"Peace, peace, poor heart!
Go back and thrill not thus!
Are not the vows of the Lord God upon me?"
It would really be a convenience if one could buy common sense. People
seem to have so little. And I am sure I have not more than other
people.
That story of Margaret's puzzles me sorely. I sit and think, and think,
and I never seem to come any nearer the end of my thinking. And some
never seem to have any trouble with their thoughts. I suppose they
either have more of them, and more sense altogether, so that they can
see things where I cannot; or else--Well, I do not know what else.
But Margaret's thoughts are something so entirely new. It is as if I
were looking out of the window at one end of the corridor, which looks
towards Grantham, and she were looking from the window at the other end,
which faces towards Spalding. Of course we should not see the same
things: how could we? And if the glass in one window were blue, and the
other red, it would make the difference still greater. I think that
must be rather the distinction; for it does not seem to lie in the
things themselves, but in the eyes with which Margaret looks on them.
Dear Mother Alianora yet lives, but she is sinking peacefully. Neither
Margaret nor I have been called to watch by her again. I begged of
Mother Gaillarde that I might see her once more, and say farewell; and
all I got for it was "Mind your broidery, Sister!"
I should not wonder if she let me go. I do not know why it is, but for
all her rough manner and sharp words, I can ask a favour of Mother
Gaillarde easier than of Mother Ada. There seems to be nothing in
Mother Ada to get hold of; it is like trying to grip a lump of ice.
Mother Gaillarde is like a nut with a rough outside burr; there is
plenty to lay hold of, though as likely as not you get pricked when you
try. And if she is rough when you ask her anything, yet she often gives
it, after all.
I have not exchanged a word with Margaret since that night when we
watched together. She sits on the other side of the work-room, and even
in the recreation-room she rather avoids coming near me, or I fancy so.
Whatever I begin with, I always get back to Margaret. Such strange
ideas she has! I keep thinking of things that I wish I had said to her
or asked her, and now I have lost the opportunity. I thought of it this
morning, when the two Mothers were conversing with Sister Ismania about
the Christmas decorations in our own little oratory. Sister Ismania is
the eldest of all our Sisters.
"I thought," said she, "if it were approved, I could mould a little
waxen image of our Lord for the altar, and wreathe it round with
evergreens."
"As an infant?" asked Mother Gaillarde.
"Well--yes," said Sister Ismania; but I could see that had not been her
idea.
"Oh, of course!" answered Mother Ada. "It would be most highly
indecorous for _us_ to see Him as a man."
Was it my fancy, or did I see a little curl of Margaret's lips?
"He will be a man at the second advent, I suppose," observed Mother
Gaillarde.
Mother Ada did not answer: but she looked rather scandalised.
"And must we not have some angels?" said Sister Ismania.
"There are the angels we had for Easter, Sister," suggested Sister
Roberga.
"Sister Roberga, oblige me by speaking when you are spoken to," said
Mother Ada, in her icicle manner.
"There is only one will do again," answered Mother Gaillarde. "Saint
Raphael is tolerable; he might serve. But I know the Archangel Michael
had one of his wings broken; and the Apostle Saint Peter lost a leg."
"We had a lovely Satan among those Easter figures," said Sister Ismania;
"and Saint John was so charming, I never saw his equal."
"Satan may do again if he gets a new tail," said Mother Gaillarde. "But
Pontius Pilate won't; that careless Sister Jacoba let him drop, and he
was mashed all to pieces."
"Your pardon, Mother, but that was Judas Iscariot."
"It wasn't: it was Pontius Pilate."
"I am sure it was Judas."
"I tell you it wasn't."
"But, Mother, I--"
"Hold your tongue!" said Mother Gaillarde, curtly.
And being bidden by her superior, of course Sister Ismania had to obey.
I looked across at Margaret, and met her eyes. And, as Margaret's eyes
always do, they spoke.
"These are holy women, and this is spiritual love!" said Margaret's
eyes, ironically. "We might have spoken thus to our own brethren,
without going into a convent to do it."
I wonder if Margaret be not right, and we bring the world in with us:
that it is something inside ourselves. But then, I suppose, outside
there are more temptations. Yet do we not, each of us, make a world for
herself? Is it not _ourselves_ that we ought to renounce--the
earthliness and covetousness of our own desires, rather than the mere
outside things? Oh, I do get so tired when I keep thinking!
Yesterday, when Erneburg and Damia were playing at see-saw in the
garden, with a long plank balanced on the saddling-stone, I could not
help wondering how it is that one's thoughts play in that way. Each end
seems sometimes up, and then the other end comes up, and that goes down.
I wish I were wiser, and understood more. Perchance it was better for
me that I was sent here. For I never should have been wise or
brilliant. And suppose _he_ were, and that he had looked down upon me
and disliked me for it! That would have been harder to bear than this.
_Ha, chetife_! have all religious women such stories as we two? Did
Mother Ada ever feel a heart in her? Mother Gaillarde does at times, I
believe. As to my Lady, I doubt any such thing of her. She seems to
live but to eat and sleep, and if Mother Gaillarde had not more care to
govern the house than she, I do--Mother of Mercy, but this is evil
speaking, and of my superiors too! _Miserere me, Domine_!
As we filed out of the oratory last night as usual, Mother Gaillarde
stayed me at the door.
"Sister Annora, thou art appointed to the Infirmary to-night." And in a
lower tone she added--"It will be the last time."
I knew well what last time she meant: never again in life should I see
our dear Mother Alianora. I looked up thankfully.
"Well?" said Mother Gaillarde, in her curt way. "Are you a stone image,
or do you think I'm one?"
I kissed her hand, made the holy sign, and passed on. No, dear Mother:
thou art not a stone.
In the Infirmary I found Sister Philippa on duty.
"O Sister Annora, I am so glad thou art come! I hate this sort of work,
and Mother Gaillarde will keep me at it. I believe it is because she
knows I detest it."
"Thou art not just to Mother Gaillarde, Sister," I said, and went on to
the bed by the window.
"Annora, dear child!" said the feeble voice. Ay, she was weaker far
than when I last beheld her, "Thank God I have seen thee yet once more."
I could do little for her--only now and then give her to drink, or raise
her a little. And she could not speak much. A few words occasionally
appeared to be all she had strength for. Towards morning I thought she
seemed to wander and grow light-headed. She called once "Isabel!" and
once "Aveline!" We have at present no Sister in the house named
Aveline, and when I asked if I should seek permission to call Sister
Isabel if she wished for her, she said, "No: she will be gone to
Marlborough," and what she meant I know not. [Note 1.] Then, after she
had lain still a while, she said, "Guendolen--is it thou?"
"No, dearest Mother; it is Sister Annora," said I.
"Guendolen was here," saith she: "where is she?"
"Perhaps she will come again," I answered, for I saw that she scarcely
had her wits clear.
"She will come again," she saith, softly. "Ay, He will come again--with
clouds--and His saints with Him. And Guendolen will be there--my Sister
Guendolen, the Princess [Note 2], whom men cast forth,--Christ shall
crown her in His kingdom. The last of the royal line! There are no
Princes of Wales any more."
Then I think she dropped asleep for a time, and when she woke she knew
me at first; though she soon grew confused again.
"Christ's blessing and mine be on thee, mine own Annora!" saith she,
tenderly. "Margaret, too--poor Magot! Tell her--tell her--" but her
voice died away in indistinct murmurs. "They will soon be here."
"Who, dearest Mother?"
"Joan and Guendolen. Gladys, perchance. I don't know about Gladys.
White--all in white: no black in that habit. And they sing--No, she
never sang on earth. I should like to hear Guendolen sing in Heaven."
The soft toll of the bell for prime came to her dulled ear.
"Are they ringing in Heaven?" she said. "Is it Guendolen that rings?
The bells never rang for her below. They have fairer music up there."
The door opened, and Mother Ada looked in.
"Sister Annora, you are released. Come to prime."
Oh, to have tarried only a minute! For a light which never was from sun
or moon had broken over the dying face, and she vainly tried to stretch
her hands forth with a rapturous cry of--"Guendolen! Did the Master
send thee for me?"
"Sister! You forget yourself," said Mother Ada, when I lingered.
"Remember the rule of holy obedience!"
I suppose it was very wicked of me--I am always doing wicked things--but
I did wish that holy obedience had been at the bottom of the Red Sea, I
kissed the trembling hand of the dear old Mother, and signed the holy
cross upon her brow to protect her when she was left alone, and then I
followed Mother Ada. After prime I was ordered to the work-room. I
looked round, and saw that Sister Roberga and Margaret were missing. I
did hope Margaret, and not Sister Roberga, had been sent up to the
Infirmary. Of course I could not ask.
For two hours I sewed with my heart in the Infirmary. If the rule of
holy obedience had been at the bottom of the Red Sea, I am sure I should
not have tarried in that work-room another minute. And then I heard the
passing bell. It struck so cold to my heart that I had hard work to
keep my broidering in a straight line.
A few minutes later, Margaret appeared at the door. She knelt down in
the doorway, and made the sign of the cross, saying, "Peace eternal
grant to us, O Lord!"
And we all responded, led by Mother Ada,--"Lord, grant to Thy servant
our Sister everlasting peace!"
So then I knew that Mother Alianora had been sent for by the Master of
us all.
"Sister Margaret!" said Mother Ada.
Margaret rose, went up to Mother Ada, and knelt again.
"How comes it thou art the messenger? I sent Sister Roberga to the
Infirmary this morning."
"Mother Gaillarde bade me go to the Infirmary," said Margaret in a low
voice, "and sent Sister Roberga down to the laundry."
"Art thou speaking truth?" asked Mother Ada.
Margaret's head went up proudly. "King Alfred the Truth-Teller was my
forefather," she said.
"Well! perhaps thou dost," answered Mother Ada, as if unwilling to admit
it. "But it is very strange. I shall speak to Sister Gaillarde."
"What about?" said Mother Gaillarde, appearing suddenly from the passage
to my Lady's rooms.
"Sister Gaillarde, this is very strange conduct of you!" said Mother
Ada. "I ordered Sister Roberga to the Infirmary."
"You did, Sister, and I altered your order. I am your superior, I
believe?"
Mother Ada, who is usually very pale, went red, and murmured something
which I could not hear.
"Nonsense!" said Mother Gaillarde.
To my unspeakable astonishment, Mother Ada burst into tears. She has so
many times told the children, and not seldom the Sisters, that tears
were a sign of weakness, and unworthy of reasonable, not to say
religious, women--that they ought to be shed in penitence alone, or in
grief at a slight offered to holy Church, that I could only suppose
Mother Gaillarde had been guilty of some profanity.
"It is very hard!" sobbed Mother Ada. "That you should set yourself up
in that way, when I was professed on the very same day as you--"
"What has that to do with it?" asked Mother Gaillarde.
"And my Lady shows you much more favour than she does me: only to-day
you have been in her rooms twice!"
"I wish she would send for you," said Mother Gaillarde, "for it is
commonly to waste time over some sort of fiddle-faddle that I despise.
You are heartily welcome to it, I can tell you! Now, come, Sister Ada,
don't be silly and set a bad example. It is all nonsense, and you know
it."
Off marched Mother Gaillarde with a firm step. Mother Ada continued to
sob.
"Nobody could bear such treatment!" said she. "The blessed Virgin
herself would not have stood it. I am sure Sister Gaillarde is not a
bit better than I am--of course I do not speak on my own account, but
for the honour of the Order: that is what I am anxious about. It does
not matter in the least how people tread _me_ down--I am the
humblest-minded Sister in the house; but I am a Mother of the Order, and
I feel Sister Gaillarde's words exceedingly. Pride is one of the seven
deadly sins, and I do marvel where Sister Gaillarde thinks she is going.
I shall offer my next communion for her, that she may be more
humble-minded. I am sure she needs it."
Mother Ada bit off her thread, as she said this, with a determined snap,
as if it had cruelly provoked her. I was lost in amazement, for Mother
Ada has always seemed so calm and icy that I thought nothing could move
her, and here she was making a fuss about nothing, like one of the
children. She had not finished when Mother Gaillarde came back.
"What, not over it yet?" said she, in her usual style. "Dear me, what a
storm in a porringer!"
Mother Ada gave a bursting sob and a long wail to end it; but Mother
Gaillarde took no more notice of her, only telling us all that Mother
Alianora would be buried to-morrow, and that after the funeral we were
to assemble in conclave to elect a new Mother. It will be Sister
Ismania, I doubt not; for she is eldest of the Sisters, and the one most
generally held in respect.
In the evening, at recreation-time, Sister Philippa came up to me.
"So we are to meet to elect a new Mother!" said she, with much
satisfaction in her tone. "I always like meeting in conclave. There is
something grand about it. For whom will you vote, Sister Annora?"
"I have not thought much about it," said I, "except that I suppose every
body will vote for Sister Ismania."
"I shall not," said Mother Joan.
I see so little of Mother Joan that I think I have rarely mentioned her.
She is Mistress of the Novices, and seldom comes where I am.
"You will not, Mother? For whom, then?" said Sister Philippa.
"If you should be appointed to collect the votes, Sister, you will
know," was Mother Joan's reply.
"Now, is that not too bad?" said Sister Philippa, when Mother Joan had
passed on. "Of course the Mothers will collect the votes."
"I fancy Mother Joan meant we Sisters ought not to ask," I said.
"O Sister! did you not enjoy that quarrel between the Mothers this
morning?" cried she.
"Certainly not," I answered. "I could not enjoy seeing any one either
distressed or angry."
"Oh; but it was so delightful to see Mother Ada let herself down!" cried
Philippa. "So proud and stuck-up and like an icicle as she always is!
_Ha jolife_! and she calls herself the humblest Sister in the house!"
Margaret had come up, and stood listening to us.
"Who think you is the humblest, Sister Philippa?"
"I don't know," said Sister Philippa. "If you asked me who was the
proudest, maybe I could tell--only that I should have to name so many."
"Well, I should need to name but one," said I. "I would fain be the
humblest; but that surely am I not: and I find so many wicked motions of
pride in mine heart that I cannot believe any of us can be worse than
myself."
"I think I know who is the lowliest of us, and the holiest," said
Margaret as she turned away; "and I shall vote for her."
"Who can she mean?" asked Sister Philippa.
"I do not know at all," said I; and indeed I do not.
Dear Mother Alianora was buried this afternoon. The mass for the dead
was very, very solemn. We laid her down in the Sisters' graveyard, till
the resurrection morn shall come, when we shall all meet without spot of
sin in the presence-chamber of Heaven. Till then, O holy and merciful
Saviour, suffer us not, now and at our last hour, for any pains of
death, to fall from Thee!
We passed directly from the funeral into conclave. My Lady sent word to
the Master that we were about to elect a Mother, and he sent us his
benediction on our labour. We all filed into our oratory, and sat down
in our various stalls. Then, after singing the Litany of the Holy
Ghost, Mother Gaillarde passed down the choir on the Gospel side, and
Mother Ada on the Epistle side, collecting the votes. When all were
collected, the two Mothers went up to my Lady, and she then came out of
her stall, and headed them to the altar steps, where they all three
knelt for a short space. Then my Lady, turning round to us, and coming
forward, announced the numbers.
"Thirty-four votes: for Sister Roberga, one; for Sister Isabel, two; for
Sister Ismania, eleven; for Sister Annora, twenty. Our Sister Annora is
chosen."
It was a minute before I was able to understand that such an
unintelligible and astounding thing had happened, as that our community
had actually chosen me--me, of all people!--to execute the highest
office in the house, next to my Lady Prioress herself. Mother Gaillarde
and Mother Ada came up to me, to lead me up to the altar.
"But it cannot be," said I. I felt completely confused.
"Thou art our Sister Annora, I believe," saith Mother Gaillarde, looking
rather amused; "and I marvel the less at the choice since I helped to
make it."
"I!" I said again, feeling more amazed than ever at what she said; "but
I'm not a bit fit for such a place as that! Oh, do choose again, and
fix on somebody more worthy than I am!"
"The choice of the community, guided by the Holy Spirit, has fallen on
you, Sister," said Mother Ada, in a cold, hollow voice.
"Come along, and don't be silly!" whispered Mother Gaillarde, taking my
right arm.
I really think Mother Gaillarde's words helped to rouse me from my
stupor of astonishment, better than any thing else. Of course, if God
called me to a certain work, He could put grace and wisdom into me as
easily as into any one else; and I had only to bow to His will. But I
did so wish it had been another who was chosen. Sister Ismania would
have made a far better officer than I. And to think of such a poor,
stupid, confused thing as I am, being put over her head! But, if it
were God's will--that settled the matter.
It all felt so dreamy that I can scarcely tell what happened afterwards.
I remember that I knelt before my Lady, and before the altar--but I
felt too confused for prayer, and could only say, "_Domine, miserere
me_!" for no other words would come: and then the Master came and
blessed me, and made a short address to me (of which I believe I hardly
took in a word), and appointed the next day for the service of
ordination.
I am an ordained Mother of the Order of Saint Gilbert. And I do not
feel any difference. I thought I should have done. The Master himself
sang the holy mass, and we sang _Veni Creator Spiritus_, and he said in
his address afterwards, that when his hands were laid on my head, the
Holy Ghost came down and filled me with His presence--and I did not feel
that He did. Of course it was all very solemn, and I did most earnestly
desire the influences of the blessed Spirit, for I shall never be able
to do any thing without them: but really I felt our Lord nearer me in
the evening, when I knelt by my bed for a minute, and asked Him, in my
own poor words, to keep me in the right way, and teach me to do His
will. I think I shall try that again. Now that I have a cell to
myself, I can do it. And I sleep in dear Mother Alianora's cell, where
I am sure the blessed Lord has been wont to come. Oh, I hope He will
not tarry away because I am come into it--I, who am so worthless, and so
weak, and need His gracious aid so much more than she did!
I do wish, if so great a favour could possibly be vouchsafed to me, that
I might speak to our Lord just once. He has ere this held converse with
the holy saints. Of course I am not holy, nor a saint, nor in the least
merit any such grace from Him: but I need it more than those who merit
it. Oh, if I could know,--once, certainly, and for ever--whether it is
earthly, and carnal, and wicked, as people say it is, for me to grieve
over that lost love of mine! Sister Ismania says it is all folly and
imagination on my part, because, having been parted when we were only
six years old, I cannot possibly (she says) feel any real, womanly love
for him. But I do not see why it must be grown-up to be real. And I
never knew any thing better or more real. It may not be like what
others have, but it was all I had. I wish sometimes that I knew if he
still lives, and whether that other wife lives to whom I suppose
somebody must have married him after I was thrust in here. I cannot
feel as if he did not still, somehow, belong to me. If I only knew
whether it was wrong!
I have been appointed mistress of the work-room, and I ought to keep it
in order. How I can ever do it, I cannot think. I shall never be able
to chide the Sisters like the other Mothers: and to have them coming up
to me, when they are chidden, and kissing the floor at my feet--I do not
know how I can stand it. I am sure it will give me a dreadful feeling.
However, I hope nothing will ever happen of that kind, for a long, long
while.
What is the good of hoping any thing? Mother Gaillarde says that hopes,
promises, and pie-crust are made to be broken. Certainly hopes seem to
be. After all my wishes, if something did not happen the very first
day!
When I got down to the work-room, what should I find but Sisters Roberga
and Philippa having a violent quarrel. They were not only breaking the
rule of silence, which in itself was bad enough, but they were calling
each other all manner of names.
I was astonished those two should quarrel, for they have always been
such friends that they had to be constantly reminded of the prohibition
of particular friendships among the religious: but when they did, it
reminded me of the adage that vernage makes the best vinegar.
Sister Isabel cast an imploring look at me, as I entered, which seemed
to say, "Do stop them!" and I had not a notion how to set about it,
except by saying--
"My dear Sisters, our rule enjoins silence."
On my saying this (which I did with much reluctance and some trembling)
both of them turned round and appealed to me.
"She promised to vote for me, and she did not!" cried Sister Roberga.
"I did!" said Sister Philippa. "I kept my word."
"There was only one vote for me," answered Sister Roberga.
"Well, and I gave it," replied Sister Philippa.
"You couldn't have done! There must have been more than one."
"Why should there?"
"I know there was."
"How do you know?"
"I do know."
"You must have voted for yourself, then: you can't know otherwise," said
Sister Philippa, scornfully.
Sister Roberga fairly screamed, "I didn't, you vile wretch!" and went
exceedingly red in the face.
"Sister Roberga," said I--
"Don't you interfere!" shrieked Sister Roberga, turning fiercely on me.
"You want a chance to show your power, of course. You poor,
white-faced, sanctimonious creature, only just promoted, and that
because every body voted for you, thinking you would be easily managed--
just like a bit of putty in any body's fingers! And making such a fuss,
as if you were so humble and holy, professing not to wish for it!
Faugh! how I hate a hypocrite!"