_St. Michael's Eve, Sept. 28._
IT is a long time since I have touched this book, and many things
have happened. Ours is now a sad household. Out of the twenty-three
professed Sisters and novices who used to meet in the choir, but
fifteen remain. The rest lie under the turf in our cemetery. Mother
Gabrielle is gone, and poor Sister Bridget, and of the novices, Sisters
Mary Frances and Agatha. Mother Gertrude had the disease, but was
spared. Three others recovered. The rest were not attacked. The disease
was the dreadful Sweating sickness. It began first in the village,
in the household of that same Roger Smith, but broke out in three or
four other cottages the same day. The news was brought to the convent
gates the next morning by some who came for alms, as they use to do on
Wednesdays and Fridays, and produced great consternation.
"What are we to do now?" said Sister Catherine, while the elders were
in conference by themselves.
"We shall do as we are told, I suppose," answered Sister Bridget, with
her wonted simplicity.
"But don't you suppose Mother Superior will order the gates to be shut,
and no communication held with the villagers?" said Sister Mary Paula.
"I should certainly suppose not;" answered Sister Placida. "Think what
you are saying, dear Sister! Would you deprive the poor souls of their
alms, just when they are most wanted? Methinks it would ill become
religious women to show such cowardly fears."
"Beside that I don't believe it would make any difference," said I.
"Master Ellenwood, who has studied medicine, told my father the disease
was not so much infectious, as in the air. I wish we might go out among
the poor folk, to see what they need, and help to nurse the sick, as my
mother and her women used to do."
"Rosamond is always ready for any chance to break her enclosure," said
Sister Catherine, charitable as usual. "She would even welcome the
pestilence, if it gave her a pretext to get outside her convent walls."
"Sister Catherine," said Sister Placida, reprovingly, "you are wrong
to speak so to the child. Why should you be so ready to put a wrong
construction on her words? I am sure the wish is natural enough. I had
thought of the same thing myself."
"O yes, I dare say," retorted Sister Catherine. And then, with one of
her sudden changes, "but I am wrong to answer you so, Sister. It is my
part to accept even undeserved reproof with humility, and be thankful
that I am despised."
"Nonsense," returned Sister Placida, who is by no means so placid as
her name, "I think you would show more humility by considering whether
the reproof was not deserved. As to being thankful for being despised,
that is to my mind a little too much like being thankful for another's
sin."
"How so?" I asked.
"Why, in order to being despised, there must needs be some one to
despise you, child, and is not contempt a sin?"
I do like Sister Placida, though she is just as often sharp with me as
Sister Catherine, but it is in such a different way.
"Anyhow, I hope they wont shut out the poor folk," said Sister Bridget.
"Who is talking about shutting out the poor folk?" asked Mother
Gertrude's voice, coming in sharp and clear as usual, (by the way I
ought to call her Mother Assistant now, but I never can remember to do
so.) "Children, why are you all loitering here, instead of being about
your business in the house? Let every one set about her duty just as
usual, and at obedience, you will hear what has been decided."
[Obedience is that hour in a convent when the nuns assemble with
the Superior to give an account of their labors, to receive special
charges, and not seldom special reproofs as well. In our house this
gathering took place just after morning recreation. Amice and I, not
being even regular postulants, had no business there, and since the
reformation in the house, we have never attended, but we were called in
to-day, and took our places at the lower end of the line, and therefore
next the Superior, who addressed us in few but weighty words, which I
will set down as well as I can remember them.]
There was no doubt, she said, that the pestilence known as the
sweating sickness had broken out in the village, and we might with
reason expect its appearance among ourselves, at any time. She said
she had heard with sorrow that some of her children had desired to
have the gates closed against the poor folk who used to come for alms.
Such cowardliness as this was unbecoming to any well-born lady, and
above all to religious, who were doubly bound to set a good example
of courage and resignation: but she was willing to think this only a
momentary failing, which a second thought would correct; and she bade
us consider that there would be no use in shutting the gates now, since
they were opened yesterday, as usual.
Then she told us what she, with the advice of our confessor and the
other elders, had decided upon. The doles were to be given out at the
outer gate, by the proper officers, only they were to be given every
day, instead of Wednesdays and Fridays. The two distributing Sisters
were to be helped by two others, taken in turn from the professed,
to hand the things as they were wanted. All embroidery, with other
unnecessary work of every kind, was to be laid aside, and all were
to employ themselves under the direction of the Mother Assistant and
herself in making linen and in preparing food, cordials, and drinks
for the poor. If any Sister felt herself ill in any way, she was at
once to repair to the infirmary, and report herself to Sister Placida.
Finally, we were all to have good courage, to give ourselves as much as
possible to prayer, and such religious meditation as should keep us in
a calm, cheerful, and recollected frame of mind, observing our hours of
recreation as usual; and she added that nobody was to presume to take
on herself any extra penances or exercises without express permission
from her superior or confessor.
"We are all under sentence of death, dear children, as you know!"
concluded Mother, "And it matters little how our dismissal comes, so
we are ready. Let us all confess ourselves, so that the weight, at
least, of mortal sin may not rest on our consciences here, or go with
us into the other world. If we are called to suffer, let us accept
those sufferings as an atonement for our sins, considering that the
more we have to endure here, the less we may believe will be the pains
of purgatory hereafter. As for these children," she added, turning to
Amice and myself, who stood next her, "what shall I say to them?"
"Say, dear Mother, that we may take our full share of work and risk
with the Sisters!" exclaimed Amice, kneeling before her. "I am sure I
speak for Rosamond as well as myself, when I say that is what we desire
most of all, is it not, Rosamond?"
"Surely," I answered, as I knelt by her side: "I ask nothing more than
that."
"And what becomes of the Latin and Music lessons, and the embroidery,
and our learned librarian's translations?" asked Mother Superior,
smiling on us.
"They can wait," I answered.
"And surely, dearest Mother, the lessons we shall learn will be far
more valuable than any Latin or music," added Amice.
"Well, well, be it as you will!" said dear Mother, laying her hands on
our heads as we knelt before her. "Surely, dear children, none of us
will show any fear or reluctance, since these babes set us such a good
example. Well, hold yourselves ready, my little ones, and wherever you
are wanted, there shall you be sent."
That afternoon there was a great bustle in the wardrobe; taking down
of linen, and cutting out of shifts and bed-gowns, and the like, and
in the still-room and kitchen as well, with preparing of medicines,
chiefly cordial and restoratives, and mild drinks, such as barley and
apple waters, and the infusion of lime blossoms, balm and mint. This
was by the advice of Mother Mary Monica, who has seen the disease
before, and understands its right treatment. She says that those who on
the first sign of the disorder took to their beds and remained there
for twenty-four hours, moderately covered, and perfectly quiet, and
drinking of mild drinks, neither very hot, nor stimulating, nor yet
cold, almost all recovered; but that purges, exercise, hot or cold
drinks and stimulants, were equally fatal. The dear old Mother has
seemed failing of late, but this alarm has roused her up and made her
like a young woman again.
Thus things went on for more than a week. We heard of great suffering
among the villagers for lack of nurses who knew how to treat the
disease, and also because from selfish fear of taking the pestilence,
people refused to go near the sick and dying. One day Mother Superior
was called to the grate, and presently sent for me to the parlor, where
I found her talking through the grate to a woman whom I at once knew as
Magdalen Jewell of Torfoot. Hers is not a face to be forgotten.
"This good woman says she believes you were at her house with her
Grace," says Mother.
I answered that I was so, and added that her Grace did much commend the
neatness of the place and the kindness of Magdalen in taking the little
one. I saw Magdalen's face work.
"The babe hath been taken home!" said she, almost sternly. "God's will
be done! I have been telling these ladies that there are divers orphan
maids in the village (left so by this sickness), who are running wild,
and are like either to die for lack of care, or worse, to fall into the
hands of gypsies and other lawless persons, whom this pestilence seems
to have let loose to roam about this wretched land."
"Are there so many dead in the village?" asked Mother Gertrude.
"There is not a house where there is or hath not been one dead!"
answered Magdalen; "And the terror is worse than the pestilence;
children are deserted by parents, and they in their turn by children,
and 'tis the same with all other relations. 'Tis a woeful spectacle!"
"Could not you yourself take these poor babes to your home, since you
have one?" asked Mother Gertrude.
"I cannot be spared, madam," answered Magdalen: "I must nurse the sick."
"That is very good in you, and you must take comfort in the thought
that you are thereby laying up merit for yourself!" said Mother
Superior.
I saw an odd expression pass over Magdalen's face, but she made no
reply.
"And you think we might take these babes and care for them, at least
till the present emergency is passed?" said Mother.
"Nay, madam, I did but state the case to you," answered Magdalen; "'tis
not for me to presume to offer advice."
"But what to do with them, if we took them?" said Mother Superior, in
a musing tone. Then catching my eye, which I suppose ought to have
been on the floor instead of on her face: "Here is Rosamond, with a
ready-made plan, as usual. Well, child, you have permission to speak.
What is brewing under that eager face?"
"I was thinking, dear Mother, that I am used to young children," said
I. "Why could I not take these little maids into one of the rooms
called the Queen's room, and tend them there? I suppose there are not
many of them."
"I know of but five utterly friendless maids," answered Magdalen.
"Then I am sure I could care for them, with some help and advice," said
I. "They would be away from the rest of the family, and would disturb
no one; and if we were kept in health, I might teach them as well."
"'Tis a good thought, but we must do nothing hastily," said Mother
Superior. "We ought to have the permission of our visitor, the Bishop,
but he is now in Bristol, and some days must elapse before we could
hear from him, and this seems a case for instant action."
"I am sure you would say so, madam, could you see the state of these
poor babes!" returned Magdalen.
"Well, well, come to-morrow, and we will see," said Mother. "Meantime
the holy relics are exposed in the church for the comfort of the
faithful in this trying time. You had better visit them, and then go to
the buttery and obtain some refreshment."
However, she did neither—I suppose from want of time. The next day
she came again, and to my great joy, Mother consented, the need being
so great, to receive the five little maidens, who were placed under
my care in the Queen's room—Mother Mary Monica, at her own earnest
request, being allowed to remain with us and oversee our proceedings.
We began with a good washing and combing all round (not a nice piece
of work by any means), and then dressed them in clean clothes, of
which we had a plenty by us made up for our regular autumn doles. The
dear old Mother was as pleased as a child with a new doll. I can't say
the same for the poor children, who were strange, and scared, and at
first hardly to be pacified; but by degrees they seemed to find the
comfort of being clean, and by night they were all merrily at play, as
if nothing had happened to them. We made up as many cot beds as there
were children, and my own bed was moved into the room. Sister Anne also
slept in the room till she was taken sick, when Amice was allowed to
take her place.
I don't think, for my own part, that I was ever happier than when
playing with these children, or teaching them their hornbook and the
use of their little fat fingers. The oldest is about ten, a wise
motherly little maid, and a great help to us with the others. The
youngest is only three—the sole survivor of Roger Smith's family.
Considering what the family was like, we may hope her loss may prove a
gain.
There were many different opinions in the house concerning the
sheltering of these orphans. Sister Catherine, who has not had so much
to say about discipline since her dismissal from office, opened her
mouth once more to protest against the great irregularity of our taking
the babes, and the utter impropriety of their being committed to the
care of the youngest person in the house. But Sister Placida, who is
great in the history of this and other orders, and who has no objection
(or so I think) to putting down Sister Catherine, brought so many
precedents to bear against her, that she was fain to betake herself to
her humility, her usual refuge when worsted. Some were terrified at the
notion of bringing infection into the house; but in general, I must
say, the Sisters were very kind to the poor children, and very glad of
an excuse to slip away, and play with them.
It was two weeks after the pestilence broke out in the village before
it appeared in the house. Sister Bridget was the first victim. She
was taken in the night, with the heat and sweat, and, poor creature,
had no more wit than to rise and stand for half an hour or more at
the open window of her cell, till Mother Gertrude, making her rounds,
discovered her state. She was taken at once to the infirmary, and died
in a few hours, very happy and resigned, and saying, with almost her
last breath, poor thing, that everybody had been very kind to her. From
that time we had a new case or two every day for a week. Almost every
one who had resolution enough to remain quietly in bed and bear the all
but intolerable discomfort of the heat and bad odor, recovered; but
many were light-headed, and unless watched every moment, would throw
off the clothes and otherwise expose themselves: and every one who got
the slightest chill died without remedy.
It was a trying time, and one which showed what people were made of;
for the discipline of the family was necessarily much relaxed, the care
of the sick being the principal matter, and each one showed in her true
colors—very unexpected colors some of them have been. Mother Gabrielle,
who has always been rather fussy and fidgetty, and especially apt to
be scared on small occasions, and to fret over little accidents and
losses, was as calm and cheerful as a summer morning, till she was
taken down herself, when she made a most edifying end. Mother Superior,
though calm and composed, was very sad. Mother Gertrude, just as usual.
In general I must say the Sisters have behaved very well. Sister
Catherine was the most alarmed of anybody, and made herself rather a
trouble by going round asking everybody's pardon and wanting to kiss
their feet, which was not always quite convenient when one had a jug
of barley water, or a crying babe in one's arms. She wanted to help in
the infirmary, but she cried so, and was besides so unwilling to obey
orders without some little variation of her own, that Sister Placida
dispensed with her help very suddenly. At last she took to her own bed
with a kind of nervous fever; and as she was not very sick, everybody
was rather glad to have her out-of-the-way.
Sister Mary Paula was quite different. From the first she attended
steadily to her work, speaking but little, but very kind and sober
in her demeanor. One morning, when I went to the kitchen for the
children's dinner, at ten o'clock, she stopped me.
"Rosamond, did you know who it was told the Bishop of your sending a
love token to your cousin?"
"Nay!" said I. "I had not an idea, nor do I wish to know, since no harm
has come of it."
"Well, it was I!" said she, bluntly, turning scarlet as she spoke. "My
brother is the Bishop's chaplain, and when he came to see me, I managed
to slip a note into his hand, telling him the whole story, as I had
heard it!"
"But, dear Sister, how could you do that, since yourself told me you
could not write?" I asked, in amazement.
"I did not write it—that was done by another hand!" she answered me.
"But 'twas I conveyed it to my brother. I fancied, or tried to fancy,
that I was moved by zeal for religion and for the honor of this house;
but my eyes have been opened lately, and I see things more clearly.
'Twas mere spite and envy, because I thought you a favorite. I desired
to bring you into disgrace, or to cause your removal from the house;
and I beg your pardon."
"I am sure you have it, with all my heart!" said I, kissing her. "Nay,
there is naught to pardon, since all turned out to my advantage at
last."
"Yes, the stones we threw returned on our own heads!" she answered.
"And so they ought. Here, take these cakes for your brats. Do they all
keep well?"
"All!" I told her, but added that she did not look well herself, and I
feared she was working too hard.
"Nay, I am well enough," she said, "but Rosamond, will you pray for
me? My mind is distracted with all this work and worry, and I fear my
prayers are of little value."
I told her I did not believe such distraction hurt our prayers, and
reminded her of what Father Fabian had said about offering our work
and our very distractions. She kissed me again and I went my way. That
was the last time I ever saw her alive. She dropped that evening in
the chapel, and died before midnight. It seemed the signal for a new
outbreak of the disease. Three of my charge were attacked, and two
died, and of the Sisters, three within the next three days. Mother
Gabrielle was the last, and I do think she died as much as anything
from sheer fatigue. I had no touch of the disorder, though I nursed all
the children who had it, and also Sister Anne, whom we hoped at one
time might recover; but she had a relapse, I think from getting up too
soon, despite the warnings of Mother Mary Monica.
Now things have returned to their usual course, save that with the
Bishop's approbation, we have kept the three children who survived, and
have also taken in two more. Amice and I have the charge of teaching
and overseeing them, under the real superintendence of Mother Gertrude
and the nominal care of Mother Mary Monica, which mostly consists in
telling them stories, cutting out figures, and begging off from pains
and penalties. What a dear old grandmother she would have made!
I have heard but once from my friends in London, who are all well. My
father is coming home in a few weeks.
[Illustration]