The White Ladies of Worcester (Historical Novel). Florence L. Barclay

doing, she harms herself more than she can harm others.

      "By stirring up the mud in a dark pool, you dim the reflection of the star which, before, shone bright within it. But you do not dim the star, shining on high.

      "So is it with the slanderous thoughts of evil minds. They stir up their own murkiness; but they fail to dim the stars.

      "We must bear with Sister Mary Rebecca."

      "Go not nigh them, Reverend Mother," begged old Antony. "I will tend them with due care and patience. These pains in bones, and general shiverings, are given quickly from one to another. I pray you, go not near. Remember—you were taken—alas! alas!—and they were left!"

      At this the Prioress laughed, gaily.

      "But I was not taken decently, with pains in my bones and a-bed, dear

       Antony. I was carried off by a bold, bad man—thy Knight of the Bloody

       Vest."

      "Oh, pray!" cried the old lay-sister. "I fear me it is an omen. The angel Gabriel, Reverend Mother, sent to bear you from earth to heaven. 'The one shall be taken, and the other left.' Ah, if he had but flown off with Mother Sub-Prioress!"

      The Prioress laughed again. "Dear Antony, thy little bird took the first pea he saw. Had there but been a crumb, or a morsel of cheese, he would have left thee thy white pea … Hark how he sings his little song of praise! … Is it not wonderful to call to mind how, centuries ago, when white-robed Druids cut mistletoe from British oaks, the robin redbreast hopped around, and sang; when, earlier still, men were wild and savage, dwelling in holes and caves and huts of mud, when churches and cloisters were unknown in this land and the one true God undreamed of, robins mated and made their nests, the speckled thrushes sang, 'Do it now—Do it now,' as they sought food for their young, the blackbirds whistled, and the swallows flashed by on joyous wing. Aye, and when Eve and Adam walked in Eden, amid strange beasts and gaily plumaged birds, here—in these Isles—the robin redbreast sang, and all our British birds busily built their nests and reared their young; living their little joyous lives, as He Who made them taught them how to do.

      "And, in the centuries to come, when all things may be changed in this our land, when we shall long have gone to dust, when our loved cloisters may have crumbled into ruin; still the hills of Malvern will stand, and the silvery Severn flow along the valley; while here, in this very garden—if it be a garden still—the robin will build his nest, and carol his happy song.

      "Mark you this, dear Mary Antony: all things made by man hold within them the elements of change and of decay. But nature is at one with God, and therefore immutable. Earthly kingdoms may rise and wane; mighty cities may spring up, then fall into ruin. Nations may conquer and, in their turn, be conquered. Man may slay man and, in his turn, be slain. But, through it all, the mountains stand, the rivers flow, the forests wave, and the redbreast builds his nest in the hawthorn, and warbles a love-song to his mate."

      The Prioress rose and stretched wide her arms to the sunlit garden, to the bough where the robin sang.

      "Oh, to be one with God and with Nature!" she cried. "Oh, to know the essential mysteries of Life and Light and Love! This is Life Eternal!"

      She had forgotten the old lay-sister; aye, for the moment she had forgotten the Convent and the cloister, the mile-long walk in darkness, the chant of the unseen monks. She trod again the springy heather of her youth; she heard the rush of the mountain stream; the sigh of the great forest; the rustle of the sunlit glades, alive with, life. These all were in the robin's song. Then——

      Within the Convent, the Refectory bell clanged loudly.

      The Prioress let fall her arms.

      She picked up the nosegay of weeds.

      "Come, Antony," she said, "let us go and discover whether Sister Mary Augustine hath contrived to make the pasties light and savoury, even without the aid of the advice she might have had from thee."

      Old Mary Antony, gleeful and marvelling, followed the stately figure of the Prioress. Never was shriven soul more blissfully at peace. She had kept back nothing; yet the Reverend Mother had imposed no punishment, had merely asked a promise which, in the fulness of her gratitude, Mary Antony had found it easy to give.

      Truly the broth of Mother Sub-Prioress should, for the future, contain naught but what was grateful and soothing.

      But, as she entered the Refectory behind the Reverend Mother and saw all the waiting nuns arise, old Mary Antony laid her finger to her nose.

      "That 'little bird' shall have the castor beans," she said, "That 'little bird' shall have them. Not my pretty robin, but the other!"

      And, sad to say, poor Sister Seraphine was sorely griped that night, and suffered many pangs.

      CHAPTER VII

      THE MADONNA IN THE CLOISTER

       Table of Contents

      The Prioress knelt, in prayer and meditation, before the figure of the

       Virgin Mother holding upon her knees the holy Babe.

      Moonlight flooded the cell with a pure radiance.

      Mary Antony's posy of weeds, offered, according to promise, at the Virgin's shrine, took on, in that silver splendour, the semblance of lilies and roses.

      The Prioress knelt long, with clasped hands and bowed head, as white and as motionless as the marble before her. But at length she lifted her face, and broke into low pleading.

      "Mother of God," she said, "help this poor aching heart; still the wild hunger at my breast. Make me content to be at one with the Divine, and to let Nature go. … Thou knowest it is not the man I want. In all the long years since he played traitor to his troth to me, I have not wanted the man. The woman he wed may have him, unbegrudged by me. I do not envy her the encircling of his arms, though time was when I felt them strong and tender. I do not want the man, but—O, sweet Mother of God—I want the man's little child! I envy her the motherhood which, but for her, would have been mine. … I want the soft dark head against my breast. … I want sweet baby lips drawing fresh life from mine. … I want the little feet, resting together in my hand. … All Nature sings of life, and the power to bestow life. Yet mine arms are empty, and my strength does but carry mine own self to and fro. … Oh, give me grace to turn my thoughts from Life to Sacrifice."

      The Prioress rose, crossed the floor, and knelt long in prayer and contemplation before the crucifix.

      The moonlight fell upon the dying face of the suffering Saviour, upon the crown of thorns, the helpless arms out-stretched, the bleeding feet.

      O, Infinite Redeemer! O, mighty Sacrifice! O, Love of God, made manifest!

      The Prioress knelt long in adoring contemplation. At intervals she prostrated herself, pressing her forehead against the base of the cross.

      At length she rose and moved toward the inner room, where stood her couch.

      But even as she reached the threshold she turned quickly back, and kneeling before the Virgin and Child clasped the little marble foot of the Babe, covered it with kisses, and pressed it to her breast.

      Then, lifting despairing eyes to the tender face of the Madonna: "O,

       Mother of God," she cried, "grant unto me to love the piercèd feet of

       thy dear Son crucified, more than I love the little, baby feet of the

       Infant Jesus on thy knees."

      A great calm fell upon her after this final prayer. It seemed, of a sudden, more efficacious than all the long hours of vigil. She felt persuaded that it would be granted.

      She rose to her feet, almost too much dazed and too weary to cross to the inner cell.

      A breath of exquisite fragrance filled the air.