, a-walking with Mary Antony?
Ha, ha! Yea, verily! 'Worthy Mother,' his lordship called me.
'Worthy Mother,' with his hand upon his heart. And into the gardens he
walked with Mary Antony. Wherefore, you ask? Wherefore should the
great Lord Bishop walk in the Convent garden with an old lay-sister,
who ceased to be a comely wench more than half a century ago? Because,
Sister Mark, if you needs must know, the Lord Bishop is full of anxious
fears for the Reverend Mother, and knoweth that Mary Antony, old though
she be, is able to tend and watch over her. The Lord Bishop and the
Worthy Mother both fear that the Reverend Mother fasts too often, and
spends too many hours in vigil. The Reverend Father has therefore
deputed the Worthy Mother to watch in this matter, and to let him know
at once if the Reverend Mother imperils her health again, by too
lengthy a fast or vigil. And, lo! this very day, the Reverend Mother
purposes not coming to the evening meal, and intends spending the whole
night in prayer and vigil, before our Lady's shrine. Therefore the
Worthy Mother--I, myself--must start at once to fetch the great Lord
Bishop; and you, Sister Mary Mark, must open the gate and let me be
gone."
The porteress gazed, round-eyed and amazed.
"Nay, Sister Mary Antony, that can I not, without an order from the
Reverend Mother herself. And even then, you could not walk so far as
to the Lord Bishop's Palace. I doubt if you would even reach the
Fore-gate."
"That I should, and shall!" cried Mary Antony. "And, if my old legs
fail me, many a gallant will dismount and offer me his horse. Thus in
fine style shall I ride into Worcester city. Didst thou not see me
bestride the Lord Bishop's white palfrey on Play Day?"
Sister Mary Mark broke into laughter.
"Aye," she said, "my sides have but lately ceased aching. I pray you,
Sister Antony, call not that sight again into my mind."
"Then open the door, Mary Mark, and let me go."
"Nay, that I dare not do."
"Then, if I fail to do as bidden by the great Lord Bishop, I shall tell
his lordship that thou, and thine obstinacy, stood in the way of the
fulfilment of my purpose."
The porteress wavered.
"Bring me leave from the Reverend Mother, Sister Antony."
"Nay, that can I not," said Mary Antony, "as any fool might see, when I
go without the Reverend Mother's knowledge to report to the Lord Bishop
by his private command. Even the Reverend Mother herself obeys the
commands of the Lord Bishop."
Sister Mary Mark hesitated. She certainly had seen the Lord Bishop
pass under the rose-arch, and enter the garden, in close converse with
Sister Mary Antony. Yet her trust at the gate was given to her by the
Reverend Mother.
"See here, Mary Mark," said Sister Antony. "I must send a message
forthwith to Mother Sub-Prioress. You shall take it, leaving me in
charge of the gate, as often I am left, by order of the Reverend
Mother, when you are bidden elsewhere. If, on your return--and you
need not to hurry--you find me gone, none can blame you. Yet when the
Lord Bishop rides in at sunset, he will give you his blessing and, like
enough, something besides."
Mary Mark's hesitation vanished.
"I will take your message, Sister Antony," she said meekly.
"Go, by way of the kitchens and the Refectory stairs, to the cell of
Mother Sub-Prioress. Say that the Reverend Mother purposes passing the
night in prayer and vigil, will not come to the evening meal, and
desires Mother Sub-Prioress to take her place. Also that for no cause
whatever is the Reverend Mother to be disturbed."
Sister Mary Mark, being thus given a legitimate reason for leaving her
post and gaining the Bishop's favour without giving cause for
displeasure to the Prioress, departed, by way of the kitchens, to carry
Mary Antony's message.
No sooner was she out of sight, than Mary Antony seized the key,
unlocked the great doors, pulled them apart, and left them standing
ajar, the key in the lock; then hastened back across the courtyard,
passed under the rose-arch, and creeping beneath the shelter of the yew
hedge, reached the steps up to the cloisters; slipped unobserved
through the cloister door, and up the empty passage; unlocked the
Reverend Mother's cell, entered it, and softly closed and locked the
door behind her.
Then--in order to make it impossible to yield to any temptation to open
the door--she withdrew the key, and flung it through the open window,
far out into the shrubbery.
Thus did Mary Antony prepare to hold the fort, until the coming of the
Bishop.