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Feast of St. Catherine, April 29.
THIS is the first time I have been able to write since my watching at our Lady's shrine, at which time I took such a chill and rheum as have kept me laid up ever since. Mother Gertrude was much opposed thereto, but could say nothing against it, seeing that Mother Superior had given her consent.
"If she wants to send the child after her mother, she has taken the next way to do it," I heard her mutter to herself.
"Why, dear Mother, should you have such fears for me," I asked. "I have lately confessed (and so I had the day before), and I am sure I am not false to my vows, because I have never taken any. Why, then, should the demon have power over me?"
"I was not thinking of the demon, child, but of the damp," answered Mother Gertrude, in her matter-of-fact way. "However I say no more. I know how to be obedient, after all these years. And nobody can deny but it is a good daughter's heart which moves thee, my child, and so God and all the Saints bless thee."
Amice would have shared my watch, only it was needful one should go alone; but she promised to watch in her cell. She went with me to the chapel door, as did Mother Gertrude, and we said some prayers together. Then, as the hour of nine tolled, they kissed me and went their way, leaving me to my solitary watch and ward.
Oh, what a lone and long night it was! I did not mind it so much before midnight, for the moon shone fair into the great east window, and two nightingales, in the garden outside, answered each other most melodiously from side to side. My mother ever loved the nightingale above all other birds, because she said its song reminded her of her young days in the midland of England. They are rare visitors with us. But, as I said, dear mother ever loved this bird's song, and now their voices seemed to come as a message from herself, in approval of what I was doing. I knelt on the cold stones, before our Lady's shrine, saying my rosary, and repeating of Psalms, and the first two hours did not seem so very long. But the birds stopped singing. The moon moved on her course, so that the chapel was left almost in darkness. The south-west wind rose and brought with it all kinds of dismal sounds, now moaning and sobbing at the casement, and shaking it as if to gain an entrance; now, as it seemed, whispering in the vaults under my feet, as if the ghosts might be holding a consultation as to the best way of surprising me. Anon, the great heavy door of which I have before spoken, did a little jar on its hinges, and from behind it came, as it seemed, the rustling of wings, and then a thrilling cry as of a soul in pain.
I felt my blood grow cold, and my flesh creep, and my head swim. But 'tis not the custom of our house for the women more than the men to give way to fear, and I was determined I would not be overcome. I said stoutly to myself, "That sobbing and whispering is of the wind—those wings are the wings of bats or owls, which have found refuge in the old tower—that is the cry of the little white owl, which I have heard a hundred times at home—that low roar is the rote of the surf which we ever hear at night when the wind is south-west."
So I reasoned with myself, and then to calm myself still farther, I began to repeat the Psalms, of which I know the greater part by heart, thanks to Master Ellenwood, beginning with the Psalm, "Beati, quorum." And here a strange thing happened to me, for no sooner had I repeated the words, "Whoso putteth his trust in the Lord, mercy embraceth him on every side," than there came over me such a wonderful sweetness and confidence as I am not able to describe. I seemed to feel that I was in the very house of God, where no harm could come to me, nor any evil thing hurt me. And 'twas not only for myself that I felt this assurance, but for my dear mother also. "If ever woman did put her trust in God, I am sure she did so," I said to myself, "and therefore, wherever she is, I have His own word for believing her to be embraced in the arms of His mercy."
And with that I went to prayer again, for my father and brother, and for Alice and her husband, and her young babe, and then for poor Dick. And (I know not if right or wrong) I used no form of words, but did pour out my soul almost as freely as if I had been talking alone with mother in her closet, when kneeling beside her, with my arms on her lap, she used graciously to encourage me to pour out all my thoughts and fancies.
If that had been all, there had been no great harm done, mayhap; but from praying for Dick, I fell to thinking of him, and recalling all our passages together, from the early days when my father used to set me behind him on the old pony, and when we used to build forts and castles on the sand of the shore, to our last sad parting, almost a year ago.
'Twas very wrong to indulge such thoughts in such a sacred place, and that I knew, and did constantly strive to bring my mind into a better frame. But the more I tried the more I wandered, and at last I believe I dropped asleep. I could not have slept long, when I was waked by the most horrid screams and cries—now like those of a young child, now like a woman in fits, now like the ravings of a madman, all seemingly in the chapel itself. I fell prostrate on my face, at the same moment that something rushed by me with a great noise, closely pursued by something else, which brushed me as it passed.
Now, though terribly scared, I yet felt my spirit rise as I discovered that the thing had a material existence; and though the cold sweat stood on my forehead, and my heart seemed all but to stop beating, I raised myself once more on my knees and looked around. My eyes had by this time grown used to the dim light, and I could see, crouched on the very step of the altar, a dark creature, which looked at me with green fiery eyes. Then it came to me, and I all but laughed aloud.
"Puss, Puss!" said I.
"Mieeo!" answered a friendly voice, and poor old Tom, our convent cat, came to me, rubbing his head, and purring in quite an ecstasy of joyful surprise.
I saw in a moment how it was. Tom is a regular Lollard of a cat, and cares no more for the Church than the cowhouse—indeed Sister Catherine once found him sitting on the high altar, and would have slain him, had not Mother Superior interfered. He had been entertaining a select party of his own friends in the Lady Chapel, and some cause of dispute arising, he had chased them all out, and remained master of the field.
I took the old fellow in my arms, and caressed him, and he bumped his head against my face, making his prettiest noises. Then I rose and walked to and fro to warm myself a little, for it was very chill, and tried once more to bring my thoughts in order by repeating my favorite Psalm, though not with as much comfort: as before, because of the sin I had committed by thinking of Dick when I should have been praying. However, at the words, "I said I will confess my sins unto the Lord," I found consolation, for I thought, "then I need not wait to confess to Father Fabian, but can make my confession now, in this place."
So I did, and then once more repeating my rosary, I sat down on a rude bench which was there, to rest a few moments. That was the last of my meditations and prayers, for I fell fast asleep, with Puss in my lap, and slept till I was waked by the sun shining into the great east window. I was very sleepy, and could hardly make out where I was; but, however, I said my prayers once more, and then Mother Gertrude came to seek me, and make me go to bed.
Ever since then, my mind has been wonderfully calmed and comforted about my mother. I seem to see her, embraced by mercy on every side, and entered into her rest. So I do not grudge my cold, though it has kept me in bed ten days, during which time Mother Gertrude has fed me with possets and sirups, and good things more than I can eat.
This morning I made a full confession to Father Fabian of my wandering thoughts during my night watch, and the rest. The good old man was very kind, and gave me light penance. I asked him what I must do to prevent such wanderings in future.
"I will consider of that," said he. "You are a Latin scholar, and can write a good hand, they tell me."
I assured him that I could write fair and plain, and had a good knowledge of Latin, so that I could read and write it with ease.
"Ah, well!" said he. "We must find some way to turn these gifts to account. Meantime, daughter, be busy in whatever you find to do whereby you can help others; say your psalms, and meditate on them, and never trouble thyself about the devil."
'Twas an odd saying, methought, for a priest. I told Amice all about my night watch, as I do tell her everything.
"Do you really think—" said she, and then she stopped.
"Well, do I really think what?" I asked, seeing she did not continue.
"Do you think you have any ground for your confidence about your mother, from that verse in the Psalm?"
I felt hurt for a minute, and I suppose my face showed it, for Amice added, "Don't be displeased, Rosamond. I only ask because it seems almost too good to be true. If you should find what seemed to be a precious pearl, you would wish to know whether it really was a pearl, or only an imitation, wouldn't you?"
"To be sure," I answered, and then I considered a little.
"Yes, I do think I have ground for my confidence, though I am not quite sure I can explain it. You know, Amice, the Psalms are inspired—a part of the word of God, and therefore, surely, their promises are to be taken as true. The Psalm says, 'Whoso putteth his trust in the Lord, mercy embraceth him on every side.' Now, I know my dear mother did put her trust in the Lord, if woman ever did in this world, and, therefore, I am at ease for her, though she died without the Sacraments, which was not her fault."
"You used your night watch to good purpose, if you thought out all this," said Amice.
"I did not think it out—it came to me," said I.
"Came to you—how?" asked Amice.
"I can't tell you," I answered, I am afraid, a little impatiently. "I am not used to taking all my thoughts and feelings to pieces, as you do. I only know that it seemed to come to me from outside my own mind—to be breathed into my heart, as somebody might whisper in my ear."
"It is very lovely," said Amice, with a sigh. "It is like some of the visions of the Saints. I think, Rosamond, you will be a Saint, like St. Clare or St. Catherine."
"I don't believe it," said I. "It is a great deal more in your way than mine."
We were busy in the garden while we were talking, gathering rosemary and violets for Mother Gertrude to distil. Amice had her lap full of rosemary, and she sat down and began pulling it into little bits.
"Rosamond," said she, presently, looking about her, and speaking in a low tone, "do you really like the notion of being a nun?"
"To tell you the truth, I never ask myself whether I like it or not," I answered her. "What is the use? I had no choice in the matter myself. Here I am, and I must needs make the best of it. There would be little profit in my asking myself whether I really liked to be a woman instead of a man. I like being here in the garden, pulling flowers for Mother Gertrude, and I like taking care of the books, dusting them and reading a bit here and there, and I like singing in the church, and working for the poor folk, though I should like still better to teach them to work for themselves."
"I suppose, of course, it is the highest life to which one can obtain!" said Amice, thoughtfully. "And yet I suppose it must have been meant that some people should marry and bring up families."
"I suppose it must, since without some such arrangement, the race of religious must come to an end before long," said I.
"Of course!" continued Amice, in the same musing tone. "You know St. Augustine had a mother, and so did St. Frances!"
"Did you ever hear of any one who had not?" said I, laughing. "But to return your question upon yourself, Amice, how do you like the notion of being a nun?"
"Not one bit!" said Amice, with emphasis.
I never was more surprised in my life, for I had always thought that if any one ever had a vocation it was Amice Crocker.
"The life is so narrow!" she continued, with vehemence, pulling so impatiently at her rosemary that she scratched her fingers. "Just look at the most of our sisters."
"Well, what of them?" I asked. "They are very well, I am sure. Sister Catherine is rather prying and meddling, and Sister Bridget is silly, and a good many of them are rather fond of good eating, and of gossip, but they are kindly souls, after all. And where will you find better women than dear Mother Superior, or Mother Gertrude, or a pleasanter companion than Mother Mary Monica, when she is in the mood of telling her old tales?"
"That may be all so, but what does it amount to, after all?" said Amice. "Look at that same Mother Mary Monica. She has been a nun in this and the other house sixty years, and what have those sixty years brought to pass? What has she to show for them?"
"Well, a good deal of embroidery," said I, considering. "She worked that superb altar cloth, and those copes that we use still on grand occasions, and she has made hundreds of pounds of sweetmeats, and gallons on gallons of cordials."
"And the sweetmeats are eaten, and the cordials drank, and in a few years the embroidery—what remains of it—will be rags and dust! Old Dame Lee in the village has ten sons, and I know not how many grandsons and daughters, all good and useful folk."
"And Roger Smith has a dozen children, each one more useless and idle than the other," said I.
"I can't endure the thought of such a life," continued Amice. "It sickens me—it frightens me. I would not be a religious unless I could be a great saint, like St. Clare or St. Catherine.'
"Why don't you, then?" I asked.
She looked strangely at me, methought, but made no reply, and Mother Gertrude calling us, we talked no more at that time. But I have been considering the matter, and I can't but think Amice was wrong. I have seen more of home life than she, and I know that of very necessity a great part of any woman's life—yea, and of almost any man's—must needs be spent in doing the same things over and over again; in making garments to be worn out, and preparing food to be eaten, and hushing children, and ordering the household. All these things have to be done, or there would be no such thing as family life—nay, there could be no convent life—and so long as they are necessary, I think there must be some way of hallowing them and making them acceptable offerings to Heaven, as well as prayers, and watching, and penance. I mean to ask Mother Gertrude.
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Eve of St. John, May 5th.
FATHER FABIAN has set me to work, as he promised, and I like my task very much. I am translating into English the work of a German monk named Thomas à Kempis. The piece is called, "The Imitation of Christ," and is, of course, of a religious character, and is so good, so spiritual, and yet so plain in its teaching, as I think, nothing could be better, unless it were the Holy Gospel itself. There is a great deal of it, and I go on but slowly, for I am desirous of doing my very best therein; and besides I am often impelled to stop and meditate on what I am writing. Besides this, Mother Superior has made me librarian, and I am to keep all the books in order—no very hard task, methinks, when nobody ever touches them but Amice and myself.
Amice still studies the lives of the Saints as diligently as ever. I know not what has come over her, but she seems very much changed the last few days. She is silent and reserved, spends as much of her time alone as she possibly can, eats hardly anything, and only of the plainest and coarsest food. She has always been very open with me, but now even when we are together she says hardly a word. I think I will ask her what is the matter. Maybe I have offended her in some way, though I am sure I don't know how.
This afternoon I had the great pleasure of a visit from my father, who came to consult Father Fabian on the matter of a priest for the chantry he means to build. He looks worn and thin, but says he is well, as are all at home. Alice's babe is a fine boy, at which they are all much pleased, all the Fultons of the second generation so far being maidens. Alice herself is well and happy, and sends me her love and a tiny curl of her boy's hair, of which he has a plenty.
"So he is dark," said I, looking at the pretty tress.
"Aye, black as a Corby," answered my father, smiling more like himself, than I have seen him in a long time. "'Tis a true Corbet brat."
"And yourself, dear father, are you quite well?" I ventured to ask.
"Yes, child, well and over well," he answered, somewhat peevishly, "if this journey to London does not kill me!"
"To London!" I exclaimed. "Dear father, what can take you to London?"
"Even that same need which makes the old wife to trot, chick! I must see my Lord before he goes abroad, concerning certain leases and the like. It is through no good will of mine, I promise thee, for I was never fond either of Court or city in my best days, and now—But how goes it with you, child?" he asked, interrupting himself. "Methinks you are thin and pale."
I told him of my cold, and how I had taken it. I could see he was pleased, though he bade me be careful of my health.
"I would watch a dozen nights myself in the darkest vault under the church if it would do her any good!" he muttered, with so sad a look and such a deep sigh, that I was compelled to speak and tell him how I had been comforted concerning my mother. He listened in silence, and dashed the tears from his eyes when I had done.
"I would—I would I could think so," he said; "but to die without the sacraments—and I was the tempter to lead her from her vocation. But, take comfort, child, if thou canst. It may be thou art right, after all."
"I feel sure of it," said I; and then I reminded him how devout and humble dear mother was—how careful of all those under her government, and how exact in training them to ways of devotion and truth; and I repeated to him sundry verses of the Psalms, on which I had been thinking a great deal of late.
"Well, well, you seem to have thought to good purpose," said he, at last. "Master Ellenwood, at least, would hold with you. He is all for making of my chantry a school for the young maids of the village, where they may learn to spin and sew, and say their prayers, and even to read. He says it would be a better offering to your mother's memory than a useless chapel and a lazy fat priest, such as these chantry clerks often grow to be."
"I am sure mother would be pleased," said I. "You know she always did favor the notion of a school."
"There is something in that," answered my father, ruminating in silence a minute. "Well, child, I must needs go on my way. Hast no word for my Lord and poor Dick, who goes with him to France?"
I sent my humble duty to my Lord, and with Mother Superior's permission, a little book of prayers to Dick, who I know neglects his devotions sometimes. I think he will use the book for my sake. Dear father bestowed on me his blessing, and a beautiful gold and ebony rosary, which had once been mother's, and then rode away. I wondered when I should see him again. It is a very long and not very safe journey to London from these parts.
I showed Mother Superior my rosary, and the little lock of baby's hair. She looked long at the beads, and returned them to me with a sigh.
"I remember them well," said she. "They came from Rome, and have the blessing of our Holy Father the Pope. Did your mother use them?"
"Not often, as I think," I answered. "She liked better a string of beads of carved wood, which she said my father brought her from the East country before she was married."
"Olive wood, belike," said Mother, "though I fear 'twas your father's giving them which made them precious. Your mother's strong and warm natural affections were a snare to her, my child. See that they be not so to you, for you are as like her as one pea is to another."
"But was it not mother's duty to love my father, since she was his wife?" I ventured to ask.
"Surely, child! 'Tis the duty of all wives. The trouble was in her being a wife at all, since she forsook a higher vocation to become one. Nobody can deny that the vocation of a religious is far higher than that of a wife."
"But if there were no wives, there would by-and-by be no religious," said I; whereat dear Mother smiled and patted my cheek, telling me that my tongue ran too fast and far for a good novice, and that she must find means to tame it. However, I do not think she was angry.
Sister Frances says that everything I do is right because I do it, and that I am the favorite both with Mother Superior and Mother Gertrude. If I am—which I don't believe, because I think both the dear Mothers mean to be just to all—I am sure I shall never take any advantage of their kindness.
When I got a chance, I showed my treasures to Amice.
"You wont keep them, will you?" asked Amice.
"Keep them! Of course I shall!" I answered, rather indignantly, I am afraid. "What would you have me do with my dear mother's rosary and the baby's curl?"
"'A good religious will have nothing which she calls her own,'" said Amice, as if quoting something. "She will strive for perfection, and to acquire that she must be wholly detached from all human affections, so that mother or child, husband or brother, shall be no more to her than the rest of the world. Are we not expressly told in the lives of the Saints that St. Francis disregarded the remonstrances and the curses of his father, and that even the tears and prayers of his mother were nothing to him? Did not St. Clare, our blessed founder, fly from her father's house at midnight, and by the advice of St. Francis himself, conceal the step she was about to take from her father and mother, and did not St. Agnes herself shortly do the same, and absolutely refuse to return, though she was but fourteen years old?"
"But Amice, Master Ellenwood told me himself, that, 'Honor thy father and mother,' is one of the chief commandments," I objected. "And besides I am not yet a religious."
"But you mean to be—you have promised to be one," answered Amice. "I don't know about the commandments, but I do know that our order is specially dedicated to holy poverty, and you cannot embrace that, and call anything your own—not so much as your rosary or the clothes you wear. I think you should burn this hair, and offer the rosary on the shrine of our Lady, in the garden."
"I will ask Mother Gertrude about it," said I; and the good Mother entering at that moment, I laid the case before her. She smiled rather sadly, methought, and looked lovingly at the little curl of baby hair, as it lay on her hand.
"So you think it is not right for you to keep these things?" said she.
"Not I, but Amice," I answered. "She says it is not consistent with holy poverty."
"And dost think, child, it is very consistent with holy humility, or holy obedience either, for thee to be giving spiritual council or direction to thy sister?" asked Mother Gertrude, turning somewhat sharply to Amice, who colored, but said nothing.
"I don't think Amice was in fault, Mother," I ventured to say, for I thought she was hard upon Amice. "She only told me what she thought."
"Well, well, maybe not," answered the old nun, relenting as she ever does after the first sharp word; "I did not mean to chide, but I am put past my patience with meddling and tattling, and what not. As to the rosary, you had better ask Father Fabian, or Mother Superior. Come, children, you should be at your work, and not idling here. I wish, Rosamond, that Father Fabian had found some one else to copy his precious manuscripts. I want you to help about ordering the patterns for the new copes, and mending the altar linen. There is nobody in the house can equal you in a pattern or a darn, save Mother Mary Monica, and her eyes and hands are both too far gone, for such work."
"Cannot I help you, Mother?" said Amice, with an evident effort.
"You! No, child, thank you all the same, not till you learn the use of your fingers better than you have it now."
Amice colored, but answered not a word.
"But, dear Mother, I dare say the manuscript can wait," said I. "There is no hurry, I know, for Father Fabian told me I might take my time about it, and I can do it at one time as well as another, even by lamplight; when I cannot work, I can help about the copes, part of the day, or until they are finished."
"That's my good child," said she. "Well, come down to the sacristy in about half an hour, and we will get them all out, and consider them. We want to have everything in apple-pie order, you see." And the good Mother bustled away.
"So I must leave my writing and go to working, it seems." said I, rather pettishly, I fear, for I do love my translating, and I am not devoted to cut-work and darning, though, thanks to dear Mother, I rather excel in both these arts. "However, 'tis to please Mother Gertrude, and 'tis all in the day's work. But what is the matter, Amice?" I added, seeing tears in her eyes; "surely you need not think so much of a word from Mother Gertrude. You know 'tis her way?"
"I know it," answered Amice. "I ought to have knelt at her feet and thanked her for her reproof, instead of feeling hurt. I have lost a chance for exercising holy humility. I can go down to the sacristy and do it when you meet her there."
"I'll tell you a better way," said I. "Get a piece of linen and set yourself to work in earnest to practise the stitches, so that you can help her another time; for you know, dear, you really don't work very neatly, because you won't keep your mind on your work. You are always wool-gathering—maybe I should say meditating—about something else. Come now, that will be the best way. I am sure Mother will be willing to have me teach you, or to show you herself."
"Thank you, sister Rosamond; but really I don't perceive such a great difference between our work as you do!" said Amice, coldly. "It will be time to come to the sacristy when I am asked."
"Just as you please," said I, rather vexed. "I thought you wished a chance for holy humility, that's all."
And I came away without another word, and went down to the sacristy, where Mother Gertrude and the Sacristine had all the vestments spread out in great array. There was one old cambric cope done in cut-work so fine as to resemble lace, but so worn and decayed that it fairly broke with its own weight.
"What a pity!" said the Sacristine. "Do you think you could mend it, Rosamond? There is not such another—no, not at Glastonbury itself, Father Fabian says."
"I don't believe it can be mended!" said I, considering it. "You see the fabric is so old there is nothing to hold the darning thread. But if I had a piece of fine cambric, I think I can work another like it. At any rate, I can try; and if I don't succeed, there will be no great harm done."
The Mothers were both pleased, and Mother Superior coming in, the matter was laid before her.
"Can you accomplish it, daughter?" she asked. "This is a very curious piece of work."
"I can try!" said I. "If I fail, there will be no great loss."
"True, my child, but your translation?"
"Oh, Father Fabian will excuse me, or I can work at it a part of the time. Perhaps that will be the best way!"
So it was settled, and Mother Superior said she would send directly and procure the cambric and thread.
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May 15th.
I HAVE drawn my patterns and made a beginning, after practising the lace stitches on something else, and am really succeeding very well. I take two hours a day for that and two for my translation. I did not mean to have my work seen till I found out whether it were like to turn out well, but Mother Sacristine was so pleased, she must needs publish the matter. I can see plainly that some of the Sisters are not pleased at all; indeed Sister Catherine said plainly 'twas not fit such an honor should be laid on the youngest person in the house, and not even one of the professed.
I am sure I never thought of its being such a great honor—only that it pleases the dear Mothers, I would much rather work at my translation or make baby clothes for the women in the village. I can't help thinking too (though perhaps I ought not to write it), that our Lord Himself would be quite as well pleased to have my skill employed in clothing the naked little ones baptized in His name, as to have it used to add one more piece of finery to the twenty-five costly copes, and other vestments in proportion, in which our house takes so much pride. But these are matters too high for me to judge, and I know He will approve of my obeying and striving to please those whom He hath set in place of parents to me.
It has, somehow, leaked out—I can't guess how, unless by means of some eavesdropper—that I sent a book to my cousin, when my father was here; and Sister Catherine has taken me severely to task therefor. I told her that Richard was my cousin, and that I had Mother Superior's leave.
"Pretty discipline—pretty discipline!" she muttered. "Sending love tokens from a religious house. Well, well, we shall see. As for you, Mistress Rosamond, you are high in favor just now, and all you do is well, because, forsooth, you have a cunning hand with the needle, and can skill to read Latin; but have a care! Favorites are not long lived, and pride may have a fall!"
I made her no answer, and so she left me.
Eve of St. John the Baptist, June 23rd.
We have been mighty busy all day preparing for the feast to-morrow. We are to have high mass, and the celebrant is none other than my Lord Bishop himself, who thus honors our poor family. He has been here to-day, and has had long conference with Mother Superior, Father Fabian and the other elders. I fancy the two first wear a shade of care, and even the Bishop does not look as easy and merry as when I have seen him before.
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St. John Baptist's Day, June 24.
TO my great surprise, I myself was summoned to the Bishop's presence last evening. He was sitting in a great chair in the parlor, and received me graciously and kindly.
"Be not alarmed, my daughter," said he, seeing that I trembled, for indeed I was frightened, not knowing what to think or expect. "I only wish to ask you a few questions. I dare say there is nothing wrong."
And then to my surprise, he began questioning me about my father's visit, and the motives which had led me to the convent. I told him all, not knowing any reasons for concealment. Then he asked me whether I had seen my cousin since I left home. Very much surprised, I answered, "No, my Lord, I have had no chance to see him. He hath been in London, with my Lord, his uncle, and I have not stirred outside these walls since I came hither."
"And you have held no communication with him by letter or otherwise?" asked the Bishop.
I told him how I had sent him a book of prayers by my father, with Mother Superior's approbation.
"And did he send nothing to you—no lock of hair or other love token?"
I was vexed enough, but I could not forbear a smile. "My Lord," said I, "my father did assuredly bring me a lock of hair, taken from the head of a very young gentleman, which I will show you." And I took from my pocket my little Latin Psalter and showed him the babe's little curl fastened to one of the blank leaves. My Lord looked at it and smiled also.
"A very young gentleman indeed, I should say," he remarked. "Surely, it is the hair of a young infant."
"Yes, my Lord, of my sister's first child, about six weeks old. She sent it me by my father, and I thought no harm in keeping it."
"And was there naught else?"
"Truly, my mother's rosary," I answered; and then seeing his manner so kind, I ventured to ask him if there was anything wrong in my keeping and using it. He told me "none at all, but that I should strive to disengage my heart from earthly affections, as became a good religious."
Then he questioned me about my vigil in the Chapel and my motives therefor, to all of which I returned him clear and plain answers, having naught to conceal. Finally he asked me "whether I thought I had a true vocation?"
"Do not be fluttered," said he, kindly. "Take time, and tell me what you think."
I told him I did not know how to answer, because I had never fairly considered the subject. I had been brought up to think of the convent as my home, and most of my life had been passed within its walls. I had promised my mother to become a nun, and I meant to keep my word, and to do my duty as well as I could; but I could not pretend to say that I felt or ever had felt any such strong drawing toward the cloister as some of the other Sisters professed, and as I had read of in the lives of the Saints.
"Well, well! That will perhaps come," said my Lord, kindly. "Meantime, daughter, I am pleased with your frankness, and the simplicity with which you have answered my questions. Father Fabian and the Superior both speak well of you, and I doubt not you will be a credit to this house and to your order; specially if you use your knowledge as you have begun. See, I am going to give you this reliquary as a remembrance, and to increase your devotion. It contains a small fragment of the true cross, and once belonged to a very holy Abbess, who understood the Latin tongue as well as yourself, or perhaps better. But, my child, do not you let your gifts puff you up or lead you to look down on others. Any one who uses knowledge in that way had far better be without it. Remember that you have nothing which you did not receive, and that any gifts you have belong not to yourself to serve or exalt yourself withal, but to your God and your order."
And with that, he gave me his blessing in the kindest manner, and dismissed me, well pleased with the interview. It is very odd that he should have asked me such questions, however. As if I would send love tokens to any one, let alone poor Dick, with whom I have played all my life.
As I came out from the parlor into the passage, and from thence to the cloister door, I saw Sister Catherine and Sister Mary Paula whispering together. They stopped talking when I came out, and looked eagerly towards me.
"So you have been confessing to the Bishop?" says Sister Mary Paula.
"Not exactly confessing!" said I. "My Lord did me the honor to send for me, and asked me some questions. He has been very kind, and has given me a precious relic."
And I showed them the reliquary. I may be mistaken, but it seemed to me that Sister Catherine looked positively disappointed.
"That's the way things go in this world!" said Sister Mary Paula. "I have been in this house twelve years, and nobody can say I ever missed a fast or a service, and yet nobody gives me a relic or takes any notice of me, or puts me into any office. Well, well, 'kissing goes by favor,' is an old saying, as true here as anywhere else!"
"You ought to be thankful, Sister, that you have such humiliations put upon you," answered Sister Catherine. "You know nothing is so precious as humility. Come, let us go to our duty, dear Sister, and be thankful that we dwell in the dust and are trampled on by the foot of pride. 'Tis a far safer and more blessed place, and we ought to rejoice to be despised."
With that, before I could hinder, she knelt down and kissed my feet, and walked away, looking, I am sure, anything but humble. I don't see either why one should rejoice in being despised, since 'tis a wicked thing to despise people.
I heard Sister Catherine summoned to the parlor, as were several other Sisters, and Mother Gertrude as well.
This morning his Lordship called the whole family together, and made them one of the very best discourses I ever heard in all my life. I wish I could hear such an one every day. I am sure I should be the better. He began by commending highly the order and neatness of the house, the garden, and specially the library and sacristy. Then he said he had discovered some things which gave him pain, and of which he must needs speak. Here I saw Sister Catherine and Sister Mary Paula exchange glances. He went on to remark that he had discovered a spirit of jealousy and detraction, of fault-finding and tattling, which ought to exist in no family, least of all in a religious house, and one specially vowed to holy poverty, as we were. Then warming up—
"One would think, my children, that you should rejoice in each other's gifts and achievements. Instead thereof I find murmurs and complaints one of another, as if one Sister were injured because another is chosen to execute some special office or piece of work to which she is judged specially fitted. Sisters should be more ready to hide each other's faults than to betray them; but here a perfectly harmless and even religious act is reported to me as a flagrant breach of discipline."
Here again I saw an exchange of glances, quite of another kind.
"Ah, my daughters (the Bishop went on to say, as near as I can remember), these things ought not to be. Believe me, it is not the coarse habit, nor the sandals, nor the veils—no, nor the seclusion, nor the enclosure, nor even the watchings, and fastings, and many prayers, which make a true religious. All these things are good and holy, when well used; but they may all exist in company with many things utterly hateful to God and our blessed Lady. Let me show you in what true charity consisteth."
Then he repeated a description of charity so noble, so full, that methinks all Christian perfection was contained therein—as how a man might give all his goods in alms, and perform miracles, and even become a martyr, and yet be nothing better than a bit of sounding brass. Then showing what made true charity—even kindness, and patience, and gentleness, and humbleness, and thinking no evil, but hoping and believing the best at all times.
['Twas the thirteenth chapter of St. Paul, his first Epistle to the Corinthians which he recited, but I, who had never seen a New Testament at that time, did not know it.]
Then with a deep shade of sadness on his kind old face, such as I never saw before, he besought us to dwell in unity and love, that our prayers be not hindered, but that we might strive together for our house, our order, and the whole Church. He said we had fallen on evil times, and there was no telling what might happen; and he advised a special devotion to our Lady and our blessed founder, for the averting of judgments which even now threatened us; and so at last dismissed us with his blessing. I am sure I shall remember the discourse as long as I live, and I hope I shall be the better for it. I know very well I am altogether too prone to judge and to impute evil, or at the least foolish motives to good actions, and specially to judge hardly of those who in any way offend my taste.
[I know now, what I did not then, that our house was threatened with total destruction. Not long before Cardinal Wolsey had founded his college at Oxford, and he had obtained a bull from the Pope for suppressing some thirty of the small religious houses and to endow his said college with their revenues; and now there was talk of another suppression. We have in our West country a pithy proverb about showing the cat the way to the cream, which his Eminence might have remembered, if he ever chanced to hear it.]
After mass and sermon, it being a great feast day, we had a better dinner than ordinary, with abundance of sweetmeats and cakes, and recreation all the afternoon till vespers, for which I was very glad. I was cheered by the Bishop's discourse, and yet humbled by it, and I wanted time to think it over: so I slipped away from the rest, and with a garment I was making for Mary Dean's babe, betook myself to the garden chapel, where, having first said my prayers before the shrine, I sat down on a low and roughly hewn stone bench outside the door, and began to think and work at the same time.
I know not how it is, but I can always meditate to better purpose when I have something else to do. In our set hours of meditation I am always possessed to think of any and everything but the subject given us by Mother Superior. It is just then that all my working patterns come into my head. Well, I was sitting sewing a long seam, now working diligently, now stopping to listen to the birds and watch them feeding their young ones (now fully fledged and clamorously following their patient parent from tree to tree), when Amice came and sat down beside me.
"Methinks you spend your holiday soberly," said she, after a little silence, "working away in recreation time."
"I have not done work enough to spoil my recreation," I answered, gayly, "but you know my way of always liking something in my hands. I did not see that any one wanted me, so I came to this solitary place to think about the Bishop's sermon. 'Twas a noble discourse, was it not?"
"Yes, I suppose so," said Amice, and she sighed deeply.
"I thought you would have liked it," I said.
"It just added to my troubles, like everything else. Rosamond, I wish I had never been born, or else that I had been born a milkmaid."
"I don't fancy life is easier to milkmaids than to any one else," I answered. "I think it is as easy here as anywhere, don't you?"
"No!" said she, with a kind of vehemence. "I think it is hard, intolerable, all but impossible. It is all a mass of contradictions from first to last."
"Hush, hush!" I said, alarmed. "Say what you like to me, but don't speak so loud. Remember what we heard this morning about eavesdropping. I do wish you would tell me what troubles you so, dear. Perhaps it would not seem so bad, if you talked it over."
She laid her head on my lap and cried as if her heart would break.
"O Rosamond, I shall never be a Saint—never!" said she, sobbing. "The more I try the worse I am."
"What now?" said I.
"You know how I have fasted and prayed, lately," she continued. "I have denied myself everything—even converse with you, Rosamond. I have striven to put down all affection for one more than another, and have associated with those I liked the least—"
"I wondered what made you so intimate with Sister Frances, and Sister Mary Paula, and so cold to me," I said. "I was afraid I had offended you."
"I know you were, and I made up my mind to bear the unjust suspicion and not justify myself in your eyes, as another means of humiliation. I have eaten only the coarsest food, and worn sackcloth next my skin, and lain all night upon the floor—and it is all—of no use—I only feel—just as cross as I can be!" Here she cried afresh, and I soothed her as well as I could. "I read in the life of St Francis how the Saint requested the bird to stop singing, and tamed the wolf," she continued, presently, "and I thought I would try to tame Sultan our peacock; but when I kindly requested him to leave his corn for the hens, he wouldn't; and when (first asking the intercession of St. Francis) I tried to induce him to give it up to me—he—he pecked me," sobbed Amice, with another burst of grief, and she showed me her hand, all raw and sort in the palm where the ugly creature had wounded her.
"Amice," said I, when she was a little calmer, "why don't you tell all these things to Father Fabian?"
"I did, last night," said she; "and he told me I was making myself ill to no purpose, and that the exercises appointed were enough for me. But St. Clare and the other Saints used a great many more austerities than these."
"I suppose their spiritual superiors allowed them," I said.
"Then why can't mine allow me? Unless I can be a Saint I don't care to be a religious at all. I wish I could go somewhere else—to some of the strict houses which Sister Catherine and Mother Mary Monica tell us of—and then I might have a chance, perhaps."
"And would you leave Mother Gertrude—the only relation you have in the world?" I asked her.
"A religious has naught to do with family affection, Rosamond. Ought I not to disregard every earthly tie, if thereby I can advance toward holiness?"
The bell sounded for vespers just then, so we could talk no more; but I am very much puzzled. I am sure my father and my own relations must always be more to me than any one else can be. It does not seem to me either as if Amice were going to work in the right way to be a Saint. I think a real Saint would be the last person to know that he was one.
When we met at supper, Sister Catherine remained on her knees in a corner all the time we were eating, and when we had finished, she kissed the feet of each of us as we went out, and begged our pardon for her many offences.
"See how humble dear Sister Catherine is," said Sister Mary Paula. "She begged to be allowed to perform this public penance because she said she had sinned against charity."
I suppose it was very good of her, but I can't help thinking it would have been more really humble if she had repented and apologized in private. It seems to me that such a show of humility might make one proud of being humble. But I dare say she is right and I am wrong.