"Mother, you little know for what you pray!"
"That is often the case," said Mother Alianora. "But He knoweth who
hath to answer: and He doeth all things well. He will give thee, maybe,
not the physic thou lookest for; yet the right remedy."
I heard Margaret answer, as we passed on, in a low voice, as if she
scarce desired to be heard--"For some diseases there is no remedy but
death."
There are two dormitories in our house, and Margaret is in the west one,
while I sleep in the eastern. At the head of the stairs we part to our
places. That I should speak a word to her in the night is impossible.
And in the day I can never see her without a score of eyes upon us,
especially Mother Gaillarde's, and she seems to have eyes, not in the
back of her head only, but all over her veil.
I suppose, if we had lived like real sisters and not make-believe ones,
Margaret and I would have had a little chamber to ourselves in our
father's castle, and we could have talked to each other, and told our
secrets if we wished, and have comforted one another when our hearts
were sad. And I do not understand why it should please our Lord so much
more to have us shut up here, making believe to be one family with
thirty other women who are not our sisters, except in the sense that all
Christian women are children of God. I wonder where it is in the
Gospels, that our Lord commanded it to be done. I cannot find it in my
Evangelisterium. I dare say the holy Apostles ordered it afterwards: or
perhaps it is in some Gospel I have never seen. There are only four in
my book.
If that strange priest would come again to confess us, I should like
very much to ask him several questions of that sort. I never saw any
other priest that I could speak to freely, as I could to him. Father
Hamon would not understand me, I am sure: and Father Benedict would
rebuke me sharply whether he understood or not; telling me for the
fiftieth time that I ought to humble myself to the dust because my
vocation is so imperfect. Well, I know I have no vocation. But why
then was I shut up here when God had not called me? I had no choice
allowed me. Or why, seeing things are thus, cannot the Master or some
one else loose me from my vow, and let me go back to the world which
they keep blaming me because they say I love?
Yet what should I do in the world? My mother has been dead many years,
for her name is in the obituary of the house. As to my brothers and
sisters, I no more know how many of them are living, nor where they are,
than if they dwelt in the stars. I remember my brother Hugh, because he
used to take my part when the others teased me: but as to my younger
brothers, I only know there were some; I forget even their names. I
think one was Hubert, or Robert, or something that ended in _bert_. And
my sisters--I remember Isabel; she was three years elder than I. And--
was one Elizabeth? I think so. But wherever they are, I suppose they
would feel me a stranger among them--an intruder who was not wanted, and
who had no business to be there. I am unfit both for Heaven and earth.
Nobody wants me--least of all God.
I do not imagine that is Margaret's history. How far she may or may not
have a vocation--that I leave; I know nothing about it. But I cannot
help fancying that somebody did want her, and that it might be to put
her out of somebody's way--Foolish woman! what am I saying? Why,
Margaret was not five years old when she was professed. How can she
have had any history of the kind? I simply do not understand it.
Poor little Damia! I think Mother Gaillarde has given her rather hard
measure.
I found the child crying bitterly when she came into the children's
south dormitory where I serve this week.
"Why, whatever is the matter, little one?" said I.
"O Sister Annora!" was all she could sob out.
"Well, weep not thus broken-heartedly!" said I. "Tell me what it is,
and let us see if it cannot be amended."
"It's Erneburg!" sobbed little Damia.
"Erneburg! But Erneburg and thou art friends!"
"Oh yes, we're friends enough! only Mother Gaillarde won't let me give
her the tig."
And little Damia indulged in a fresh burst of tears.
"Give her what?" I said.
"My tig! The tig she gave me. And now I must carry it all night long!
She might have let me just give it her!"