_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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