SISTER MADELINE.
Yes! it is well for us: from these alarms,
Like children scared, we fly into thine arms;
And pressing sorrows put our pride to rout
With a swift faith which has not time to doubt.
_Faber._
Learn by a mortal yearning to ascend
Towards a higher object. Love was given,
Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end;
For this the passion to excess was driven---
That self might be annulled; her bondage prove
The fetters of a dream, opposed to love.
_Wordsworth_.
The next thing that I recall, is rousing from slumber, or something
related to slumber, and seeing a tall woman in the dress of a sister,
standing by my bed. It was night, and there was a lamp upon a table
near. The unusual dress, and the unfamiliarity of her whole appearance,
made me start and stare at her, half raising myself in the bed.
"Why did you come here?" I said. "Who sent for you?"
"I came because you were sick and suffering, and I was sent in the Name
----" and bending her head slightly, she said a Name too sacred for
these pages.
I gave a great sigh of relief, and sank back on my pillow. Her answer
satisfied me, for I was not able to reason. I let her hold my hand; and
all through that dark and troubled time submitted to her will, and
desired her presence, and was soothed by her voice and touch.
Sister Madeline was not at all the ideal sister, being tall and dark,
and with nothing peculiarly devotional or pensive in her cast of
feature. Her face was a fine, earnest one. Her movements were full of
energy and decision, though not quick or sharp. The whole impression
left was that of one by nature far from humility, tenderness, devotion;
but, by the force of a magnificent faith, made passionately humble,
devout from the very heart, more than humanly compassionate and tender.
I never felt toward her as if she were "born so"--but as if she were
rescued from the world by some great effort or experience; as if it were
all "made ground," reclaimed from nature by infinite patience and
incessant labor. She lived the life of an angel upon the earth. I never
saw her, by look, by word, or tone, transgress the least of the
commandments, so wonderful was the curb she held over all her human
feelings. Nor was this perfection attained by a sudden and grand
sacrifice; the consecration of herself to the religious life was not the
"single step 'twixt earth and heaven," but it was attained by daily and
hourly study--by the practice of a hundred self-denials--by the most
accurate science of spiritual progress.
Doubtless, saints can be made in other ways, but this is one way they
can be made, starting with a sincere intention to serve God. At least,
so I believe, from knowing Sister Madeline.
She made a great change in my life, and I owe her a great deal. It is
not strange I feel enthusiasm for her. I cannot bear to think what my
coming back to life would have been without her.
Of the alarming nature of my illness, I only know that there were
several days when Richard never left the house, but waited, hour after
hour, in the library below, for the news of my condition, and when even
Uncle Leonard came home in the middle of the day, and walked about the
house, silent and unapproachable.
One night--how well I remember it! I had been convalescent, I do not
know how long; I had passed the childish state of interest in my
_bouilli_, and fretfulness about my _peignoir_; my mind had begun to
regain its ordinary power, and with the first efforts of memory and
thought had come fearful depression and despondency. I was so weak,
physically, that I could not fight against this in the least. Sister
Madeline came to my bedside, and found me in an agony of weeping. It was
not an easy matter to gain my confidence, for I thought she knew nothing
of me, and I was not equal to the mental effort of explaining myself;
she was only associated with my illness. But at last she made me
understand that she was not ignorant of a great deal that troubled me.
"Who has told you?" I said, my heart hardening itself against Richard,
who could have spoken of my trouble to a stranger.
"You, yourself," she answered me.
"I have raved?" I said.
"Yes."
"And who has heard me?"
"No one else. I sent every one else from the room whenever your delirium
became intelligible."
This made me grateful toward her; and I longed for sympathy. I threw my
arms about her and wept bitterly.
"Then you know that I can never cry enough," I said.
"I do not know that," she answered. After a vain attempt to soothe me
with general words of comfort, she said, with much wisdom, "Tell me
exactly what thought gives you the most pain, now, at this moment."
"The thought of his dreadful act, and that by it he has lost his soul."
"We know with Whom all things are possible," she said, "and we do not
know what cloud may have been over his reason at that moment. Would it
comfort you to pray for him?"
"Ought I?" I asked, raising my head.
"I do not know any reason that you ought not," she returned. "Shall I
say some prayers for him now?"
I grasped her hand: she took a little book from her pocket, and knelt
down beside me, holding my hand in hers. Oh, the mercy, the relief of
those prayers! They may not have done him any good, but they did me. The
hopeless grief that was killing me, I "wept it from my heart" that hour.
"Promise me one thing," I whispered as she rose, "that you will read
that prayer, every hour during the day, to-morrow, by my bed, whether I
am sleeping or awake."
"I promise," she said, and I am sure she kept her word, that day and
many others after it.
During my convalescence, which was slow, I had no other person near me,
and wanted none. Uncle Leonard came in once a day, and spent a few
minutes, much to his discomfort and my disadvantage. Richard I had not
seen at all, and dreaded very much to meet. Ann Coddle fretted me, and
was very little in the room.
Over these days there is a sort of peace. I was entering upon so much
that was new and elevating, under the guidance of Sister Madeline, and
was so entirely influenced by her, that I was brought out of my trouble
wonderfully. Not out of it, of course, but from under its crushing
weight. I know that I am rather easily influenced, and only too ready to
follow those who have won my love. Therefore, I am in every way thankful
that I came at such a time under the influence of a mind like that of
Sister Madeline.
But the time was approaching for her to go away. I was well enough to do
without her, and she had other duties. The sick-room peace and
indulgence were over, and I must take up the burden of every-day life
again. I was very unhappy, and felt as if I were without stay
or guidance.
"To whom am I to go when I am in doubt?" I said; "you will be so far
away."
"That is what I want to arrange: the next time you are able to go out, I
want to take you to some one who can direct you much better than I."
"A priest?" I asked. "Tell me one thing: will he give me absolution?"
"I suppose he will, if he finds that you desire it."
"What would be the use of going to him for anything else?" I said. "It
is the only thing that can give me any comfort."
"All people do not feel so, Pauline."
"But you feel so, dear Sister Madeline, do you not? You can understand
how I am burdened, and how I long to have the bands undone?"
"Yes, Pauline, I can understand."
I am not inclined to give much weight to my own opinions, and as for my
feelings, I know they were, then, those of a child, and in many ways
will always be. I can only say what comforted me, and what I longed for.
There had always been great force to me, in the Scripture that says,
"Whosesoever sins ye remit, they are remitted unto them, and whosesoever
sins ye retain, they are retained," even before I felt the burden of
my sins.
I had once seen the ordination of a priest, and I suppose that added to
the weight of the words ever after in my mind. I never had any doubt of
the power then conferred, and I no sooner felt the guilt and stain of
sin upon my soul, than I yearned to hear the pardon spoken, that Heaven
offered to the penitent. I had been tangibly smitten; I longed to be
tangibly healed.
Whatever shame and pain there was about laying bare my soul before
another, I gladly embraced it, as one poor means at my command of
showing to Him whom I had offended, that my repentance was actual, that
I stopped at no humiliation.
It may very well be that these feelings would find no place in larger,
grander, more self-reliant natures; that what healed my soul would only
wound another. I am not prepared to think that one remedy is cure for
all diseases, but I know what cured mine. I bless God for "the soothing
hand that Love on Conscience laid." I mark that hour as the beginning of
a fresh and favored life; the dawning of a hope that has not yet
lost its power
"to tame
The haughty brow, to curb the unchastened eye,
And shape to deeds of good each wavering aim."