THE WAYWARD NUN
Sister Mary Seraphine lay prone upon the floor of her cell.
Tightly clenched in her hands were fragments of her torn veil.
She beat her knuckles upon the stones with rhythmic regularity; then,
when her arms would lift no longer, took up the measure with her toes,
in wild imitation of a galloping horse.
As she lay, she repeated with monotonous reiteration: "Trappings of
crimson, and silver bells: mane and tail, like foam of the waves; a
palfrey as white as snow!"
The Prioress entered, closed the door behind her, and looked
searchingly at the prostrate figure; then, lifting the master-key which
hung from her girdle, locked the door on the inside.
Sister Mary Seraphine had been silent long enough to hear the closing
and locking of the door.
Now she started afresh.
"Trappings of crimson, and silver bells----"
The Prioress walked over to the narrow casement, and stood looking out
at the rosy clouds wreathing a pale green sky.
"Oh! . . . Oh! . . . Oh! . . ." wailed Sister Mary Seraphine,
writhing upon the floor; "mane and tail, like foam of the waves; a
palfrey as white as snow!"
The Prioress watched the swallows on swift wing, chasing flies in the
evening light.
So complete was the silence, that Sister Mary
Seraphine--notwithstanding that turning of the key in the lock--fancied
she must be alone.
"Trappings of crimson, and silver bells!" she declaimed with vehemence;
then lifted her face to peep, and saw the tall figure of the Prioress
standing at the casement.
Instantly, Sister Mary Seraphine dropped her head.
"Mane and tail," she began--then her courage failed; the "foam of the
waves" quavered into indecision; and indecision, in such a case, is
fatal.
For a while she lay quite still, moaning plaintively, then, of a
sudden, quivered from head to foot, starting up alert, as if to listen.
"Wilfred!" she shrieked; "Wilfred! Are you coming to save me?"
Then she opened her eyes, and peeped again.
The Prioress, wholly unmoved by the impending advent of "Wilfred,"
stood at the casement, calmly watching the swallows.
Sister Mary Seraphine began to weep.
At last the passionate sobbing ceased.
Unbroken silence reigned in the cell.
From without, the latch of the door was lifted; but the lock held.
Presently Sister Mary Seraphine dragged herself to the feet of the
Prioress, seized the hem of her robe, and kissed it.
Then the Prioress turned. She firmly withdrew her robe from those
clinging hands; yet looked, with eyes of tender compassion, upon the
kneeling figure at her feet.
"Sister Seraphine," she said, "--for you must shew true penitence e'er
I can permit you to be called by our Lady's name--you will now come to
my cell, where I will presently speak with you."
Sister Seraphine instantly fell prone.
"I cannot walk," she said.
"You will not walk," replied the Prioress, sternly. "You will travel
upon your hands and knees."
She crossed to the door, unlocked and set it wide.
"Moreover," she added, from the doorway, "if you do not appear in my
presence in reasonable time, I shall be constrained to send for Mother
Sub-Prioress."
The cell of the Prioress was situated at the opposite end of the long,
stone passage; but in less than reasonable time, Sister Seraphine
crawled in.
The unwonted exercise had had a most salutary effect upon her frame of
mind.
Her straight habit, of heavy cloth, had rendered progress upon her
knees awkward and difficult. Her hands had become entangled in her
torn veil. Each moment she had feared lest cell doors, on either side,
should open; old Antony might appear from the cloisters, or--greatest
disaster of all--Mother Sub-Prioress might advance toward her from the
Refectory stairs! In order to attain a greater rate of speed, she had
tried lifting her knees, as elephants lift their feet. This mode of
progress, though ungainly, had proved efficacious; but would have been
distinctly mirth-provoking to beholders. The stones had hurt her hands
and knees far more than she hurt them when she beat upon the floor of
her own cell.
She arrived at the Reverend Mother's footstool, heated in mind and
body, ashamed of herself, vexed with her garments, in fact in an
altogether saner frame of mind than when she had called upon "Wilfred,"
and made reiterated mention of trappings of crimson and silver bells.
Perhaps the Prioress had foreseen this result, when she imposed the
penance. Leniency or sympathy, at that moment, would have been fatal
and foolish; and had not the Prioress made special petition for wisdom?
She was seated at her table, when Sister Seraphine bumped and shuffled
into view. She did not raise her eyes from the illuminated missal she
was studying. One hand lay on the massive clasp, the other rested in
readiness to turn the page. Her noble form seemed stately calm
personified.
When she heard Sister Seraphine panting close to her foot, she spoke;
still without lifting her eyes.
"You may rise to your feet," she said, "and shut to the door."
Then the waiting hand turned the page, and silence fell.
"You may arrange the disorder of your dress," said the Prioress, and
turned another page.
When at length she looked up, Sister Seraphine, clothed and apparently
in her right mind, stood humbly near the door.
The Prioress closed the book, and shut the heavy clasps.
Then she pointed to an oaken stool, signing to the nun to draw it
forward.
"Be seated, my child," she said, in tones of infinite tenderness.
"There is much which must now be said, and your mind will pay better
heed, if your body be at rest."
With her steadfast eyes the Prioress searched the pretty, flushed face,
swollen with weeping, and now gathering a look of petulant defiance,
thinly veiled beneath surface humility.
"What was the cause of this outburst, my child?" asked the Prioress,
very gently.
"While in the Cathedral, Reverend Mother, up in our gallery, I, being
placed not far from a window, heard, in a moment of silence, the
neighing of a horse in the street without. It was like to the neighing
of mine own lovely palfrey, waiting in the castle court at home, until
I should come down and mount him. Each time that steed neighed, I
could see Snowflake more clearly, in trappings of gay crimson, with
silver bells, amid many others prancing impatiently, champing their
bits as they waited; for it pleased me to come out last, when all were
mounted. Then the riders lifted their plumed caps when I appeared,
while Wilfred, pushing my page aside, did swing me into the saddle.
Thus, with shouting and laughter and winding of horn, we would all ride
out to the hunt or the tourney; I first, on Snowflake; Wilfred, close
behind."
Very quietly the Prioress sat listening. She did not take her eyes
from the flushed face. A slight colour tinged her own cheeks.
"Who was Wilfred?" she asked, when Sister Seraphine paused for breath.
"My cousin, whom I should have wed if----"
"If?"
"If I had not left the world."
The Prioress considered this.
"If your heart was set upon wedding your cousin, my child, why did you
profess a vocation and, renouncing all worldly and carnal desires, gain
admission to our sacred Order?"
"My heart was not set on marrying my cousin!" cried Sister Seraphine,
with petulance. "I was weary of Wilfred. I was weary of everything!
I wanted to profess. I wished to become a nun. There were people I
could punish, and people I could surprise, better so, than in any other
way. But Wilfred said that, when the time came, he would be there to
carry me off."
"And--when the time came?"
"He was not there. I never saw him again."
The Prioress turned, and looked out through the oriel window. She
seemed to be weighing, carefully, what she should say.
When at length she spoke, she kept her eyes fixed upon the waving
tree-tops beyond the Convent wall.
"Sister Seraphine," she said, "many who embrace the religious life,
know what it is to pass through the experience you have now had; but,
as a rule, they fight the temptation and conquer it in the secret of
their own hearts, in the silence of their own cells.
"Memories of the life that was, before, choosing the better part, we
left the world, come back to haunt us, with a wanton sweetness. Such
memories cannot change the state, fixed forever by our vows; but they
may awaken in us vain regrets or worldly longings. Therein lies their
sinfulness.
"To help you against this danger, I will now give you two prayers,
which you must commit to memory, and repeat whenever need arises. The
first is from the Breviary."
The Prioress drew toward her a black book with silver clasps, opened
it, and read therefrom a short prayer in Latin. But seeing no light of
response or of intelligence upon the face of Sister Seraphine, she
slowly repeated a translation.
_Almighty and Everlasting God, grant that our wills be ever meekly
subject to Thy will, and our hearts be ever honestly ready to serve
Thee. Amen._
Her eyes rested, with a wistful smile, upon the book.
"This prayer might suffice," she said, "if our hearts were truly
honest, if our wills were ever yielded. But, alas, our hearts are
deceitful above all things, and our wills are apt to turn traitor to
our good intentions.
"Therefore I have found for you, in the Gregorian Sacramentary, another
prayer--less well-known, yet much more ancient, written over six
hundred years ago. It deals effectually with the deceitful heart, the
insidious, tempting thoughts, and the unstable will. Here is a
translation which I have myself inscribed upon the margin."
The Prioress laid her folded hands upon the missal and as she repeated
the ancient sixth-century prayer, in all its depth of inspired
simplicity, her voice thrilled with deep emotion, for she was giving to
another that which had meant infinitely much to her own inner life.
_Almighty God, unto Whom all hearts be open, all desires known, and
from Whom no secrets are hid: Cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the
inspiration of Thy Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love Thee, and
worthily magnify Thy Holy Name, through Christ our Lord. Amen._
The Prioress turned her face from Sister Seraphine's unresponsive
countenance and fixed her eyes once more upon the tree-tops. She was
thinking of the long years of secret conflict, known only to Him from
Whom no secrets are hid; of the constant cleansing of her thoughts, for
which she had so earnestly pleaded; of the fear lest she should never
worthily magnify that Holy Name.
Presently--her heart filled with humble tenderness--she turned to
Sister Seraphine.
"These prayers, my child, which you will commit to memory before you
sleep this night, will protect you from a too insistent recollection of
the world you have resigned; and will assist you, with real inward
thoroughness, to die daily to self, in order that the Holy Name of our
dear Lord may be more worthily magnified in you."
But, alas! this gentle treatment, these long silences, this quiet
recitation of holy prayers, had but stirred the naughty spirit in
Sister Seraphine.
Her shallow nature failed to understand the deeps of the noble heart,
dealing thus tenderly with her. She measured its ocean-wide greatness,
by the little artificial runnels of her own morbid emotions. She
mistook gentleness for weakness; calm self-control, for lack of
strength of will. Her wholesome awe of the Prioress was forgotten.
"But I do not want to die!" she exclaimed. "I want to live--to
live--to live!"
The Prioress looked up, astonished.
The surface humility had departed from the swollen countenance of
Sister Seraphine. The petulant defiance was plainly visible.
"Kneel!" commanded the Prioress, with authority.
The wayward nun jerked down upon her knees, upsetting the stool behind
her.
The Prioress made a quick movement, then restrained herself. She had
prayed for patience in dealing with wilfulness.
"We die that we may live," she said, solemnly. "Sister Seraphine, this
is the lesson your wayward heart must learn. Dying to self, we live
unto God. Dying to sin, we live unto righteousness. Dying to the
world, we find the Life Eternal."
On her knees upon the floor, Sister Seraphine felt her position to be
such as lent itself to pathos.
"But I want to _live_ to the world!" she cried, and burst into tears.
Now Convent life does not tend to further individual grief. Constant
devout contemplation of the Supreme Sorrow which wrought the world's
salvation lessens the inclination to shed tears of self-pity.
The Prioress was startled and alarmed by the pathetic sobs of Sister
Seraphine.
This young nun had but lately been sent on to the Nunnery at Whytstone
from a convent at Tewkesbury in which she had served her novitiate, and
taken her final vows. The Prioress now realised how little she knew of
the inner working of the mind of Sister Seraphine, and blamed herself
for having looked upon the outward appearance rather than upon the
heart, taken too much for granted, and relied too entirely upon the
reports of others. Her sense of failure, toward the Community in
general, and toward Seraphine in particular, lent her a fresh stock of
patience.
She raised the weeping nun from the floor, put her arm around her, with
protective gesture, and led her before the Shrine of the Madonna.
"My child," she said, "there are things we are called upon to suffer
which we can best tell to our blessèd Lady, herself. Try to unburden
your heart and find comfort . . . Does your mind hark back to the
thought of the earthly love you resigned in order to give yourself
solely to the heavenly? . . . Are you troubled by fears lest you
wronged the man you loved, when, leaving him, you became the bride of
Heaven?"
Sister Seraphine smiled--a scornful little smile. "Nay," she said, "I
was weary of Wilfred. But--there were others."
The voice of the Prioress grew even graver, and more sad.
"Is it then the Fact of marriage which you desired and regret?"
Sister Seraphine laughed--a hard, self-conscious, little laugh.
"Nay, I could not have brooked to be bound to any man. But I liked to
be loved, and I liked to be First in the thought and heart of another."
The Prioress looked at the pretty, tear-stained face, at the softly
moulded form. Then an idea came to her. To voice it, lifted the veil
from the very Holy of Holies of her own heart's sufferings; but she
would not shrink from aught which could help this soul she was striving
to uplift.
With her eyes resting upon the Babe in the arms of the Virgin Mother,
she asked, gravely and low:
"Is it the ceaseless longing to have had a little child of your own to
hold in your arms, to gather to your breast, to put to sleep upon your
knees, which keeps your heart turning restlessly back to the world?"
Sister Seraphine gazed at the Prioress, in utter amazement.
"Nay, then, indeed!" she replied, impatiently. "Always have I hated
children. To escape from the vexations of motherhood were reason
enough for leaving the world."
Then the Prioress withdrew her protective arm, and looked sternly upon
Sister Seraphine.
"You are playing false to your vows," she said; "you are slighting your
vocation; yet no worthy or noble feeling draws your heart back to the
world. You do but desire vain pomp and show; all those things which
minister to the enthronement of self. Return to your cell and spend
three hours in prayer and penitence before the crucifix."
The Prioress lifted her hand and pointed to the figure of the Christ,
hanging upon the great rugged cross against the wall, facing the door.
The sublimity of a supreme adoration was in her voice, as she made her
last appeal.
"Surely," she said, "surely no love of self can live, in view of the
death and sacrifice of our blessèd Lord! Kneel then before the
crucifix and learn----"
But the over-wrought mind of Sister Seraphine, suddenly convinced of
the futility of its hopeless rebellion, passed, in that moment,
altogether beyond control.
With a shout of wild laughter, she flung back her head, pointing with
outstretched finger at the crucifix.
"Death! Death! Death!" she shrieked, "helpless, hopeless, terrible!
I ask for life, I want to live; I am young, I am gay, I am beautiful.
And they bid--bid--bid me kneel--long hours--watching death." Her
voice rose to a piercing scream. "Ah, HA! That will I NOT! A dead
God cannot help me! I want life, not death!"
Shrieking she leapt to her feet, flew across the room, beat upon the
sacred Form with her fists; tore at It with her fingers.
One instant of petrifying horror. Then the Prioress was upon her.
Seizing her by both wrists she flung her to the floor, then pulled a
rope passing over a pulley in the wall, which started the great
alarm-bell, in the passage, clanging wildly.
At once there came a rush of flying feet; calls for the Sub-Prioress;
but she was already there.
When they flung wide the door, lo, the Prioress stood--with white face
and blazing eyes, her arms outstretched--between them and the crucifix.
Upon the floor, a crumpled heap, lay Sister Mary Seraphine.
The nuns, in a frightened crowd, filled the doorway, none daring to
speak, or to enter; till old Mary Antony, pushing past the
Sub-Prioress, kneeled down beside the Reverend Mother, and, lifting the
hem of her robe, kissed it and pressed it to her breast.
Slowly the Prioress let fall her arms.
"Enter," she said; and they flocked in.
"Sister Seraphine," said the Prioress, in awful tones, "has profaned
the crucifix, reviling our blessèd Lord, Who hangs thereon."
All the nuns, falling upon their knees, hid their faces in their hands.
There was a terrifying quality in the silence of the next moments.
Slowly the Prioress turned, prostrated herself at the foot of the
cross, and laid her forehead against the floor at its base. Then the
nuns heard one deep, shuddering sob.
Not a head was lifted. The only nun who peeped was Sister Mary
Seraphine, prone upon the floor.
After a while, the Prioress arose, pale but calm.
"Carry her to her cell," she said.
Two tall nuns to whom she made sign lifted Sister Seraphine, and bore
her out.
When the shuffling of their feet died away in the distance, the
Prioress gave further commands.
"All will now go to their cells and kneel in adoration before the
crucifix. Doors are to be left standing wide. The _Miserere_ is to be
chanted, until the ringing of the Refectory bell. Mother Sub-Prioress
will remain behind."
The nuns dispersed, as quickly as they had gathered; seeking their
cells, like frightened birds fleeing before a gathering storm.
The tall nuns who had carried Sister Seraphine returned and waited
outside the Reverend Mother's door.
The Prioress stood alone; a tragic figure in her grief.
Mother Sub-Prioress drew near. Her narrow face, peering from out her
veil, more than ever resembled a ferret. Her small eyes gleamed with a
merciless light.
"Is mine the task, Reverend Mother?" she whispered.
The Prioress inclined her head.
Mother Sub-Prioress murmured a second question.
The Prioress turned and looked at the crucifix.
"Yes," she said, firmly.
Mother Sub-Prioress sidled nearer; then whispered her third question.
The Prioress did not answer. She was looking at the carved, oaken
stool, overthrown. She was wondering whether she could have acted with
better judgment, spoken more wisely. Her heart was sore. Such noble
natures ever blame themselves for the wrong-doing of the worthless.
Receiving no reply, Mother Sub-Prioress whispered a suggestion.
"No," said the Prioress.
Mother Sub-Prioress modified her suggestion.
The Prioress turned and looked at the tender figure of the Madonna,
brooding over the blessèd Babe.
"No," said the Prioress.
Mother Sub-Prioress frowned, and made a further modification; but in
tones which suggested finality.
The Prioress inclined her head.
The Sub-Prioress, bowing low, lifted the hem of the Reverend Mother's
veil, and kissed it; then passed from the room.
The Prioress moved to the window.
The sunset was over. The evening star shone, like a newly-lighted
lamp, in a pale purple sky. The fleet-winged swallows had gone to rest.
Bats flitted past the casement, like homeless souls who know not where
to go.
Low chanting began in the cells; the nuns, with open doors, singing
_Miserere_.
But, as she looked at the evening star, the Prioress heard again, with
startling distinctness, the final profanity of poor Sister Seraphine:
"I want life--not death!"
Along the corridor passed a short procession, on its way to the cell of
Mary Seraphine.
First went a nun, carrying a lighted taper.
Next, the two tall nuns who had borne Mary Seraphine to her cell.
Behind them, Mother Sub-Prioress, holding something beneath her
scapulary which gave to her more of a presence than she usually
possessed.
Solemn and official,--nay, almost sacrificial--was their measured
shuffle, as they moved along the passage, and entered the cell of Mary
Seraphine.
The Prioress closed her door, and, kneeling before the crucifix,
implored forgiveness for the sacrilege which, all unwittingly, she had
provoked.
The nuns, in their separate cells, chanted the _Miserere_.
But--suddenly--with one accord, their voices fell silent; then hastened
on, in uncertain, agitated rhythm.
Old Mary Antony below, playing her favourite game, also paused, and
pricked up her ears: then filliped the wizen pea, which stood for
Mother Sub-Prioress, into the darkest corner, and hurried off to brew a
soothing balsam.
So, when the Refectory bell had summoned all to the evening meal, the
old lay-sister crept to the cell of Mary Seraphine, carrying broth and
comfort.
But Sister Seraphine was better content than she had been for many
weeks.
At last she had become the centre of attention; and, although, during
the visit of Mother Sub-Prioress to her cell, this had been a
peculiarly painful position to occupy, yet to the morbid mind of Mary
Seraphine, the position seemed worth the discomfort.
Therefore, her mind now purged of its discontent, she cheerfully supped
old Antony's broth, and applied the soothing balsam; yet planning the
while, to gain favour with the Prioress, by repeating to her, at the
first convenient opportunity, the naughty remarks concerning Mother
Sub-Prioress, now being made for her diversion, by the kind old woman
who had risked reproof, in order to bring to her, in her disgrace, both
food and consolation.