THE CONVENT BELL
The slanting rays of the setting sun lay, in golden bands, upon the
flags of the Convent cloister.
Complete silence reigned.
The White Ladies had returned from Vespers. Each, in the solitude of
her own cell, was spending, in prayer and meditation, the hour until
the Refectory bell should ring.
The great door into the cloisters stood wide.
Mother Sub-Prioress appeared in the far distance, moving down the
passage. As she passed between the long line of closed doors, she
turned her face quickly from side to side, pausing occasionally to
listen, ear laid against the panelling.
Presently she stepped from the cool shadow into the sunny brightness of
the cloister.
She did not blink, as old Mary Antony used to blink. Her small eyes
peered from out her veil as sharply in sunshine as in shadow.
Yet was there something curiously furtive about Mother Sub-Prioress,
when she entered the cloister. Listening at the doors in the cell
passage, she had been merely official, acting with a precise celerity
which bespoke long practice. Now she hesitated; looked around as if to
make sure she was not observed, and obviously held, with her left hand,
something concealed.
Moving along the cloister, she seated herself upon the stone slab in
the archway overlooking the lawn and the pieman's tree; then drew forth
from beneath her scapulary, the worn leathern wallet which had belonged
to the old lay-sister, Mary Antony.
At the same moment there came a gentle flick of wings, and the robin
alighted on the stone coping, not three feet from the elbow of Mother
Sub-Prioress.
Very bright-eyed, and tall on his legs, was Mary Antony's little vain
man. With his head on one side, he looked inquiringly at Mother
Sub-Prioress; and Mother Sub-Prioress, from out the curtain of her
veil, frowned back at him.
There was a solemn quality in the complete silence. No naughty tales
of bakers' boys or piemen. No gay chirps of expectation. Receiving
cheese from Mother Sub-Prioress, bestowed for conscience' sake, partook
of the nature of a sacred ceremony. Yet the robin had come for his
cheese, and the Sub-Prioress had come to give it to him.
Presently she slowly opened the wallet, took therefrom some choice
morsels, and strewed them on the coping.
"Here, bird," she said, grimly; "I cannot let thee miss thy cheese
because the foolish old creature who taught thee to look for it, comes
this way no more. Take it and begone!"
This was the daily formula.
The "jaunty little layman," undismayed--though the look was austere,
and the voice, forbidding--hopped gaily nearer, pecking eagerly. No
gaping mouths now waited his return. His nestlings were grown and
flown. At last he could afford to feast himself.
Mother Sub-Prioress turned her back upon the coping and stared at the
archway opposite. She had no wish to see the bird's enjoyment.
Then a strange thing happened.
Having pecked up all he wanted, the robin turned his bright eye upon
the motionless figure, seated so near him, wrapped in the aloofness of
an impenetrable silence.
Excepting in her dying moments, Mary Antony's much loved little bird
had never adventured nearer to her than to hop along the coping,
pecking at her fingers when, to test his boldness, she reached out and
with them covered the cheese.
Yet now, with a gentle flick of wings, lo, he alighted on the knee of
Mother Sub-Prioress! Then, while she scarce dared breathe, for wonder
and amaze, hopped to her arm and pecked gently at her veil.
Whereupon something broke in the cold heart of Mother Sub-Prioress.
Tears ran slowly down the thin face. She would not stir nor lift her
hand to wipe them away, and they fell in heavy drops upon her folded
fingers.
At length she spoke, in a broken whisper.
"Oh, thou little winged thing," she said, "who so easily could'st fly
from me! Dost thou use those wings of liberty to draw yet nearer? In
this place of high walls and narrow cells, they who have not full
freedom, use to the full what freedom they possess, to turn, at my
approach and fly from me. Not one if she could choose, would choose to
come to me. . . . Is there any honour so great as that of being feared
by all? Is there any loneliness so great as by all to be hated? That
honour, little bird, is mine; also that loneliness. Who then hath sent
thee thus to essay to take both from me?"
Heavy tears continued to fall upon the clasped hands; the worn face was
distorted by mental suffering. The frozen soul of Mother Sub-Prioress
having melted, the iron of self-knowledge was entering into it, causing
the dull ache of a pain unspeakable. Yet she dared not sob, lest the
heaving of her bosom should frighten away the little bird perched so
lightly on her arm.
This evidence of the trust in her of a little living thing, was the one
rope to which Mother Sub-Prioress clung in those first moments, during
which the black waters of remorse and despair passed over her head--a
rope made of frail enough strands, God knows: bright eyes alert, small
clinging feet, a pair of folded wings. Yet do the frailest threads of
love and trust, make a safer rope to which to cling when shipwreck
threatens the heart, than the iron chains of obligation and duty.
Presently a sordid doubt seized upon Mother Sub-Prioress. Had the
robin finished the cheese, and come to her thus, merely to ask for more?
Very slowly she ventured to turn her head, until the stone coping at
her elbow came into her range of vision.
Then a glow of pride and happiness warmed her heart. Three--four--five
fragments remained! Not for greed or favour had this little wild thing
of his own free will drawn near.
For what, then? . . .
Mother Sub-Prioress whispered the answer; and as she whispered it, her
tears fell afresh; but now they were tears without bitterness; a
healing fount seemed to well up within her softening heart.
For love? Yea, verily! For love of her, those small brown wings had
brought him near, those bright eyes were unafraid.
"For love of me," she whispered. "For love of me."
When at length he chirped and flew, she still sat motionless, listening
as he sang his evening song high up in the pieman's tree.
Then she rose and swept the untouched fragments back into the wallet.
There was triumph in the action.
"For love!" she said. "Not of that which I brought and gave, but of
that which he thought me to be."
Slowly she left the cloister, moving, with bent head, until she reached
the open door of the empty chamber which had been the Reverend Mother's.
Before long this chamber would be hers. At noon she had received word
from the Bishop that it was his intention to appoint her to be
Prioress, for the years which yet remained of the Reverend Mother's
term of office.
She had experienced a sinister pleasure in being thus promoted to this
high office by the Bishop, owing to the certainty that had the usual
election by ballot taken place, her name would not have been inscribed
by a single member of the Community.
Yet now, in this strangely softened mood, she began wistfully to desire
that there might be looks of pleasure and satisfaction on at least a
few faces, when the announcement should be made on the morrow.
Mother Sub-Prioress passed into the cell, and closed the door.
She was drawn, by the glow of the sunset, to the oriel window. But on
her way thither she found herself unexpectedly arrested before the
marble group of the Virgin and Child.
Mother Sub-Prioress never could see a naked babe without experiencing a
feeling of irritation against those who had failed to provide it with
suitable clothing. Possibly this was why she had hurriedly looked the
other way if her eye chanced to fall upon the beautiful sculpture in
the Prioress's cell.
Now, for the first time, she really saw it.
She stood and gazed; then knelt, and tried to understand.
The tenderness reached her heart and shook it. The encircling arms,
the loving breast, the watchful mother-eyes; the exquisite human love,
called forth by the necessity, the dependence, the helplessness of a
little child.
And were there not souls equally helpless, and hearts just as dependent
upon sympathy and tenderness?
The Prioress had understood this, and had ruled by love.
But Mother Sub-Prioress had ever preferred the briers and the burning.
She recalled a conversation she had had a day or two before with the
Prior and the Chaplain, when they came to consult with her concerning
the future of the Community, and her possible appointment. In speaking
of the late Prioress, the Prior had said: "She ever seemed as one
apart, who walked among the stars; yet full, to overflowing, of the
milk of human kindness and the gracious balm of sympathy." He had then
asked Mother Sub-Prioress if she felt able to follow in her steps. To
which Mother Sub-Prioress, vexed at the question, had answered, tartly:
Nay; that she knew no Milky Way! Whereupon Father Benedict, a sudden
gleam of approval on his sinister face, had interposed, addressing the
Prior: "Nay, verily! Our excellent Sub-Prioress knows no Milky Way!
She is the brier, which hath sharply taught the tender flesh of each.
She is the bed of nettles from which the most weary moves on to rest
elsewhere. She is the fearsome burning, from which the frightened
brands do snatch themselves!"
These words, spoken in approbation, had been meant to please; and at
first she had been flattered. Then the look upon the kind face of the
Prior, had given her the sense of being shut up with Father Benedict in
a fearsome Purgatory of their own making--nay rather, in a hell, where
pity, mercy, and loving-kindness were unknown.
Perhaps this was the hour when the change of mind in Mother
Sub-Prioress really had its beginning, for Father Benedict's terrible
yet true description of her methods and her rule, now came forcefully
back to her.
Putting out a trembling hand, she touched the little foot of the Babe.
"Give me tenderness," she said, and an agony of supplication was in her
voice; also a rain of tears softened the hard lines of her face.
Our blessèd Lady smiled, and the sweet Babe looked merry.
Mother Sub-Prioress passed to the window. The sun, round and blood
red, as at that very moment reflected in Hugh d'Argent's shield, was
just about to dip below the horizon. When next it rose, the day would
have dawned which would see her Prioress of the White Ladies of
Worcester.
She turned to the place where the Prioress's chair of state stood
empty. During the walk to and from the Cathedral, she had planned to
come alone to this chamber, and seat herself in the chair which would
so soon be hers. But now a new humbleness restrained her.
Falling upon her knees before the empty chair, she lifted clasped hands
heavenward.
"O God," she said, "I am not worthy to take Her place. My heart is
hard and cold; my tongue is ofttimes cruel; my spirit is censorious.
But I have learned a lesson from the bird and a lesson from the Babe;
and that which I know not teach Thou me. Create in me a new heart, O
God, and renew a right spirit within me. Grant unto me to follow in
Her gracious steps, and to rule, as She ruled, by that love which never
faileth."
Then, stooping to the ground, she kissed the place where the feet of
the Prioress had been wont to rest.
The sun had set behind the distant hills, when Mother Sub-Prioress rose
from her knees.
An unspeakable peace filled her soul. She had prayed, by name, for
each member of the Community; and as she prayed, a gift of love for
each had been granted to her.
Ah, would they make discovery, before the morrow, that instead of the
brier had come up the myrtle tree?
With this hope filling her heart, Mother Sub-Prioress hastened along
the passage, and rang the Convent bell.
* * * * * *
And at that moment, Mora stood within her chamber, looking over
terrace, valley, and forest to where the sun had vanished below the
horizon, leaving behind a deep orange glow, paling above to clear blue
where, like a lamp just lit, hung luminous the evening star.
Hugh's arms were still wrapped about her. As they stood together at
the casement, she leaned upon his heart. His strength enveloped her.
His love infused a wondrous sense of well-being, and of home.
Yet of a sudden she lifted her head, as if to listen.
"What is it," questioned Hugh, his lips against her hair.
"Hush!" she whispered. "I seem to hear the Convent bell."
His arms tightened their hold of her.
"Nay, my belovèd," he said. "There is no place for echoes of the
Cloister, in the harmony of home."
She turned and looked at him.
Her eyes were soft with love, yet luminous with an inward light, that
moment kindled.
"Dear Heart," she said--hastening to reassure him, for an anxious
question was in his look--"I have come home to thee with a completeness
of glad giving and surrender, such as I did not dream could be, and
scarce yet understand. But Hugh, my husband, to one who has known the
calm and peace of the Cloister there will always be an inner sanctuary
in which will sound the call to prayer and vigil. I am not less thine
own--nay, rather I shall ever be free to be more wholly thine because,
as we first stood together in our chamber, I heard the Convent bell."
One look she gave, to make sure he understood; then swiftly hid her
face against his breast.
Hugh spoke his answer very low, his lips close to her ear.
But his eyes--with that light in them, which her happy heart scarce yet
dared see again--were lifted to the evening star.