The White Ladies of Worcester Part 9

As the roar which followed rolled away, echoed and re-echoed by distant hills, the old lay-sister lifted her face.

Her lips moved, her gums rattled; the terror in her eyes pleaded for help.

This was the moment when it dawned on the Prioress that there was more here than fear of a storm.

Stooping she laid her hands firmly, yet with kindness in their strength, on the shaking shoulders.

"What is it, dear Antony?" she said.

"Twenty White Ladies went," whispered the old lay-sister. "I counted them. Twenty White Ladies went; but----"

"Well?"

"_Twenty-one_ returned," chattered Mary Antony, and hid her face in the Reverend Mother's robe.

Two flashes, with their accompanying peals of thunder pa.s.sed, before the Prioress moved or spoke. Then raising Mary Antony she placed her in a chair, disengaged her robe from the shaking hands, pa.s.sed out into the cell pa.s.sage, and herself sounded the call to silence and prayer.

Returning to her cell she shut the door, poured out a cordial and put it to the trembling lips of Mary Antony. Then taking a seat just opposite, she looked with calm eyes at the lay-sister.

"What means this story?" said the Prioress.

"Reverend Mother, twenty holy Ladies went----"

"I know. And twenty returned."

"Aye," said the old woman more firmly, nettled out of her speechlessness; "twenty returned; and twenty peas I dropped from hand to hand. Then--when no pea remained--yet another White Lady glided by; and with her went an icy wind, and around her came the blackness of the storm.

"Down the steps I fled, locked the door, and took the key. How I mounted again, I know not. As I drew level with the cloisters, I saw that twenty-first White Lady, for whom--Saint Peter knows--I held no pea, pa.s.sing from the cloisters into the cell pa.s.sage. As I hastened on, fain to see whither she went, a blinding flash, like an evil twisting snake, shot betwixt her and me. When I could see again, she was gone. I fled to the Reverend Mother, and ran in on the roar of the thunder."

"Saw you her face, Mary Antony?"

"Nay, Reverend Mother. But, of late, the holy Ladies mostly walk by with their faces shrouded."

"I know. Now, see here, dear Antony. Two peas dropped together, the while you counted one."

"Nay, Reverend Mother. Twenty peas dropped one by one; also I counted twenty White Ladies. And, after I had counted twenty, yet another pa.s.sed."

"But how could that be?" objected the Prioress. "If twenty went, but twenty could return. Who should be the twenty-first?"

Then old Mary Antony leaned forward, crossing herself.

"Sister Agatha," she whispered, tremulously. "Poor Sister Agatha returned to us again."

But, even as she said it, swift came a name to the mind of the Prioress, answering her own question, and filling her with consternation and a great anger. "Wilfred! Wilfred, are you come to save me?" foolish little Seraphine had said. Was such sacrilege possible? Could one from the outside world have dared to intrude into their holy Sanctuary?

Yet old Antony's tale carried conviction. Her abject fear was now explained.

That the Dead should come again, and walk and move among the haunts of men, seeking out the surroundings they have loved and left, seems always to hold terror for the untutored mind, which knows not that the Dead are more alive than the living; and that there is no death, saving the death of sin.

But to the Reverend Mother, guarding her flock from sin or shame, a visitor from the Unseen World held less of horror than a possible intruder from the Seen.

A rapid glance as she sounded the bell, had shown her that the pa.s.sage was empty.

Which cell now sheltered two, where there should be but one?

The Prioress walked across to a recess near the south window, touched a spring, and slid back a portion of the oak panelling. Pa.s.sing her hand into a secret hiding place in the wall, she drew forth a beautifully fashioned dagger, with carved ivory handle, crossed metal thumb-guard, blade of bevelled steel, polished and narrowing to a sharp needle point. She tested the point, then slipped the weapon into her belt, beneath her scapulary. As she closed the panel, and turned back into the chamber, a light of high resolve was in her eyes. Her whole bearing betokened so fine a fearlessness, such n.o.ble fixity of purpose that, looking on her, Mary Antony felt her own fears vanishing.

"Now listen, dear Antony," said the Prioress, holding the old woman with her look. "I must make sure that this twenty-first White Lady of thine is but a trick played on thee by thy peas. Should she be anywhere in the Convent I shall most certainly have speech with her.

"Meanwhile, go thou to thy kitchens, and give thy mind to the preparing of the evening meal. But ring not the Refectory bell until I bid thee.

Nay, I myself will sound it this evening. It may suit me to keep the nuns somewhat longer at their devotions.

"Should I sound the alarm bell, let all thy helpers run up here; but go thou to the cell of Mother Sub-Prioress and persuade her not to rise.

If needful say that it is my command that she keep her bed. . . .

Great heavens! What a crash! May our Lady defend us! The lightning inclines to strike. I shall pa.s.s to each cell and make sure that none are too greatly alarmed."

"Now, haste thee, Antony; and not a word concerning thy fears must pa.s.s thy lips to any; no mention of a twenty-first White Lady nor"--the Prioress crossed herself--"of Sister Agatha, to whom may our Lord grant everlasting rest."

Mary Antony, kneeling, kissed the hem of the Prioress's robe. Then, rising, she said--with unwonted solemnity and restraint: "The Lord defend you, Reverend Mother, from foes, seen and unseen," and, followed by another blinding flash of lightning, she left the cell.

CHAPTER IX

THE PRIORESS SHUTS THE DOOR

The Prioress waited until the old lay-sister's shuffling footsteps died away.

Then she pa.s.sed out into the long, stone pa.s.sage, 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 pa.s.sage, 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 pa.s.sing 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 a.s.sured if she closed this door, between the pa.s.sage and the cloisters, and locked it.

Stepping back into the pa.s.sage, 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.