"It is terrible, if that be true," I answered. "I thought I was the
only one, and that made me unhappy because I must be so wicked. At
times, in meditation, I have looked round the chamber and thought--Here
be all these blessed women, wrapped in holy meditations, and only I
tempted by wicked thoughts of the world outside, like Lot's wife at
Sodom."
Margaret fairly laughed. "Verily," said she, "if it were given to us to
lift the veil from the hearts of all these blessed women, and scan their
holy meditations, I reckon thine amaze would not be small. Annora, I
think thou art a saint."
"Impossible!" said I. "Why, I fell asleep in the midst of the Rosary a
s'ennight back,--having been awake half the night before--and Father
Benedict said I must do penance for it. Saints are not such as I."
"Annora, if the angels that write in men's books have no worse to set
down in thine than what thou hast told me, I count they shall reckon
their work full light. O humble and meek of heart, thinking all other
better than thyself--trust me, they be, at best, like such as thou."
Margaret left her station at my feet, and coming round, knelt down
beside me, and laid her head on my shoulder.
"Kiss me, Sister," she said.
So did I, at once, without thought: and then, perceiving what I had
done, I was affrighted.
"O Margaret! have we not sinned? Is it not an indulgence of the flesh?"
"Wert thou made without flesh?" asked Margaret, with a short, dry laugh.
"No, but it must be mortified!"
"Sin must be mortified," she answered more gravely. "Why should we
mortify love?"
"Not spiritual love: but natural love, surely, we renounce."
"Why should we renounce it? Does God make men sons and brothers,
husbands and fathers, only that they may have somewhat to renounce? Can
He train us only in the wilderness of Sinai, and not in the land flowing
with milk and honey?"
"But we renounce them for Him."
"We renounce for Him that which He demandeth of us." Margaret's voice
was low and sorrowful now. "Ay, there be times when He holdeth out His
hand for the one dearest earthly thing, and calls us to resign either it
or Him. Blessed are they that then, howsoever they shrink and faint,
yet love Him more than it, and brace their will to give it up to Him.
To them that so do, Annora, He giveth Himself; and He is better than any
earthly thing. `_Quid enim mihi est in caelo? et a Te quid volui super
terram_?' [Psalm 73, verse 25] But it seems to me that we ought to
beware of renouncing what He does not ask of us. If we are in doubt,
then let us draw the line on the safe side,--on His side, not on the
side of our inclinations. Yet of one thing am I sure--that many a woman
mortifies her graces instead of her sins, and resigns to God that which
He asks not, keeping that which He would have."
"Mortify graces!" I cried. "O Margaret! how could we?"
"I think thou wouldst, Sister, if thou hadst refused to kiss me," she
replied with an amused smile.
"But kisses are such very carnal things," said I. "Mother Ada always
says so. She saith we read of none of the holy Apostles kissing any
body, save only Judas Iscariot."
"Who told her so? Doth she find it written that they did not kiss any
body? Annora, I marvel if our Lord kissed not the little children. And
I am sure the holy patriarchs kissed each other. I do not believe in
trying to be better than God. I have noted that when man endeavours to
purify himself above our Lord's example, he commonly ends in being
considerably less good than other men."
"I wish we might love each other!" I said with a sigh. And I am very
much afraid I kissed her again. I do not know what Mother Ada would
have said.
"I do not wish we might!" said Margaret, sturdily. "I do, and I will."
"But if we should make idols of each other!" said I.
"I shall not make an idol of thee," answered my sister, again in that
low sad tone. "I set up one idol, and He came to me, and held out His
pierced hands, and I tore it down from over the altar, and gave it to
Him. He is keeping it for me, and He will give it back one day, in the
world where we need fear no idol-making, nor any sin at all. Annora,
thou shalt hear my story."
At that moment I looked up, and saw Mother Alianora's eyes wide open.
"Do you lack aught, dear Mother?" I asked.
"No, my children," she answered gently. "Go on with thy tale, Margaret.
The ears of one that will soon hear the harps of the angels will not
harm thee."
I was somewhat surprised she could say that. What of the dread fires of
Purgatory that must come first? Did she count herself so great a saint
as to escape them? Then I thought, perhaps, she might have had the same
revealed to her in vision. The thought did not appear to trouble
Margaret, who took it as matter of course. Not, truly, that I should be
surprised if Mother Alianora were good enough to escape Purgatory, for I
am sure she is the best woman ever I knew: but it was strange she should
reckon it of herself. Mother Ada always says they are no saints that
think themselves such: whereto Mother Gaillarde once added, in her dry,
sharp way, that they were not much better who tried to make other folk
think so. I do not know of whom she was thinking, but I fancied Mother
Ada did, from her face.
Then Margaret began her story.
"You know," she saith, "it is this year forty-seven years since Annora
and I were professed. And wherefore we were so used, mere babes as we
were, knew I never."
"Then that I can tell thee," I made answer, "for it was Queen Isabel
that thrust us in hither. Our father did somewhat to her misliking,
what indeed I know not: and she pounced on us, poor little maids, and
made us to suffer for his deed."
"Was that how it was done?" said Margaret. "Then may God pardon her
more readily than I have done! For long years I hated with all the
force of my soul him or her that had been the cause thereof. It is past
now. The priests say that man sinneth when, having no call of God, he
shall take cowl upon him. What then of those which thrust it on him,
whether he will or no? I never chose this habit. For years I hated it
as fervently as it lay in me to hate. Had the choice been given me, any
moment of those years, I would have gone back to the world that instant.
The world!" Her voice changed suddenly. "What is the world? It is
the enemy of God: true. But will bolts and bars, walls and gates, keep
it out? Is it a thing to be found in one city, which man can escape by
journeying to another? Is it not rather in his own bosom, and ever with
him? They say much of carnal affections that are evil, and creep not
into religious houses. As if man should essay to keep Satan and his
angels out of his house by painting God's name over the door! But all
love, of whatsoever sort, say they, is a filthiness of the flesh. Ah
me! how about the filthiness of the spirit? Is there no pride and
jealousy in a religious house? no strife and envying? no murmuring and
rebellion of heart? And are these fairer things in God's sight than the
natural love of our own blood? Doth He call us to give up that, and not
these? May it not be rather that if there were more true love, there
were less envy and jealousy? if there were more harmless liberty, there
were less murmuring? When man takes God's scourge into his hands, it
seems to me he is apt to wield it ill."
"But, Margaret!" said I, "so shouldst thou make Satan cast out Satan.
Forbidden love were as ill as strife and murmuring."
"Forbidden of whom?" saith she. "God never forbade me to love my
brethren and sisters. He told me to do it. He never forbade me to
honour my father and mother--to dwell with them, to tend and cherish
them in their old age. He told me to do it. Ay, and He spake of
certain that did vainly worship Him seeing they taught learning and
commandments of men." [Matthew 15, verse 9, Vulgate.]
"O Margaret! what art thou saying? Holy Church enjoins vows of
religion."
"Tell me then, Annora, what is Holy Church? It is a word that fills
man's mouth full comely, that I know. But what it _is_, is simply the
souls of all righteous men--all the redeemed of Christ our Lord, which
is His Body, and is filled with His Spirit. When did He enjoin such
vows? or when did all righteous men thus band together to make men and
women unrighteous, by binding commands upon them that were of men, not
of God?"
"Margaret, my Sister!" I cried in terror. "Whence drewest thou such
shocking thoughts? What will Father Benedict say when thou confessest
them?"
"It is not to Father Benedict I confess _them_," she said, with a little
curl of her lips. "I confess to him what he expects to hear--that I
loved not to sweep the gallery this morrow, or that I ate a lettuce last
night and forgot to sign the cross over it. Toys are meet for babes,
and babes for toys. They cannot understand the realities of life. Such
matters I confess to--another Priest, and He can understand them."
"Well," said I, "I always thought Father Hamon something less wise than
Father Benedict: at least, Father Benedict chides me, and Father Hamon
gives me neither blame nor commendation. But, Margaret, I do not
understand thy strange sayings in any wise. Surely thou knowest what is
the Church?"
"I know what it is not," saith she; "and that is Father Hamon, or Father
Benedict, or Father Anything-Else. Christ and they that are Christ's--
the Head and the Body, the Bridegroom and the Bride: behold the Church,
and behold her Priest and Confessor!"
"Margaret," saith Mother Alianora, "who taught thee that? Where didst
thou hear such learning?"
She did not speak chidingly, but only as if she desired information. I
was surprised she was not more severe, for truly I never heard such
talk, and I was sorely afraid for my poor Margaret, lest some evil thing
had got hold of her--maybe the Devil himself in the likeness of some
Sister in her old convent.
A wave of pain swept over Margaret's eyes when Mother Alianora said
that, and a dreamy look of calm came and chased it thence.
"Where?" she said. "In the burning fiery furnace, heated seven times
hotter than its wont. Of whom? Verily, I think, of that Fourth that
walked there, who was the Son of God. He walks oftener, methinks, in
the fiery furnace with His martyrs, than in the gilded galleries with
the King Nebuchadnezzar and his princes. At least I have oftener found
Him there."
She seemed as if she lost herself in thought, until Mother Alianora
saith, in her soft, faint voice--"Go on, my child."
Margaret roused up as if she were awoke from sleep.
"Well!" she said, "nothing happened to me, as you may well guess, for
the years of childhood that followed, when I was learning to read,
write, and illuminate, to sew, embroider, cook, and serve in various
ways. My Lady Prioress found that I had a wit at devising patterns and
such like, so I was kept mainly to the embroidery and painting: being
first reminded that it was not for mine own enjoyment, but that I should
so best serve the Order. I took the words and let them drop, and I took
the work and delighted in it. So matters went until I was a maid of
seventeen years. And then something else came into my life."
I asked, "What was it?" for she had paused. But her next words were not
an answer.
"I marvel," she saith, "of what metal Saint Gilbert was made, that
founded our Order. Was it out of pity, or out of bitter hardness, or
out of simple want of understanding, that he framed our Rule, and gave
us more liberty than other Sisters? Is it more or less happy for a lark
that thou let him out of his cage once in the year in a small cell
whence he cannot escape into the free air of heaven? Had I been his
mother or his sister, when the Saint writ his Rule, I had said to him,
Keep thy brethren and sisters apart at the blessed Sacrament, or else
bandage their eyes."
"O Margaret!" I cried out, for it was awful to hear such words. As if
the blessed Saint Gilbert could have made a mistake! "Dost thou think
thyself wiser than the holy saints?"
"Yes," she answered simply. "I am sure I know more about women than
Saint Gilbert did. That he did not know much about them was shown by
such a Rule, he might as well have set the door of the lark's cage open,
and have said to the bird, `Now, stay in!' Well, I did not stay in.
One morrow at mass, I was all suddenly aware of a pair of dark eyes
scanning my face across the nave--"
"From the brethren's side of the church! O Margaret!"
"Well, Annora? I am human: so, perchance, was he. He had been thrust
into this life, as I had. Had we both been free, we might have loved
each other without a voice saying, `It is sin.' Why was it sin because
we wore black and white habits?"
"But the vows, Margaret! the vows!"
"What vows? I made none, worthy to be called vows. I was bidden, a
little babe of four years, to say `ay' and `nay' at certain times, and
`I am willing,' and so forth. What knew I of the import attaching to
such words? I do ensure thee I knew nothing at all, save that when I
had been good and done as I was told, I should have a pretty little
habit like the Sisters, and be called `Sister' as these grown women
were. Is that what God calls a vow?--a vow of life-long celibacy,
dragged from a babe that knew not what vow nor celibacy were! `Doth God
lack your lie?' saith Job [Job 13, verse 7]. Yea, the Psalmist crieth,
`_Numquid adhaeret Tibi sedes iniquitatis_?' [Psalm 94, verse 20]--Wala
wa! the only thing I marvel is that He thundereth not down with His
great wrath, and delivereth not him that is in misery out of the hand of
him that despoileth."
If it had been any other Sister, I think I should have been horribly
shocked: but do what I would, I could not speak angrily to my own
sister. I wonder if it were very wicked in me! But it surprised me
much that Mother Alianora lay and hearkened, and said nought. Neither
was she asleep, for I glanced at her from time to time, and always saw
her awake and listening. Truly, she had little need of nurses, for it
was no set malady that ailed her--only a gentle, general decay from old
age. Why two of us were set to watch her I could not tell. Had I
thought it possible that Mother Gaillarde could do a thing so foreign to
her nature, I might have fancied that she sent us two there that night
just in order that we might talk and comfort each other. If Mother
Alianora had been the one to do it, I might have thought such a thing:
or if my Lady had sent us herself, I should have supposed she had never
considered the matter: but Mother Gaillarde! Well, whatever reason she
had, I am thankful for that talk with Margaret. So I kept silence, and
my sister pursued her tale.
"He was not a Brother," she said, "but a young man training for the
priesthood under the Master. But not yet had he taken the holy vows,
therefore I suppose thou wilt think him less wicked than me."
She looked up into my face with a half-smile.
"O Margaret! I wis not what to think. It all sounds so strange and
shocking--only that I have not the heart to find fault with thee as I
suppose I should do."
Margaret answered by a little laugh.
"In short," said she, "thou canst be wicked sometimes like other folk.
Be it done! I ensure thee, Annora, it comforts me to know the same.
Because it is not real wickedness, only painted. And I fear not painted
sin, any more than I hold in honour painted holiness. For real sin is
not paint; it is devilishness. And real holiness is not paint; it is
dwelling in God. And God is love."
"But not that sort of love!" I cried.
"Is there any sort but one?" she made answer. "Love is an angel,
Annora: it is self-love that is of the Devil. When man helps man to
sin, that is not love. How can it be, when God is love, and God and sin
are opposites? Tarry until my tale be ended, and then shalt thou be
judge thyself how far Roland's love and mine were sin."
"Go on," said I.
"Well," she said, "for many a week it went no further than looks. Then
it came to words."
"In the church!"
"No, not in the church, my scrupulous sister! We should have felt that
as wrong as thou. Through the wall between the gardens, where was a
little chink that I dare be bound we were not the first to find. Would
that no sinfuller words than ours may ever pass athwart it! We found
out that both of us had been thrust into the religious life without our
own consent: I, thou savest, by the Queen's wrath (which I knew not
then); he, by a cousin that coveted his inheritance. And we talked
much, and at last came to agreement that as neither he nor I had any
vocation, it would be more wrong in us to continue in this life than to
escape and be we'd."
"But what priest should ever have wedded a Sister to man training for
holy orders?"
"None. We were young, Annora: we thought not of such things. As for
what should come after we were escaped, we left that to chance. Nay,
chide me not for my poor broken dream, for it was a dream alone. The
Prioress found us out. That night I was in solitary cell, barred in my
prison, with no companions save a discipline that I was bidden to use,
and a great stone crucifix that looked down upon me. Ay, I had one
Other, but at first I saw Him not. Nay, nor for eight years afterwards.
Cold, silent, stony, that crucifix looked down: and I thought He was
like that, the living Christ that had died for me, and I turned away
from Him. My heart seemed that night as if it froze to ice. It was
hard and ice-bound for eight years. During that time there were many
changes at Watton. Our Prioress died; and a time of sore sickness
removed many of our Sisters. At the end of the eight years, only three
Sisters were left who could remember my punishment--it was more than I
have told"--ah, poor soul! lightly as she passed it thus, I dare be
bound it was--"and these, I imagine, knew not why it was. And at last
our confessor died.
"I thought I had utterly outlived my youthful dream. Roland had
disappeared as entirely as if he had never been. What had become of him
I knew not--not even if he were alive. I went about my duties in a
dull, wooden way, as an image might do, if it could be made to move so
as to sew or paint without a soul. Life was worth nothing to me--only
to get it over. My love was dead, or it was my heart: which I knew not.
Either came to the same thing. There were duties I disliked, and one
of these was confession: but I went through with them, in the cold, dull
way of which I spake. It had to be: what did it matter?
"One morrow, about a week after our confessor's death, my Lady Prioress
that then was told us at recreation-time that our new confessor had
come. We were commanded to go to him, ten in the day, and to make a
full confession from our infancy. My turn came on the second day. So
many of our elder Sisters had died or been transferred, that I was, at
twenty-five years, one of the eldest (beside the Mothers) left in the
house.
"I knelt down in the confessional, and repeated the Confiteor. Then, in
that stony way, I went on with my life-confession: the falsehood that I
had told when a child of eight, the obstinacy that I had shown at ten,
the general sins whereof I had since been guilty: the weariness of
divine things which ever oppressed me, the want of vocation that I had
always felt. I finished, and paused. He would ask me some questions,
of course. Let him get them over. There was silence for a moment. And
then I heard myself asked--`Is that all thou hast to confess?'--in the
voice I had loved best of all the world. My tongue seemed to cleave to
the roof of my mouth. I only whispered, `Roland!' in tones which I
could not have told for mine own.
"`I scarce thought to find thee yet here, Margaret,' he said. `I
well-nigh feared to do it. But after thy confession, I see wherefore
God hath sent me--that I may pour out into the dry and thirsty cup of
thine heart a little of that spiced wine of the kingdom which He hath
given to me.'
"Mine heart sank down very low. `Thou hast received thy vocation,
then?' I said; and I felt the poor broken thing ache so that I knew it
must be yet alive. Roland would care no more for me, if he had received
a vocation. I must go on yet alone till death freed me. Alone, for
evermore!
"`I have received the blessedest of all vocations,' he answered; `the
call to God Himself. Margaret, art thou thinking that if this be so, I
shall love thee no more? Nay, for I shall love thee more than ever.
Beloved, God is not stone and ice; He is not indifference nor hatred.
Nay, He is love, and whoso dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God
dwelleth in us, and His love is perfected in us. Open thy heart to that
love, and then this little, little life will soon be over, and we shall
dwell together beside the river of His pleasures, unto the ages of the
ages.'
"`It sounds fair, Roland,' I said; `but it is far away. My soul is hard
and dry. I cannot tell how to open the door.'
"`Then,' said he, `ask Jesus to lift the latch and to come in. Thou
wilt never desire Him to go forth again. I have much to say: but it
hath been long enough now. Every time thou prayest, say also, "Lord
Jesu, come into mine heart and make it soft." He will come if thou
desire Him. And if thou carest not to do this for His sake, do it for
thine own.'
"`I care not for mine own, nor for any thing,' I answered drearily.
"`Then,' saith he, and the old tenderness came into his tone for a
moment, `then, Margaret, do it for mine.'
"I believe he forgot to absolve me: but I did not miss it.
"It is four and twenty years since that day: and during all these years
I have been learning to know Christ our Lord, and the fellowship of His
sufferings. For as time passed on, Roland told me much of saintly men
from whom he had learned, and of many a lesson direct from our Lord
Himself. Now He has taken Roland's place. Not that I love Roland less:
but I love him differently. He is not first now: and all the bitterness
has gone out of my love. Not all the pain. For we came to the
certainty after a time, when he had taught me much, that we had better
bide asunder for this life, and in that which is to come we shall dwell
together for evermore. He was about to resign his post as confessor,
when the Lord disposed of us otherwise, for the Master thought fit to
draft me into the house at Shuldham, and after eighteen years there was
I sent hither. So Roland, I suppose, bides at Watton. I know not: the
Lord knows. We gave up for His sake the sweet converse wherein our
hearts delighted, that we might serve Him more fully and with less
distraction. I do not believe it was sinful. That it is sin in me to
love Roland shall I never own. But lest we should love each other
better than we love Him, we journey apart for this lower life. And I do
not think our Lord is angry with me when at times the longing pain and
the aching loneliness seem to overcome me, for a little while. I think
He is sorry for me. For since I learned--from Roland--that He is not
dead, but the Living One--that He is not darkness, but the Light--that
He is not cold and hard, but the incarnate Love--since then, I can never
feel afraid of Him. And I believe that He has not only made
satisfaction for my sins, but also that He can carry my burdens, and can
forgive my blunders. And if we cannot speak to one another, we can both
speak to Him, and entrust Him with our messages for each other. He will
give them if it be good: and before giving, He will change the words if
needful, so that we shall be sure to get the right message. Sometimes,
when I have felt very lonely, and He comes near me, and sends His peace
into my heart, I wonder whether Roland was asking Him to do it: and I
pray Him to comfort and rest Roland whenever he too feels weary. So you
see we send each other many more letters round by Heaven than we could
possibly do by earth. It was the last word Roland said to me--`The road
upward is alway open,' and, `_Et de Hierosolymis et de Britannia,
aequaliter patet aula caelestis_.'" [Note 2.]
Margaret was silent.
Then said Mother Alianora, "Child, thou hast said strange things: if
they be good or ill, God wot. I dare not have uttered some of them thus
boldly; yet neither dare I condemn thee. We all know so little! But
one thing have I learned, methinks--that God will not despise a gift
because men cast it at His feet as having no value for them. I say not,
He will not despise such givers: verily, they shall have their reward.
But if the gift be a living thing that can feel and smart under the
manner of its usage, then methinks He shall stoop to lift it with very
tender hands, so as to let it feel that it hath value in His eyes--its
own value, that nought save itself can have. My children, we are not
mere figures to Him--so many dwellers in so many houses. Before Him we
are living men and real women--each with his separate heart, and every
separate pang that rends it. The Church of God is one: but it is His
Body, and made of many members. We know, when we feel pain, in what
member it is. Is He less wise, less tender, less sensitive than we?
There are many, Margaret, who would feel nought but horror at thy story;
I advise thee not to tell it to any other, lest thou suffer in so doing.
But I condemn thee not: for I think Christ would not, if He stood now
among us. Dear child, keep at His feet: it is the only safe place, and
it is the happy place. Heaven will be wide enough to hold us all, and
before long we shall be there."
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Note 1. To the mind of a Roman Catholic, a "religious person" is only a
priest, monk, or nun.
Note 2. "From Jerusalem, or from England, the way to Heaven is equally
near."--Jerome.