CHAPTER XXXVIII
THE BISHOP KEEPS VIGIL
Old Mary Antony lay dying.
The Bishop had not allowed her to be carried from the cell of the
Prioress, to her own.
He had commanded that the Reverend Mother's couch be moved from the inner room and placed before the shrine of the Virgin. On this lay Mary Antony, while the Bishop himself kept watch beside her.
The evening light came in through the open casement, illumining the calm old face, from which the soothing hand of death was already smoothing the wrinkles.
Five hours had passed since they found her.
It had taken long to restore her to consciousness; and so soon as she awoke to her surroundings, and recognised Mother Sub-Prioress, and the many faces around her, she relapsed into silence, refusing to answer any questions, yet keeping her eyes anxiously fixed upon the door.
Seeing which, Sister Teresa slipped from the room and ran secretly to tell the Lord Bishop, who had paid but a brief visit to the Palace and was now pacing the lawn below the cloisters.
The Bishop came at once; when, seeing him enter, Mary Antony gave a cry, striving to raise herself from the pillows.
Moving to the bedside, the Bishop laid his hand upon the shaking hands, which had been clasped at sight of him.
An eager question was in the eyes lifted to his.
The Bishop bent over the couch.
"Yes," he said, and smiled.
The anxious look faded. The eyes closed. A triumphant smile illumined the dying face.
Turning, the Bishop asked a few whispered questions of the Sub-Prioress.
Mary Antony had taken a sip of wine, but seemed to find it impossible to partake of food. She had been so long without, that now nature refused it.
"Undoubtedly she is dying," said Mother Sub-Prioress, not unkindly, but in the matter-of-fact tone of one to whom the hard outline of a fact is unsoftened by the atmosphere of imagination or of sympathy.
"I know it," said the Bishop, in low tones. "Therefore am I come to confess our sister and to administer the final rites and consolations of the Church. I have with me all that is needed. You may now withdraw, and leave me to watch alone beside Sister Mary Antony."
"We sent for Father Peter," began Mother Sub-Prioress, "but she paid no heed to any of his questions, neither would she"——
The Bishop took one step toward Mother Sub-Prioress, with uplifted hand, pointing to the door.
Mother Sub-Prioress hastened out.
The Bishop followed her into the passage, where a waiting crowd of nuns created that atmosphere of excited tension, which seizes certain minds at the near approach of death.
"I bid you all to go to your cells," said the Bishop, "there to spend the next hour in earnest prayer for the passing soul of this aged nun who, during so long a time, has lived and worked in this Convent. Let every door be closed. I keep the final vigil alone. When I need help I shall ring the Convent bell."
Immovable in the passage stood the Bishop, until every figure had vanished; every door had closed.
Then he re-entered the Prioress's cell, and shut the door.
He placed the holy oil on the step, before the shrine of the Madonna, just where old Antony had knelt when she had prayed our blessèd Lady to be pleased to sharpen her old wits.
Then he drew forth a tiny flask of rare Italian workmanship, let fall a few drops from it into a spoonful of wine, and firmly poured the liquid between the old lay-sister's parted lips.
One anxious moment; then he heard her swallow.
At that, the Bishop drew the Prioress's chair to the side of the couch, and sat down to await events.
In a few moments the stertorous breathing ceased, the open mouth closed. Mary Antony sighed thrice, as a little child that has wept before sleeping sighs in its sleep.
Then she opened her eyes, and fixed them on the Bishop.
"Reverend Father"—she began, then chuckled, gleefully. Her voice had come back, and with it a great activity of brain, though the hands upon the coverlet seemed to belong to someone else, and she hoped they would not rise up and strike her. Her feet, she could not feel at all; but, seeing that she was most comfortably lying there where she best loved to be, why should she require feet? Feet are such tired things. One rests better without them.
"Speak low," said the Bishop, bending forward. "Speak low, dear Sister Antony; partly to spare thy strength; and partly because, though I have sent all the White Ladies to their cells, our good Mother Sub-Prioress, in her natural anxiety for thy welfare, may be outside the door, even now."
Mary Antony chuckled.
"If we could but thrust a nail through into her ear," she whispered.
Then suddenly serious, she put the question which already her eyes had
asked: "Did I succeed in keeping from them the flight of the Reverend
Mother, until you arrived, Reverend Father?"
"Yes, faithful heart, wise beyond all expectation, you did."
Again Mary Antony chuckled.
"I locked them out," she said, with a knowing wink, "but I also took them in. Yea, verily, I took them in! Scores of times they called me 'Reverend Mother.' 'Open the door, I humbly pray you, Reverend Mother,' pleaded Mother Sub-Prioress at the keyhole. 'Dixi: Custodiam vias meas,' chanted Mary Antony, in a beauteous voice! . . . 'Open, open, Reverend Mother!' besought a multitude without. 'Quid multiplicati sunt gui tribulant me!' intoned Mary Antony, within. . . . 'Most dear and Reverend Mother,' crooned Sister Mary Rebecca, at midnight, 'I have something of deepest importance to say'—'Dixit insipiens,' was Mary Antony's appropriate response. Eh, and Sister Mary Rebecca, thinking none could observe her, had already been round, in the moonlight, and attempted to climb a tree. All the Reverend Mother's windows were closely curtained; but old Antony had her eye to a crack, and the sight of Sister Mary Rebecca climbing, made all the other trees to shake with laughter, but is not a sight to be described to the great Lord Bishop. . . . Nay, then!"—with a startled cry—"Why doth this knotted finger rise up and shake itself at me?"
The Bishop took the worn old hand, now stone cold, laid it back upon the quilt, and covered it with his own.
The drug he had administered had indeed revived the powers, but the over-excited brain was inclined to wander.
He recalled it with a name which he knew would act as a potent spell.
"Would you have news of the Prioress, Sister Antony?"
Instantly the eyes grew eager.
"Is she safe, Reverend Father? Is she well? Hath she taken happiness to her with both hands, not thrusting it away?"
"Happiness hath taken her by both hands," said the Bishop. "This morning I blest her union with a noble knight to whom she was betrothed before she came hither."
"I know," whispered old Antony ecstatically. "I heard it all, I and my meat chopper, hidden in there; I and my meat chopper—not willing to let the Reverend Mother face danger alone. And I did thrust the handle of the chopper between my gums, that I might not cry 'Bravely done!' when the noble Knight and his men-at-arms flung a rope over a strong bough, and hanged that clerkly fellow—somewhat lean and out at elbows. Oh, ah? It was bravely done! I heard it all! I saw it all!"
Then the joy faded; a look of shame and grief came into the old face.
"But having thus seen and heard has led me into grievous sin, Reverend Father. Alas, I have lied about holy things, sinning, I fear me, beyond forgiveness, though indeed I did it, meaning to do well. May I tell you all, Reverend Father, that you may judge whether in that which I did, I acted according to our blessèd Lady's will and intention, or whether the deceitfulness of mine own heart has led me into mortal sin?"
The Bishop looked anxiously at the sun dipping slowly in the west. The effect of the drug he had given should last an hour, if care were taken of this spurious strength. He judged a quarter of that time to have already sped.
"Tell me from the beginning, without reserve, dear Antony," he said. "But speak low, for my ear only. Remember possible listeners outside the door."
So presently the whole tale was told, with many a quaint twist of old Antony's. And the Bishop's heart melted to tenderness as she whispered the story, and he realised the greatness of the devotion which had gone forward, without a thought of self, in the bold endeavour to bring happiness to the Prioress she loved, yet the anxious conscience, which now trembled at the thought of that which the fearless heart had done.
"I lied about holy things; I put words into our blessèd Lady's mouth; I said she moved her hand. But you did tell me, Reverend Father, that the Reverend Mother was so made that unless there was a vision or revelation from our Lady, she would thrust away her happiness with both hands. And there would not have been a vision if old Antony had not contrived one. Yet I fear me, for the sin of that contriving, I shall never find forgiveness; my soul must ever stay in torment."
Tears coursed down the wrinkled cheeks.
The Bishop kneeled beside the bed.
"Dear Antony," he said. "Listen to me. 'Perfect love casteth out fear, because fear hath torment.' You have loved with a perfect love. You need have no fear. Trust in the love of God, in the precious blood of the Redeemer, which cleanseth from all sin, in the understanding tenderness of our Lady, who knoweth a woman's heart. You meant to do right; and if, honestly intending to do well, you used the wrong means, Divine love, judging you by your intention, will pardon the mistake. 'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.' Think no more of yourself, in this. Dwell solely on our Lord. Silence your own fears, by repeating: 'He is faithful and just.'"
"Think you, Reverend Father," quavered the pathetic voice, "that They will sometimes let old Antony out of hell for an hour, to sit on her jasper seat and see the Reverend Mother walk up the golden stairs, with the splendid Knight on one side and the great Lord Bishop on the other?"
"Sister Mary Antony," said the Bishop, clearly and solemnly, "there is no place in hell for so faithful and so loving a heart. You shall go straight to your jasper seat; and because, with the Lord, one day is as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day, your eyes will scarce have time to grow used to the great glory, before you see the Reverend Mother coming, walking between the two who have faithfully loved her; and you, who have also loved her faithfully, will also mount the golden stair, and together we all shall kneel before the throne of God, and understand at last the full meaning of those words of wonder: GOD IS LOVE."
A look of ineffable joy lit up the dying face.
"Straight to my jasper seat," she said, "to watch—to wait"——
Then came the sudden fading of the spurious strength. The Bishop put out his hand and reached for the holy oil.
* * * * * *
The golden sunset light flooded the chamber with radiance.
The Bishop still watched beside the couch.
Having rallied sufficiently to make her last confession, short and simple as a child's; having received absolution and the last sacred rites of the Church, Mary Antony had slipped into a peaceful slumber.
The Bishop had to bend over and listen, to make sure that she still breathed.
Suddenly she opened her eyes and looked full into his.
"Did you wed the Reverend Mother to the splendid Knight?" she asked, and her voice was strong again and natural, with the little chuckle of curiosity and humour in it, as of old.
"This morning," answered the Bishop, "I wedded them."
"Did he kiss her?" asked old Antony, with an indescribable twinkle of gleeful enjoyment, though those twinkling eyes seemed the only living thing in the old face.
"Nay," said the Bishop. "They who truly kiss, kiss not in public."
"Ah," whispered Mary Antony. "Yea, verily! I know that to be true."
She lifted wandering fingers and, after much groping, touched her forehead, with a happy smile.
Not knowing what else the action could mean, the Bishop leaned forward and made the sign of the cross on her brow.
Mary Antony gave that peculiar little chuckle of enjoyment, which had always marked her pleasure when the very learned made mistakes. It gave her so great a sense of cleverness.
After this the light faded from the old eyes, and the Bishop had begun to think they would not again open upon this world, when a strange thing happened.
There was a flick of wings, and in, through the open window, flew the robin.
First he perched on the marble hand of the Madonna. Then, with a joyful chirp, dropped straight to the couch on which lay Mary Antony.
At sound of that chirp, Mary Antony opened her eyes, and saw her much loved little bird hopping gaily on the coverlet.
"Hey, thou little vain man!" she said. "Ah, naughty Master Pieman! Art come to look upon old Antony in her bed? The great Lord Bishop will have thee hanged."
The robin hopped nearer, and pecked gently at the hand which so oft had fed him, now lying helpless on the quilt.
A look of exquisite delight came into the old woman's eyes.
"Ah, my little Knight of the Bloody Vest," she whispered, "dost want thy cheese? Wait a minute, while old Antony searches in her wallet."
She sat up suddenly, as if to reach for something.
Then a startled look came into her face. She stretched out appealing hands to the Bishop.
Instantly he caught them in his.
"Fear not, dear Antony," he said. "All is well."
The robin, spreading his wings, flew out at the window. And the loving spirit of Mary Antony went with him.
The Bishop laid the worn-out body gently back upon the couch, closed the eyes, and folded the hands upon the breast.
Then he walked over to the window, and stood looking at the golden ramparts of that sunset city, glowing against the delicate azure of the evening sky.
Great loneliness of soul came to the Bishop, standing thus in the empty cell.
The Prioress had gone; the robin had gone; Mary Antony had gone; and the Bishop greatly wished that he might go, also.
Presently he turned to the Prioress's table. She had sent to the Palace the copy she had made, and the copy she had mended, of the Pope's mandate. But she had left upon the table the strips of parchment upon which she had inscribed, on the night of her vigil, copies and translations of ancient prayers from the Sacramentaries. The Bishop gathered these up, reading them as he stood. Two he slipped into his sash, but the third he took to the couch and placed beneath the folded hands.
"Take this with thee to thy jasper seat, dear faithful heart," he said; "for truly it was given unto thee to perceive and know what things thou oughtest to do, and also to have grace and power faithfully to fulfil the same."
The peaceful face, growing beautiful with that solemn look of eternal youth which death brings, even to the aged, seemed to smile, as the precious parchment passed into the keeping of those folded hands.
The Bishop knelt long in prayer and thanksgiving. At length, with uplifted face, he said: "And grant, O my God, that I too may be faithful, unto the very end."
Then he rose, and rang the Convent bell.