"Am I myself? Dreaming? Or, is it insanity?"
It is a young girl who thus strangely interrogates. A beautiful girl,
woman grown, of tall stature, with bright face and a wealth of hair,
golden hued.
But what is beauty to her with all these adjuncts? As the flower born
to blush unseen, eye of man may not look upon hers; though it is not
wasting its sweetness on the desert air; but within the walls of a
convent.
An English girl, though the convent is in France--in the city of
Boulogne-sur-mer; the same in whose attached _pensionnat_ the sister of
Major Mahon is receiving education. She is not the girl, for Kate
Mahon, though herself beautiful, is no blonde; instead, the very
opposite. Besides, this creature of radiant complexion is not attending
school--she is beyond the years for that. Neither is she allowed the
freedom of the streets, but kept shut up within a cell in the innermost
recesses of the establishment, where the _pensionnaires_ are not
permitted, save one or two who are favourites with the Lady Superior.
A small apartment the young girl occupies--bedchamber and sitting-room
in one--in short, a nun's cloister. Furnished, as such, are, in a style
of austere simplicity; pallet bed along the one side, the other taken up
by a plain deal dressing table, a washstand with jug and basin--these
little bigger than tea-bowl and ewer--and a couple of common rush-bottom
chairs--that is all.
The walls are lime-washed, but most of their surface is concealed by
pictures of saints male and female; while the mother of all is honoured
by an image, having a niche to itself, in a corner.
On the table are some four or five books, including a Testament and
Missal; their bindings, with the orthodox cross stamped upon them,
proclaiming the nature of the contents.
A literature that cannot be to the liking of the present occupant of the
cloister; since she has been there several days without turning over a
single leaf, or even taking up one of the volumes to look at it.
That she is not there with her own will but against it, can be told by
her words, and as their tone, her manner while giving utterance to them.
Seated upon the side of the bed, she has sprung to her feet, and with
arms raised aloft and tossed about, strides distractedly over the floor.
One seeing her thus might well imagine her to be, what she half fancies
herself--insane! A supposition strengthened by an unnatural lustre in
her eyes, and a hectic flush on her cheeks unlike the hue of health.
Still, not as with one suffering bodily sickness, or any physical
ailment, but more as from a mind diseased. Seen for only a moment--that
particular moment--such would be the conclusion regarding her. But her
speech coming after tells she is in full possession of her senses--only
under terrible agitation--distraught with some great trouble.
"It must be a convent! But how have I come into it? Into France, too;
for surely am I there? The woman who brings my meals is French. So the
other--Sister of Mercy, as she calls herself, though she speaks my own
tongue. The furniture--bed, table, chairs, washstand--everything of
French manufacture. And in all England there is not such a jug and
basin as those!"
Regarding the lavatory utensils--so diminutive as to recall "Gulliver's
Travels in Lilliput," if ever read by her--she for a moment seems to
forget her misery, as will in its very midst, and keenest, at sight of
the ludicrous and grotesque.
It is quickly recalled, as her glance, wandering around the room, again
rests on the little statue--not of marble, but a cheap plaster of Paris
cast--and she reads the inscription underneath, "_La Mere de Dieu_."
The symbols tell her she is inside a nunnery, and upon the soil of
France!
"Oh, yes!" she exclaims, "'tis certainly so! I am no more in my native
land, but have been carried across the sea!"
The knowledge, or belief, does nought to tranquillise her feelings or
explain the situation, to her all mysterious. Instead, it but adds to
her bewilderment, and she once more exclaims, almost repeating herself:
"Am I myself? Is it a dream? Or have my senses indeed forsaken me?"
She clasps her hands across her forehead, the white fingers threading
the thick folds of her hair which hangs dishevelled. She presses them
against her temples, as if to make sure her brain is still untouched!
It is so, or she would not reason as she does.
"Everything around shows I am in France. But how came I to it? Who has
brought me? What offence have I given God or man, to be dragged from
home, from country--and confined--imprisoned! Convent, or whatever it
be, imprisoned I am! The door constantly kept locked! That window, so
high, I cannot see over its sill! The dim light it lets in telling it
was not meant for enjoyment. Oh! Instead of cheering it tantalises--
tortures me!"
Despairingly she reseats herself upon the side of the bed, and with head
still buried in her hands, continues her soliloquy; no longer of things
present, but reverting to the past.
"Let me think again! What can I remember? That night, so happy in its
beginning, to end as it did! The end of my life, as I thought, if I had
a thought at that time. It was not, though, or I shouldn't be here, but
in heaven I hope. Would I were in heaven now! When I recall _his_
words--those last words and think--"
"Your thoughts are sinful, child!"
The remark, thus interrupting, is made by a woman, who appears on the
threshold of the door, which she had just pushed open. A woman of
mature age, dressed in a floating drapery of deep black--the orthodox
garb of the Holy Sisterhood, with all its insignia, of girdle,
bead-roll, and pendant crucifix. A tall thin personage, with skin like
shrivelled parchment, and a countenance that would be repulsive but for
the nun's coif, which partly concealing, tones down its sinister
expression. Withal, a face disagreeable to gaze upon; not the less so
from its air of sanctity, evidently affected. The intruder is "Sister
Ursule."
She has opened the door noiselessly--as cloister doors are made to
open--and stands between its jambs, like a shadowy _silhouette_ in its
frame, one hand still holding the knob, while in the other is a small
volume, apparently well-thumbed. That she has had her ear to the
keyhole before presenting herself is told by the rebuke having reference
to the last words of the girl's soliloquy, in her excitement uttered
aloud.
"Yes?" she continues, "sinful--very sinful! You should be thinking of
something else than the world and its wickedness. And of anything
before that you have been thinking of--the wickedness of all."
She thus spoken to had neither started at the intrusion, nor does she
show surprise at what is said. It is not the first visit of Sister
Ursule to her cell, made in like stealthy manner; nor the first austere
speech she has heard from the same skinny lips. At the beginning she
did not listen to it patiently; instead, with indignation; defiantly,
almost fiercely, rejoining. But the proudest spirit can be humbled.
Even the eagle, when its wings are beaten to exhaustion against the bars
of its cage, will became subdued, if not tamed. Therefore the
imprisoned English girl makes reply, meekly and appealingly--
"Sister of Mercy, as you are called; have mercy upon me! Tell me why I
am here?"
"For the good of your soul and its salvation."
"But how can that concern any one save myself?"
"Ah! there you mistake, child; which shows the sort of life you've been
hitherto leading; and the sort of people surrounding you; who, in their
sinfulness, imagine all as themselves. They cannot conceive that there
are those who deem it a duty--nay, a direct command from God--to do all
in their power for the redemption of lost sinners, and restoring them to
his divine favour. He is all-merciful."
"True: He is. I do not need to be told it. Only, who these
redemptionists are that take such interest in my spiritual welfare, and
how I have come to be here, surely I may know?"
"You shall in time, _ma fille_. Now you cannot--must not--for many
reasons."
"What reasons?"
"Well; for one, you have been very ill--nigh unto death, indeed."
"I know that, without knowing how."
"Of course. The accident which came so near depriving you of life was
of that sudden nature; and your senses--but I mustn't speak further
about it. The doctor has given strict directions that you're to be kept
quiet, and it might excite you. Be satisfied with knowing, that they
who have placed you here are the same who saved your life, and would now
rescue your soul from perdition. I've brought you this little volume
for perusal. It will help to enlighten you."
She stretches out her long bony fingers, handing the book--one of those
"Aids to Faith" relied upon by the apostles of the _Propaganda_.
The girl mechanically takes it, without looking at, or thinking of it;
still pondering upon the unknown and mysterious benefactors, who, as she
is told, have done so much for her.
"How good of them!" she rejoins, with an air of incredulity, and in
tones that might be taken as derisive.
"How wicked of you!" retorts the other, taking it in this sense.
"Positively ungrateful!" she adds, with the acerbity of a baffled
proselytiser. "I am sorry, child, you still cling to your sinful
thoughts, and keep up a rebellious spirit in face of all that is being
done for your good. But I shall leave you now, and go and pray for you;
hoping, on my next visit, to find you in a more proper frame of mind."
So saying, Sister Ursule glides out of the cloister, drawing to the
door, and silently turning the key in its lock.
"O God!" groans the young girl in despair, flinging herself along the
pallet, and for the third time interrogating, "am I myself, and
dreaming? Or am I mad? In mercy, Heaven, tell me what it means!"
Volume Three, Chapter XI.