The White Ladies of Worcester | Page 5

the light of my lantern held high, to discover who had burst
forth with a sob. None shewing traces of tears, she gave me back the
lantern, herself walking last in the line, as all moved on."
"Convertentur ad vesperam, and the devil catch the hindmost," chanted
Mary Antony, with fervour.
"Amen," intoned Sister Abigail, eyes bent upon the ground; for the tall
figure of the Prioress, mounting the steps, now came into view.
The Prioress passed up the cloister with a stately grace of motion which,
even beneath the heavy cloth of her white robe, revealed the noble
length of supple limbs. Her arms hung by her sides, swaying gently as
she walked. There was a look of strength and of restfulness about the
long fingers and beautifully moulded hands. Her face, calm and
purposeful, was lifted to the sunlight. Suffering and sorrow had left
thereon indelible marks; but the clear grey eyes, beneath level brows,
were luminous with a light betokening the victory of a pure and noble
spirit over passionate and most human flesh.
No sinner, in her presence, ever felt crushed by hopeless weight of sin;
no saint, before the gaze of her calm eyes, felt sure of being altogether
faultless.
So truly was she woman, that all humanity seemed lifted to her level;
so completely was she saint, that sin did slink away abashed before her
coming.
They who feared her most, were most conscious of her kindness. They

who loved her best, were least able to venture near.
In the first bloom of her womanhood she had left the world, resigning
high rank, fair lands, and the wealth which makes for power. Her faith
in human love having been rudely shattered, she had sought security in
Divine compassion, and consolation in the daily contemplation of the
Man of Sorrows. In her cell, on a rough wooden cross, hung a life-size
figure of the dying Saviour.
She had not reached her twenty-fifth year when, fleeing from the world,
she joined the Order of the White Ladies of Worcester, and passed into
the seclusion and outward calm of the Nunnery at Whytstone.
Five years later, on the death of the aged Prioress, she was elected, by a
large majority, to fill the vacant place.
She had now, during two years, ruled the Nunnery wisely and well.
She had ruled her own spirit, even better. She had won the victory over
the World and the Flesh; there remained but the Devil. The Devil, alas,
always remains.
As she moved, with uplifted brow and mien of calm detachment, along
the sunlit cloister to the lofty, stone passage, within, the Convent, she
was feared by many, loved by most, and obeyed by all.
And, as she passed, old Mary Antony, bowing almost to the ground,
dropped a large white pea, from between her right thumb and finger,
into the horny palm of her left hand.
Behind the Prioress there followed a nun, tall also, but ungainly. Her
short-sighted eyes peered shiftily to right and left; her long nose went
on before, scenting possible scandal and wrong-doing; her weak lips let
loose a ready smile, insinuating, crafty, apologetic. She walked with
hands crossed upon her breast, in attitude of adoration and humility. As
she moved by, old Mary Antony let drop the pale and speckled pea.
Keeping their distances, mostly with shrouded faces, bent heads, and

folded hands, all the White Ladies passed.
Each went in silence to her cell, there kneeling in prayer and
contemplation until the Refectory bell should call to the evening meal.
As the last, save one, went by, the keen eyes of the old lay-sister noted
that her hands were clenched against her breast, that she stumbled at the
topmost step, and caught her breath with a half sob.
Behind her, moving quickly, came the spare form of the Sub-Prioress,
ferret-faced, alert, vigilant; fearful lest sin should go unpunished;
wishful to be the punisher.
She must have heard the half-strangled sob burst from the slight figure
stumbling up the steps before her, had not old Mary Antony been
suddenly moved at that moment to uplift her voice in a cracked and
raucous "Amen."
Startled, and vexed at being startled, the Sub-Prioress turned upon
Mary Antony.
"Peace, woman!" she said. "The Convent cloister is not a hen-yard.
Such ill-timed devotion well-nigh merits penance. Rise from thy knees,
and go at once about thy business."
The Sub-Prioress hastened on.
Scowling darkly, old Antony bent forward, looking, past Mother
Sub-Prioress, up the cloister to the distant passage.
Sister Mary Seraphine had reached her cell. The door was shut.
Old Antony's knees creaked as she arose, but her wizened face was
once more cheerful.
"Beans in her broth to-night," she said. "One for 'woman'; another for
the hen-yard; a third for