SANCTUARY
THE Lady Abbess of Sangdieu, having heard vespers, was about to return
to her own chamber, when word was brought her that one Mistress Brigid
Carlisle was in the parlour seeking audience of her.
“My niece!” said the Abbess surprised, and startled for the moment from
her customary equability of bearing.
“Even so, Reverend Mother,” replied the nun. “She has ridden hence it
would seem from some distance, attended but by a couple of serving men.”
“Ah!” quoth the Abbess pondering. Then briefly, “Tell my niece I will be
with her presently.” Thereupon the nun withdrew.
A handsome old lady was this Abbess of Sangdieu; a rigid disciplinarian,
stern, yet with no small strain of tenderness in her heart when you had
found your way to it. Exceeding just, methinks she carried her sternness
further towards herself than towards those over whom she had the rule.
Of high rank, and very well-bred in courtesy that virtue extended itself
throughout her domain; flowing naturally from the head it permeated
those under her. Also, and this grace is by no means as common as some
men would have us believe, she possessed humour. Descending to the
parlour she found Brigid therein, white-faced and travel worn.
“Well, child,” she said, giving her cheek to be kissed, “and what brings
you here?”
“The desire for sanctuary,” said Brigid very weary.
“Ha!” The old lady glanced sharply at her, read fatigue in every
feature. Hospitality stirred quick within her. “First you must eat,” she
said. “Your story, for I see you have one, will keep. I will hear it
anon.”
Ringing a handbell, which was answered by a lay sister, she ordered food
and wine to be brought. While waiting for its coming she put a question.
“How came you hither?”
“On horseback,” replied Brigid. “The two men who rode with me are
housing in the village. They will return at daybreak.”
“Ah,” mused the Lady Abbess. And a silence fell on the parlour.
A pleasant place it was, long and narrow, redolent of the cleanly smell
of beeswax. The floor, very polished, bespoke good work with that
material on the part of the lay sisters. Three windows looked on to the
garden. Roses climbing round them nodded crimson and yellow heads
towards the room, their scent mingling with the smell of the beeswax. At
one end was an open hearth, above which, on the wall, hung a white
Figure on an ebony cross. A couple of pictures, some half-dozen chairs,
and a deal table much scrubbed, made up the furniture. Bare enough
truly, yet breathing an atmosphere of homeliness and peace. Brigid found
in it a very haven of rest. Her tensioned nerves began to relax.
The lay sister appearing with a tray the Abbess roused herself to
briskness. “Come, child, you must eat. Your face is as white as a
kerchief. I would fain see a little colour in your cheeks.”
While Brigid plied her knife and fork, she fell to studying her
breviary, judging, and rightly, the girl would fare better deeming
herself unwatched. Nevertheless her eyes were not wholly occupied with
the book. What she saw in Brigid’s face caused her some perplexity,
though her manner gave no inkling of it. It was seldom the Lady Abbess’s
way to speak of what she saw; never on the instant. This gave time for
seeing further, for weighing and for judging accurately. Thoughts
surprised by another before they have come to full purpose have a way of
taking sudden flight. Fearful of capture they fly on approach, and
thereby good may be lost. The meal ended she laid the book aside.
“Now,” she said, speaking cheerfully, “canst tell me thy story? Thy face
is somewhat less like a washed-out dish-cloth.”
“The Lady Isabel desires my services no longer,” replied Brigid briefly.
“Indeed!” The Abbess’s tone was somewhat grim. “And for what reason doth
she no longer require them?”
“I have displeased her.”
“Ah!” The old Abbess bent eagle eyes upon the girl. “And is her
displeasure just?”
“I trow not,” said Brigid very low.
“Tell me,” said the Abbess briefly.
Brigid looked towards the windows. Through them, in the quiet garden,
she saw two nuns walking. Beyond lay a yew hedge; beyond that again a
low line of hills, blue against the sky. A thrush was singing in an elm
tree.
“Tell me,” repeated the Abbess.
“Madam, the story in its entirety is hers, not mine. I saw that which
she desired not that I should see; I heard that which she desired not
that I should hear. She was my mistress. For three years I received
kindness at her hands. Therefore, for the telling, what I have said must
suffice.”
The Abbess nodded. Her mouth took on a line of grim approval. She liked
loyalty.
“Good; it shall suffice. And now what do you propose?”
“To remain here.” Brigid’s voice was steady, though her face flushed.
“Ah! And in what capacity?”
“Madam, as nun.”
The old Abbess looked up verily surprised. “Hoity toity, child; a nun is
not made in a moment. ’Tis a question of vocation.”
“I seek mine.”
The Abbess pondered. “The desire is sudden.”
“When God has a door to open methinks He can throw it wide on the moment
an’ He will. ’Tis every whit as simple to His power as a piecemeal
opening.”
The Abbess chuckled inwardly. She found in her niece’s character
something very akin to her own. Yet she replied gravely enough. “’Tis
true; yet must we be sure ’tis God’s Hand on the door and not our own.”
“That,” quoth Brigid very calmly, “may later be judged by you and the
novice mistress.”
Again the Abbess smiled, this time openly. “You go apace, child. We have
not yet decided to accept you for your postulancy. True, from the
world’s standpoint, you have no permission to ask save mine, since your
parents are dead,—God rest their souls. Well, well, we must see. My Lord
Cardinal Falconieri proposes honouring the Minster with a visit some ten
days hence. We will have his opinion on the matter. Till then certainly
thou must bide here. Thou lookest as if the quiet of our house will
stand thee in no ill stead.” Then rising, “Come with me,” she said. “I
will take thee to thy chamber.”
She led the way along cool passages, up wide oak stairs. Opening a door
she entered a room facing west. The sun, not yet fully waning, poured
through the window. It lay golden along the floor and on the
white-washed walls. Brigid looked around her. Here was the same peace,
the same homeliness she had found in the parlour below.
“You are very good to me, Madam,” she said, her voice faintly a-tremble.
“Tut, child. Art thou not my own kin? Yet wert thou the veriest stranger
I must needs give thee shelter, since thereby I might be entertaining an
angel unawares. Not that I find thee exceeding like to one. I know thee
and thy madcap ways over well for that mistake. Mind, child, no word of
this thy purpose to any save myself. Now I will send Sister Bona to see
that thou hast all necessaries. Haste thee to thy couch, child; thou art
sadly weary. Christ have thee in His keeping.” This time she offered not
her own cheek for salute, but kissed the girl on the forehead. Then she
left her.
On her departure Brigid crossed to the window, stood awhile looking out,
yet with unseeing eyes.
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