_June 20._
I HAVE been called on to make a very solemn and awful decision—and I
have made it. Some days ago my father sent for me into his room, and
said to me:
"Rosamond, the time has come for you to decide upon your way of life.
If you are going back to the convent it is time and more that you
were gone. You know what your mother's and my wishes once were on the
subject. You have seen what convent life is, and now you must decide
what you will do—whether you will become a nun, or live at home."
I was struck dumb for a few minutes. It had never occurred to me that I
was to be called upon to decide the matter. I had somehow supposed that
it would be settled for me.
"So far as we are concerned," continued my father, after a little
silence, "my wife and I would gladly keep you at home. You have ever
shown yourself a dutiful and good child to us, as well as to—her that
is gone. But we put no force upon your inclinations, either way. You
must decide for yourself."
"But not this minute, or this hour, dear heart," said madam, who had
hitherto been silent. "Take time, pray, ask counsel of God and thine
own heart, and then decide. Be sure that we shall be only too glad to
keep you with us as long as we can."
"Only this much I must say, Rosamond," added my father, "I do believe
if we could know thy mother's mind now, she would bid thee remain at
home. But go now and do as madam hath said—pray—read the Gospel, and
then decide. Bless thee, my dear one; and truly I believe thou wilt be
blessed, for better maid never lived."
I cannot but write these words, they are so precious, coming from my
father, who seldom puts his deeper feelings into words. I rose from
my knees and went to mine own chamber, to the oratory where my mother
spent so much time in prayer, and there I remained many hours—Madam,
with her usual kind care, giving orders that I should not be disturbed.
For a while my mind was so tossed and tumbled that I could see nothing.
I could not even pray, and at last took refuge in repeating the Psalms,
specially the hundred and nineteenth, which seemed full of petitions
suitable to my state. By degrees my spirit grew calmer, and I was able
to pour out my whole heart. I do not now pray to the Saints or to our
Lady, because I can find in the whole of Scripture no warrant for doing
so, but every encouragement to come at once to my Heavenly Father,
through the merits and intercession of His Son.
Toward evening my mother came, bringing with her own hands a simple
and dainty little repast, decked with fresh flowers, as her manner is.
(She does love flowers above any woman I ever saw, and has brought from
London and the East country many new kinds of roots and seeds, such as
have never been seen in these parts.) She would have me eat and drink
to keep up my strength; and though I felt no great inclination thereto,
it behooved me to please her, when she had taken so much pains for me.
"And now, my dear one, let me give thee a little counsel!" said she.
"Do not you remain shut up here, but go out and walk in the fresh cool
evening, before the sun goes down, and then committing thyself and all
thy cares to thy Heavenly Father, lie down to rest in peace. Be sure He
will guide thee to a wise decision."
I had purposed to watch all night in the oratory, I told her.
She smiled.
"And will that clear your head, think you, sweetheart? Or will a fit
of ague, such as any fatigue is sure to bring upon you, assist you in
deciding wisely? See here what the Psalmist says!"
And taking up my Latin Psalter, she read from the hundred and
twenty-seventh Psalm: "It is but lost labor that ye haste to rise up
early, and so late take rest—for so He giveth his beloved sleep!"
I saw that she was right. Certainly the ague does not clear one's head,
and I am apt to have a return of it on any unusual fatigue. So I kissed
her good-night, said my prayers once more, and went to bed. I was
restless the first of the night, but toward morning I fell asleep and
had a most sweet dream. Methought I stood at the gate of a most lovely
and well-ordered garden, full of flowers, surpassing all I had ever
seen for beauty and sweetness, and bathed in a light such as I never
saw in this world of ours. Therein I could see many spirits, walking,
talking and singing, clothed all in white, some of them with crowns of
radiant stars. I looked eagerly for some one I knew, and saw Sister
Bridget among the brightest, and then Amice; but they did not see me
nor could I attract their notice. At last my mother came toward me,
dressed and crowned like the rest, with her hands filled with roses.
Her face was like herself, but more full of peace than I had ever seen
it in this life, when it ever wore a shade of care.
"Dear mother," said I, "will you tell me what I shall do?"
"Honor thy father and thy mother!" said she, in her old voice of gentle
command.
"But, mother, you did give me to the cloister!" I said, trembling, I
knew not why.
"I gave you to God!" said she, and smiled upon me.
"And is not this the same?" I asked.
Her answer was, "They have made the word of God of none effect, through
their tradition."
"Can I not come in to you, dearest mother?" I asked, feeling an
inexpressible longing to enter that fair Paradise.
"Not yet. Thy place is prepared, but thou hast yet much work to do. See
here are roses for thy bridal crown. Go home to thy house and wait thy
Lord's time."
She held out the flowers to me, as she spoke; a most wonderful
sweetness filled the air, and seemed to steal into my very soul,
bringing I know not what of calm and quietness. Then I awoke, and
behold, it was but a dream; yet was it wonderful clear and real to me,
and I seem as if I had indeed seen my mother.
I had gone to sleep all tossed and undecided; but lying awake in the
clear early dawn, all seemed to be made plain to me. How could I return
to the convent, where half our duties consisted in prayers offered to
the saints and our Lady—in dressing up images and the like? What should
I do there? Either I must live a life wholly false and hypocritical, or
I must expose myself to I know not what, of persecution, and perhaps a
fearful death. And here came to my mind the niches I had seen, bricked
up in the chapel vault, and the nameless neglected graves in that
corner, I can't think it is our Lord's will that we should seek the
crown of martyrdom, though many I know have done so; for He expressly
bade his disciples, when they were persecuted in one city, to flee to
another. No, I can never go back! My mind is made up, and I have told
my father, who received my decision with joy. I am no more Rosamond
the postulant, but plain Rosamond Corbet. My only trouble is for dear
Mother Superior, who I know will grieve over me as a lost soul. Oh,
that she also might come to see the light!
I have announced my decision to my father and mother, and I see they
are both pleased. In recounting my motives, I was led to tell them what
had happened in respect to Amice, and how that I had been secluded so
long. I saw them exchange glances.
"So that was the beginning of your fever!" said my father, striking his
hand on the table. "Had I known you were so mewed up, I would have had
their crows' nest down about their ears."
I assured him earnestly, that I had not been ill-treated, but quite the
contrary; adding that I did not think Mother Superior had any choice in
the matter.
"There is the mischief!" said my father. "Nobody is personally
responsible. Every one is a puppet whose strings are pulled by some
other puppet, and his again by some one else. 'Tis an utter and
miserable slavery from the beginning to the end, and the superiors are
perhaps as much to be pitied as any one."
"I cannot but feel that our Rosamond hath had a great escape," said
Madam.
"Do you think that there is any truth in what we have heard, of nuns
that have been built up alive in their tombs?" I asked, remembering
those grisly niches I had seen in the chapel vault.
"I cannot say for certain, but I have little doubt of it; and indeed
'tis only very lately that the thing has ever been denied," answered
my father. "I know that in the Low Countries it has been a common
punishment for heresy. Old Will Lee saw a woman buried alive, and said
she sung joyfully till the earth stopped her breath; and I know that in
Spain and Italy, far worse things have been done by the Inquisition.
'Tis not easy to get at the truth about what goes on in convent walls.
A nun has no refuge and no help. She is away from her own family,
who can only see her now and then. By-and-by they are told that she
is dead, but who knows how and where she died? They might have told
us when we came to see you, that you had died weeks before, of the
sickness, and we should have taken their word for it, and all the time
you might have been shut up in some prison."
"I can't think any such thing ever happened at our house," I said.
"Dear Mother Superior is too kind and generous. Alas I fear her heart
will be sorely wounded."
"I fear so," answered my mother, sighing, "and also many another. 'Tis
a part of the cross that these days of shaking and separation lay upon
us, that we must ofttimes seem to desert those who are nearest and
dearest to us. It is a woeful necessity."
And here the conversation ended. My father is to send letters to Mother
Superior, to acquaint her with the matter, and I have also written. My
heart is sore grieved, but what can I do?
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