TO go on with my own life. One year ago my dear mother died, leaving
us young ones to comfort my father, who sorely needed comfort, for he
and mother were all in all to each other. Alice, who is three years
older than I am, was betrothed to Sir John Fulton's eldest son, and
by mother's special desire the wedding was hastened that she might
have the pleasure of seeing, as she said, both her daughters settled
in life. I think she would have liked me to make my profession also,
though she would have grieved to part with me, but both my father and
our good parish priest were against it, and even Mother Superior did
not favor the notion. They all said I was far too young to know mine
own mind, and that I ought not to take the irrevocable vows till I was
eighteen at the least. So mother gave way.
Her death followed my sister's marriage so quickly, that the flowers I
had gathered for her that day were not fairly withered when I plucked
rosemary and rue to lay on her winding sheet. She passed sitting in her
chair, and so quickly, that there was no time for the last sacraments:
for we had not thought her in any imminent danger, though we all knew
she must die soon. My father has spent much money in masses, and talks
of building a chantry, with endowment for a priest to sing for her
soul. The thought of my dear mother in purgatory ought to make me a
saint, if nothing else did.
Father clung to me very closely, and could hardly bear me out of his
sight after mother died, and yet he himself hurried my return to this
place. It seemed hard that I could not stay and comfort him, Alice
being away; but when I hinted at it, he reproved me, even sternly.
"Child, child! Would you make matters worse than they are now, by
taking back what your mother gave? What is my comfort for a few days or
years? Go—go, and pray for your mother's soul!"
What could I say but that I would go? Besides, it really is no great
hardship. I love this house, and the Sisters, and they are all very
good to me; even Sister Catherine means to be, I am sure, only she
is so very strict. She says we are a shame to our order—we are
Bernardines—and that if St. Francis were to come to earth again, he
would not own us. Sister Catherine says the very fact of Amice and
myself being in the house, as we are not novices, nor yet regular
postulants, shows how far we have degenerated, and that it is enough
to bring down a judgment on us. She talks about going to London and
joining a house of Poor Clares, notable for the extreme strictness of
their rule. I wish she would, I am sure.
I don't think myself that we are very strict—not nearly so much so as
St. Clare was when she was on earth. Still we observe the canonical
hours carefully, at least the nuns do, for Mother will not let us young
ones be called up at night—and we do a great deal for the poor. Some
half dozen families in the village here are clothed and fed by our
community almost entirely. That same Roger Smith has help all the time,
and yet he will not bring us so much as an eel without having the full
price for it.
There are twenty professed nuns in this house, besides the Superior,
Margaret Vernon, the Sacristine, Mother Agnes, Mother Gertrude, who
has the principal charge of the novices and of us young ones, and
Sister Catherine, whose charge is the wardrobe and linen-room and whose
business is everyones but her own. Then there are three novices, Anne,
Clara, and Frances, and Amice and myself, who for fault of a better
name, are called pupils.
Amice Crocker is an orphan girl, niece to Mother Gertrude, and has no
home but this. She is very devout, and seems to have a real vocation.
She is always reading lives of the Saints, and trying to imitate their
example, but her imitations do not always work very well. For instance,
the other day Mother Gertrude sent her to the wardrobe to bring down
some garments which were wanted in a hurry for a poor woman. She was
gone fully half an hour, and at the last I was sent to look for her. I
found her coming down very slowly; indeed she was pausing a minute or
more on every stair.
"Amice, what makes you so slow?" I exclaimed, rather vexed. "Don't you
know Mother is waiting?"
She did not answer me, but continued coming down a step and stopping,
till Mother Gertrude herself came to see what was the matter, just as
she reached the bottom.
"What ails the child?" said Mother, rather sharply. "The man would wait
no longer, and now the poor woman must go without her cloak."
"I am very sorry!" answered Amice, meekly. "I was trying to emulate the
example of that blessed young Saint, Sister Catherine was reading of
yesterday; who, when he went up-stairs, always paused to say a prayer
on every step."
I saw Mother's eyes twinkle, and the corners of her mouth twitch.
"Well, well, I wont scold you, child, but remember the next time you
are sent on an errand that your business is to do the errand, and try
rather to follow the example of St. Anthony, and be in two places at
once."
I saw Amice was mortified. When we went away together she was silent
a little, and I could see she was trying to keep back her tears.
Presently she said:
"Rosamond, I think it is very hard to follow the example of the Saints.
There are so many of them, and they are so very different."
"Perhaps it would be well to pick out one, and keep him for a model,"
said I.
"But how?" asked Amice. "Now, this same saint, for instance. When he
was only five years old, he wanted a friar's habit, and he cried till
he got it."
"He would have cried a long time if he had my mother to deal with!"
said I. "Or rather, I think his crying would have been cut short rather
suddenly."
"Just so!" said Amice. "We were taught to obey our parents in all
things. Then, again, when he was eight years old, he saw his mother
in a red dress, and reproved her severely, telling her that the color
would drag her down to the flames of hell. Now I think (and I can't
help thinking), that Sister Catherine's way of snubbing and putting
down poor Sister Bridget (though she does say silly things, to be
sure), is worse than wearing a red gown: but suppose I should reprove
her, what do you think would happen?"
"I can guess!" said I, and we both laughed; but Amice looked very sober
again, directly.
"So you see, Rosamond, I don't know what to do, because whatever Saint
you choose for a model, you seem to run against somebody. And that
makes me say I wish there were not so many."
"If we knew all about our Lady, or one of the Holy Apostles," said I,
doubtfully; "or suppose you should take St. Clare, or St. Agnes."
"Well, St. Clare did not obey her parents either; she ran away from her
father's house at midnight, and went to St. Frances!"
"Yes, but that was because she had such a high vocation," I answered,
"and her parents opposed her. I suppose that is different. Anyhow,
Amice, we can do as we are told, and that is always a comfort. Perhaps
it is the safest way for girls like us."
"If we had our Lord's life, that would be the best of all," continued
Amice, not paying much attention to my words: "but then, of course, we
never could hope to follow that, when we cannot even reach the example
of Saint Francis and Saint Clare. Anyhow, I wish I could read it for
once—all of it."
"Why, Amice, how can you say such a thing?" said I, rather sharply, I
am afraid. "Don't you know what Father Fabian said in his sermon—that
it was the reading of the Scriptures by unlearned men which made all
the heresies and schisms which have come up in Germany and the Low
Countries?"
Amice looked so distressed that I was sorry for my words directly.
"I am sure I don't want to be a heretic, or anything else that is
wrong!" said she, with tears in her eyes. "I would like to please
everybody, but somehow I am always going wrong and making mistakes, as
I did to-day. I keep seeing that poor woman going over the moors in the
cold wind, without any cloak, and yet I meant no harm."
"I am sure you never mean to be anything but the dearest girl in the
world," said I, kissing her. "As to what happened to-day, I wouldn't
think of it any more."
"I don't see that I can do anything about it now, only to make it an
occasion of humility," says Amice.
"I don't think you can do anything better with it than to let it alone
and think about something else," says I, and so the matter ended.
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