Sister Seraphine, and bore her out.
When the shuffling of their feet died away in the distance, the
Prioress gave further commands.
"All will now go to their cells and kneel in adoration before the crucifix. Doors are to be left standing wide. The Miserere is to be chanted, until
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the ringing of the Refectory bell. Mother Sub-Prioress will remain behind."
The nuns dispersed, as quickly as they had gathered; seeking their cells, like frightened birds fleeing before a gathering storm.
The tall nuns who had carried Sister Seraphine returned and waited outside the Reverend Mother's door.
The Prioress stood alone; a tragic figure in her grief.
Mother Sub-Prioress drew near. Her narrow face, peering from out her veil, more than ever resembled a ferret. Her small eyes gleamed with a merciless light.
"Is mine the task, Reverend Mother?" she whispered.
The Prioress inclined her head.
Mother Sub-Prioress murmured a second question.
The Prioress turned and looked at the crucifix.
"Yes," she said, firmly.
Mother Sub-Prioress sidled nearer; then whispered her third question.
The Prioress did not answer. She was looking at the carved, oaken stool, overthrown. She was wondering whether she could have acted with better judgment, spoken more wisely. Her heart was sore. Such noble natures ever blame themselves for the wrong-doing of the worthless.
Receiving no reply, Mother Sub-Prioress whispered a suggestion.
"No," said the Prioress.
Mother Sub-Prioress modified her suggestion.
The Prioress turned and looked at the tender figure of the Madonna, brooding over the blessèd Babe.
"No," said the Prioress.
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Mother Sub-Prioress frowned, and made a further modification; but in tones which suggested finality.
The Prioress inclined her head.
The Sub-Prioress, bowing low, lifted the hem of the Reverend Mother's veil, and kissed it; then passed from the room.
The Prioress moved to the window.
The sunset was over. The evening star shone, like a newly-lighted lamp, in a pale purple sky. The fleet-winged swallows had gone to rest.
Bats flitted past the casement, like homeless souls who know not where to go.
Low chanting began in the cells; the nuns, with open doors, singing Miserere.
But, as she looked at the evening star, the Prioress heard again, with startling distinctness, the final profanity of poor Sister Seraphine: "I want life—not death!"
Along the corridor passed a short procession, on its way to the cell of
Mary Seraphine.
First went a nun, carrying a lighted taper.
Next, the two tall nuns who had borne Mary Seraphine to her cell.
Behind them, Mother Sub-Prioress, holding something beneath her scapulary which gave to her more of a presence than she usually possessed.
Solemn and official,—nay, almost sacrificial—was their measured shuffle, as they moved along the passage, and entered the cell of Mary Seraphine.
The Prioress closed her door, and, kneeling before the crucifix, implored forgiveness for the sacrilege which, all unwittingly, she had provoked.
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The nuns, in their separate cells, chanted the Miserere. But—suddenly—with one accord, their voices fell silent; then hastened on, in uncertain, agitated rhythm.
Old Mary Antony below, playing her favourite game, also paused, and pricked up her ears: then filliped the wizen pea, which stood for Mother Sub-Prioress, into the darkest corner, and hurried off to brew a soothing balsam.
So, when the Refectory bell had summoned all to the evening meal, the old lay-sister crept to the cell of Mary Seraphine, carrying broth and comfort.
But Sister Seraphine was better content than she had been for many weeks.
At last she had become the centre of attention; and, although, during the visit of Mother Sub-Prioress to her cell, this had been a peculiarly painful position to occupy, yet to the morbid mind of Mary Seraphine, the position seemed worth the discomfort.
Therefore, her mind now purged of its discontent, she cheerfully supped old Antony's broth, and applied the soothing balsam; yet planning the while, to gain favour with the Prioress, by repeating to her, at the first convenient opportunity, the naughty remarks concerning Mother Sub-Prioress, now being made for her diversion, by the kind old woman who had risked reproof, in order to bring to her, in her disgrace, both food and consolation.
CHAPTER VI
THE KNIGHT OF THE BLOODY VEST
"Nay, I have naught for thee this morning," said Mary Antony to the robin; "naught, that is, save spritely conversation. I can tell thee a tale or two; I can give thee sage advice; but, in my wallet, little Master Mendicant, I have but my bag of peas."
The old lay-sister sat resting in the garden. She had had a busy hour, yet complicated in its busy-ness, for, starting out to do weeding, she had presently fancied herself intent upon making a posy, and now, sat upon the stone seat beneath the beech tree, holding a large nosegay made up of many kinds of flowering weeds, arranged with much care, and bound round with convolvulus tendrils.
Keen and uncommon shrewd though old Antony certainly was in many ways, her great age occasionally betrayed itself by childish vagaries. Her mind would start off along the lines of a false premise, landing her eventually in a dream-like conclusion. As now, when waking from a moment's nodding in the welcome shade, she wondered why her old back seemed well-nigh broken, and marvelled to find herself holding a big posy of dandelions, groundsel, plantain, and bindweed.
On the other end of the seat, stood the robin. The beech was just near enough to the cloisters, the pieman's tree, and his own particular yew hedge, to come within his little kingdom.
Having mentioned her bag of peas, Mary Antony experienced an irresistible desire to view them and, moreover, to display them before the bright eyes of the robin.
She laid the queer nosegay down upon the grass at her feet, turned sidewise on the stone slab, and drew the bag from her wallet.
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"Now, Master Pieman!" she said. "At thine own risk thou doest it; but with thine own bright
