SISTER BENIGNA.
On her return home Elise found Sister Benigna seated at the piano,
attuning herself, as she said, after her work among the restive
children of her school.
When she looked upon her friend and recalled the bitter words Albert
had spoken against her, Elise felt their injustice. It was true, as
she had told him, he did not understand Sister Benigna.
Sitting down beside the window, Elise began to busy herself over the
dainty basket she was elaborately decorating. After a few moments
Sister Benigna left the piano and stood looking at Elise and her work.
She had something to say, but how should she say it? how approach the
heart which had wrapped itself up in sorrow and surrounded itself with
the guards of silence?
Presently Elise looked at her, but not until she had so long resisted
the inclination to do so that there was something like violence in the
effort. When her eyes met the gaze of Sister Benigna the warm blood
rushed to her cheeks, and she looked quickly down again. Did Sister
Benigna know yet about the letter Mr. Wenck had written?
A sad smile appeared on Benigna's face. She shook her head. If she did
not know what had happened, she no doubt understood that some kind of
trouble had entered the house.
Drawing a roll of needlework from her pocket, she quietly occupied
herself with it until Elise, unable to endure the silence longer,
said, "Oh, Sister Benigna, is it not time we did something about the
Sisters' House? I have been reading about one: I forget where it is.
What a beautiful Home you and I could make for poor people, and sick
girls not able to work, and old women! We ought to have such a Home in
Spenersberg. I have been thinking all day it is what we must have, and
it is time we set about it."
"I do not agree with you," was the quiet answer. "There is no real
need for it here, and perhaps there never will be. Work that is so
unnecessary might better be avoided. In Spenersberg it is better that
the poor and the old and the sick should be cared for in their homes,
by their own households: there is no want here."
"Will you read what I have been reading?" said Elise, hesitating, not
willing yet to give up the project which looked so full of promise.
"I know all about Sisters' Houses, and they are excellent
institutions, but if you will go from house to house here you will
find that you would probably keep house by yourself a long time if you
opened such an establishment. No, no: you have your work all prepared
for you, and I certainly have mine. There is a good deal to be done
yet for the festival. Tomorrow, after five, come to the school-room and
we will practice a while. And we might do something here to-night. The
children surprise me: I seem to be surrounded by a little company of
angels while they sing."
"Oh, Sister Benigna," exclaimed Elise throwing down her work in
despair, "I don't in the least care about the festival. I should be
glad to know it was all given up. I cannot sing at it. I think I have
lost my voice: I do, indeed. I tried it this afternoon, and I croaked
worse than anything you ever heard."
"Croaked? We must see to that," said Sister Benigna; but, though her
voice was so cheerful, she closed her eyes as she spoke, and passed
her hands over them, and in spite of herself a look of pain was for an
instant visible on her always pale face. She rose quickly and walked
across the room, and crossed it twice before she came again to the
window.
"You don't understand me to-day," said Elise impetuously; "and I don't
want you to." But Elise would not have spoken at all had she looked at
Sister Benigna.
A silence of many seconds, which seemed much longer to Elise,
followed her words. She did not dare to go on. What was Sister Benigna
thinking? Would she never speak? Had she nothing to say? Elise was
about to rise also, because to sit still in that silence or to break
it by words had become equally impossible, when Sister Benigna,
approaching gently, laid her hand upon her and said, "Wait one moment:
I have something to tell you, Elise."
And so Elise sat down. She could not summon the strength to go with
that voice in her ear and the touch of that hand arresting her.
"I once had a friend as young as you are, of whom you often remind
me," said Benigna. "She had a lover, and their faith led them to
seek a knowledge of the Lord's will concerning their marriage. It
was inquired for them, and it was found against the union. You often
remind me of her, I said, but your fortunes are not at all like hers."
"Sister Benigna, why do you tell me this?" asked Elise quickly, in a
voice hardly audible. She was afraid to listen. She recalled Albert's
words. She did not know if she might trust the friendly voice that
spoke.
"Because I have always thought that some time it would be well for you
to hear it; but if you do not wish to hear it, I will go no farther."
Elise looked at Benigna--not trust her! "Please go on," she said.
"I knew the poor child very well. She had grown up in an unhappy
home, and had never known what it was to have comfort and peace in the
house, or even plenty to eat and to wear. She was expected to go out
and earn her living as soon as she had learned the use of her hands
and feet. Poor child! she felt her fortune was a hard one, but God
always cared for her. In one way and another she in time picked up
enough knowledge of music to teach beginners. The first real friend
she had was the friend who became so dear to her that--I need not try
to find words to tell you how dear he was.
"She was soon skilled enough to be able to take more intelligent and
advanced pupils, and in the church-music she had the leading parts.
By and by the music was put into her hands for festivals and the
great days, Christmas and Easter, as it has been put into mine here in
Spenersberg. One day _he_ said to her, 'It seems to us the best thing
in life to be near each other. Would it might be God's will that we
should never part!' She responded to that prayer from the depths of
her heart, and a great gulf seemed to open before her, for she thought
what would her life be worth if they were destined to part? Then he
said, 'Let us inquire the will of our Lord;' and she said, 'Let it
be so;' and they had faith that would enable them to abide by the
decision. The lot pronounced against them. I do not believe that it
had entered the heart of either of them to understand how necessary
they had become to each other, and when they saw that all was over it
was a sad awaking. For a little while it was with both as if they had
madly thrown a birthright away; for, though they had faith, they were
not yet perfect in it. Not soon did either see that this life had
a blessing for them every day--new every morning, fresh every
evening--and that from everlasting to everlasting are the mercies of
God. But at last he said, 'I am afraid, my darling'" (Elise started at
this word of endearment. It was like a revelation to think that there
had been lovers in the world before her time), "'it will go harder
with me than with you. I cannot stay here and go on with my work. I
must go among new people, and begin again.' And so he went away, and
at last, when by the grace of God they met again--surely, surely by no
seeking of their own--they were no less true friends because they had
for their lifetime been led into separate paths. Their faith saved
them."
Low though the voice was in which these last words were spoken, there
was a strength and inspiration in them which Elise felt. She looked
at Sister Benigna with steady, wondering eyes. Such a story from her
lips, and told so, and told now! And her countenance! what divine
beauty glowed in it! The moment had a vision that could never be
forgotten.
Elise did not speak, but neither, having heard this tale, did she now
rise to depart. She folded her hands and bowed her head upon them, and
so they sat silent until the first chords of the "Pastoral Symphony"
drew the souls of both away up into a realm which is entered only by
the pure in heart.
About this time it was that Leonhard Marten, while passing, heard that
recitative of a soprano voice which so amazed him. Dropping quickly
into the shade of the trees opposite Loretz's house, he listened to
the announcement, "There were shepherds abiding in the field, keeping
watch over their flocks by night," and there remained until he saw two
men advancing toward the house, one of them evidently approaching his
home.
Through the sleepless night Elise's thoughts were constantly going
over the simple incidents of the story Sister Benigna had told her.
But they had not by morning yielded all the consolations which the
teller of the tale perceived among their possibilities, for the
reason, perhaps, that Elise's sympathies had been more powerfully
excited by the tale than her faith. It was not upon the final result
of the severance effected by the lot that her mind rested dismayed:
her heart was full of pain, thinking of that poor girl's early life,
and that at last, when all the recollection of it was put far from her
by the joy which shone upon her as the sun out of darkness, she
must look forward and by its light behold a future so dreary. "How
fearful!" she moaned once; and her closed eyes did not see the face
that turned toward her full of pain, full of love.
Of all doubts that could afflict the soul of Sister Benigna, none
more distracting than this was conceivable: Had she proved the best
instructor to this child of her spirit? Had she even been _capable_ of
teaching her truest truth? Was it the truth or herself to which Elise
was always deferring? Was obedience a duty when not impelled and
sanctified by faith? In what did the prime virtue of resignation
consist? Would not obedience without faith be merely a debasing
superstitious submission to the will of the believing? Her reflections
were not suggested by a shrewd guess. She knew that the lot had been
resorted to, and that the letters had been written to Elise and Albert
which acquainted them with the result; and the peace of her prayerful
soul was rent by the thought that a joyless surrender of human will
to a higher was, perhaps, no better than the poor helpless slave's
extorted sacrifice. The happiness of the household seemed to Benigna
in her keeping. If they had gone lightly seeking the oracle of God,
as they would have sought a fortune-teller, was not the Most High
dishonored? She could not say this to Elise, but could she say it to
Albert Spener? Ought she not to say it to him? There was no other to
whom it could be said. Had the coming day any duty so imperative as
this? She arose to perform it, but Spener, as we know, had gone away
the day before.