"Come to me, little Sister," I said.
She came forward at once, closing the door behind her, and knelt down at
my feet. Then she buried her face in her hands, and laid face and hands
upon my knee.
"Let me weep!" she sobbed. "Oh, let me weep for a few moments in
silence, and do not speak to me!"
I kept silence, and she wept till her heart was relieved. When at last
her sobs grew quiet, she brushed her tears away, and looked up.
"Bless thee, Annora! That has done me good. It is something to have
somebody who will say, `Little Sister,' and give one leave to weep in
peace. Dost thou know what troubles me?"
"Not in the least, dear Margaret. That something was troubling thee I
had seen, but I cannot guess what it was."
"I shall get over it now," she said. "It is only the reopening of the
old wound. Thou hast not guessed, then, who Father Mortimer is?"
"Margaret!"
"Ay, God has given my Roland back to me--yet has not given him. It is
twenty years since we parted, and we are no longer young--nor, I hope,
foolish. We can venture now to journey on, on opposite sides of the
way, without being afraid of loving each other more than God. There can
hardly be much of the road left now: and when it is over, the children
will meet in the safe fellowship of the Father's Home for ever. Dost
thou know, Annora dear, I am almost surprised to find myself quite so
childish? I thought I should have borne such a meeting as calmly as any
one else,--as calmly as he did." There was a little break in her voice.
"He always had more self-control than I. Only I dare not confess to
him, for his own sake. He would be tempted either to partiality, or to
too much severity in order to avoid it. I must content myself with
Father Benedict: and when I want Roland's teaching--those blessed words
which none ever gave to me but himself--wilt thou give me leave to tell
thee, so that thou mayest submit the matter to him in thine own
confession?"
I willingly agreed to this: but I am sorry for my poor child. Father
Benedict is terribly particular and severe. I think Father Mortimer
could scarcely be more so, however hard he was trying not to be partial.
And I cannot help a little doubt whether his love has lasted like hers.
Sweet Saint Mary! what am I saying? Do I not know that every sister,
every priest, in this house would be awfully shocked to know that such a
thing could be? It is better it should not. And yet--my poor child!
This house no longer holds a Sister or Mother Gaillarde. She is now
Lady Prioress, having been ordained and enthroned this afternoon. I
must say the ceremony of vowing obedience felt to me less, not more,
than that simple _Placet_ the other day, which seemed to come red-hot
from the hearts that spake it.
The Sister chosen to succeed her as Mother is Sister Ismania. I am glad
of it, for she is certainly fittest for the place. Mother Joan becomes
the senior Mother.
Our new Prioress does not let the grass grow under her feet, and is very
different from her predecessor. During the first week after her
appointment, such quantities of household articles began to pour in--
whereof, in sooth, we stood in grievous need--that we Mothers were at
our wits' end where to put them. I thought the steward's man would
never have done coming to the grating with such announcements as--"Five
hundredweight of wax, if you please, ladies; a hundred pounds of
candles, ladies; twenty oaks for firewood, ladies; two sacks of seacoal,
ladies; ten pieces of nuns' cloth, ladies; a hundred ells of cloth of
linen, ladies; six firkins of speckled Bristol soap, ladies,"--cloth of
Sarges [serge], cloth of Blanket [Note 1], cloth of Rennes; mops,
bougets, knives, beds; cups, jugs, and amphoras; baskets by the dozen;
quarters of wheat, barley, oats, beans, peas, and lentils; stockfish and
ling, ginger and almonds, pipes of wine and quarts of oil--nay, I cannot
tell what there was not. Sister Ada lost her temper early, and sorely
bewailed her hard lot in having first to carry and find room for all
these things, and secondly to use them. The old ways had suited her
well enough: she could not think what my Lady wanted with all this
mopping and scouring. Even Sister Joan said a little sarcastically that
she thought my Lady must be preparing for the possibility of our having
to stand a siege. My Lady, who heard both behind their backs, smiled
her grim smile and went on. She does not keep in her own rooms like the
last Prioress, but is here, there, and every where. Those of the
Sisters who are indolently inclined dislike her rule exceedingly. For
myself, I think in truth we have been going along too easily, and am
glad to see the reins tightened and the horse admonished to be somewhat
brisker: yet I cannot say that I can always keep pace with my Lady, and
at times I am aware of a feeling of being driven on faster than I can go
without being out of breath, and perhaps risking a fall. A little
occasional rest would certainly be a relief. Howbeit, life is our
working-day: and there will be time to rest in Heaven.
Joan tells me that she has had some talk with Father Mortimer, and finds
that her mother and he were cousins, he being the only son of her
grandfather's brother, Sir John de Mortimer, who died young in the
tilt-yard [Note 2]. It is strange, passing strange, that he and
Margaret should have been drawn to one another--he the nephew, and she
the daughter, of men who were deadly enemies. From what Joan saith, I
can gather that this grandfather of hers must have been a very evil man
in many ways. I love not to hear of evil things and men, and I do
somewhat check her when she speaks on that head. Was it not for eating
of the tree of knowledge of good and evil that our first fathers were
turned out of Paradise? Yet the Psalmist speaks of God as "He that
teacheth man knowledge." I will ask Father Mortimer to explain it when
I confess.
The time is not far off now when my child Joan must leave us, and I
shrink from it as it draws near. I would either that she were one of
us, or that I could go back to the world. Yet neither can be, seeing
she is wedded wife and mother: and for me, is not this the very carnal
affection which religious persons are bidden to root out of their
hearts? Yet the Apostle Saint John saith we are to love our brethren.
How can I do both? Is it lawful to love, only so long as we love not
one above another? But our Lord Himself had His beloved disciple: and
surely one's own mother must ever be more to her daughter than some
other woman's mother? This also I will ask Father Mortimer.
Lack-a-day! this world is full of puzzles, or rather it is this life. I
would one might see the way a little clearer--might have, as it were, a
thread put into one's hand to guide one out of the labyrinth, like that
old Grecian story which we teach the children. Some folks seem to lose
their way easier than others; and some scarcely seem to behold any
labyrinth at all--they walk right through those matters which are walls
and hedges to others, and look as though they never perceived that any
such things were there. Is it because of recklessness of right, or of
single-heartedness and sincerity?
There are three matters to lay before Father Mortimer. I shall think
long till the time come; and I hope he will be patient with me.
So soon as I stepped forth of my cell this morrow, I was aware of a kind
of soft sobbing at no great distance. I went towards it, and as I
turned the corner of the corridor, I came on a young novice, by name
Denise, who sat on the ground with a pail before her, and a flannel and
piece of soap on one side of it.
"What is the matter, child?" said I.
"Mother Ismania bade me scrub the boards," said she.
"Well! wherefore no?"
Denise fell a-sobbing yet more. For a minute or two might I not come at
the reason: but at the last I did--she was a kinswoman of Sir Michael de
La Pole, and thought it so degrading to be set to scrub boards!
"Why, dear heart," said I, "we all do work of this fashion."
"Oh yes, common Sisters may," quoth she.
"Well," said I, "we cannot be all uncommon. I ensure thee, Denise,
there are here many daughters of better houses than thine. Mother
Ismania herself is daughter of an offshoot of the Percys, and Sister
Isabel is a Neville by her mother. My Lady is a Fitzhugh of
Ravenswath."
"Well, Sisters!" came from behind us in my Lady's most sarcastic voice,
"you choose a nice time for comparing your pedigrees. Maybe it were as
well to leave that interesting amusement for recreation-time, and scrub
the corridor just now."
Sister Denise melted again into tears, and I turned to explain.
"Your pail looks pretty full, Sister," said my Lady grimly: "much more
water will make it overflow."
"May it please you, Madam," said I, "Sister Denise is thus distressed
because she, being a De La Pole, is set to scrubbing and such like
menial work."
"Oh, is she, indeed?" laughed my Lady. "Sister, do you know what Mother
Annora is?"
Sister Denise could only shake her head.
"Her mother was grand-daughter to King Edward of Westminster," said my
Lady. "If we three were in the world, I should be scantly fit to bear
her train and you would be little better than her washerwoman. But I
never heard her grumble to scour the corridor and she has done it more
times than ever you thought about it. Foolish child, to suppose there
was any degradation in honest work! Was not our blessed Lord Himself a
carpenter? I warrant the holy Virgin kept her boards clean, and did not
say she was too good to scrub. No woman alive is too good to do her
duty."
Sister Denise brake forth into fresh sobs.
"A wa--wa--washerwoman! To be called a washerwoman! [Note 3.] Me,
kinswoman of Sir Michael de La Pole, and Sir Richard to boot--a
washerwo--woman!"
"Don't be a goose!" said my Lady. "De La Pole, indeed! who be these De
La Poles? Why, no more than merchants of Lombard Street, selling
towelling at fivepence the ell, and coverchiefs of Cambray [Note 4] at
seven shillings the piece. Truly a goodly pedigree to boast of thus
loudly!"
"But, Madam!" cries Sister Denise--her tears, methinks, burned up by her
vexation--"bethink you, Sir Michael my cousin is a knight, and his wife
the Lady Katherine heiress of Wingfield, and the Lady Katherine his
mother 'longeth to the knights De Norwich. And look you, his sister is
my Lady Scrope, and his cousin wedded the heir of the Lord Cobham of
Kent."
"Nay, tarry not there," said my Lady; "do go a bit further while thou
art about it. Was not my Lady Joan Cobham's mother daughter to my Lady
of Devon, whose mother was daughter unto King Edward of Westminster--so
thou art akin to the King himself? I cry thee mercy, my Lady Princess,
that I set thee to scrub boards.--Sister Annora, prithee, let this
princely damsel go to school for a bit--she's short of heraldry. The
heiress of Wingfield, _the_ Lady Katherine, forsooth! and the daughter
of Sir John de Norwich a `Lady' at all! Why, child, we only call the
King's kinswomen _the_ Lord and Lady. As to thy cousin Sir Michael, he
is a woolmonger and lindraper [linen draper. The _en_ is a corruption]
that the King thought fit to advance, because it pleased him, and maybe
he had parts [talents] of some sort. Sure thou hast no need to stick up
thy back o' that count! To-morrow, Sister Denise, thou wilt please to
clean the fire-dogs, and carry forth the ashes to the lye-heap.--Come,
Sister Annora; I lack you elsewhere."
Poor little Denise broke into bitterer tears than ever; but I could not
stay to comfort her, for I had to follow my Lady.
"I do vow, this world is full of fools!" said she, as we went along the
corridor. "We shall have Sister Parnel, next, protesting that she knows
not how much oats be a bushel, and denying to rub in the salt to a
bacon, lest it should make her fingers sore. And 'tis always those who
have small reason that make fusses like this. A King's daughter, when
she takes the veil, looks for no different treatment from the rest; but
a squire's daughter expects to have a round dozen of her Sisters told
off to wait upon her.--Sister Egeline, feathers for stuffing are
three-farthings a pound; prithee strew not all the floors therewith.
(Sister Egeline had dropped no more than one; but my Lady is lynx-eyed.)
Truly, it was time some one took this house in hand. Had my sometime
Lady ruled it another twelvemonth, there would have been never a bit of
discipline left. There's none so much now. Sister Roberga had better
look out. If she gives me many more pert answers, she'll find herself
barred into the penitential cell on bread and water."
By this time we had reached the kitchen. Sister Philippa was just
coming out of it, carrying one hand covered with her veil. My Lady came
to a sudden halt.
"What have you there, Sister?"
Sister Philippa looked red and confused.
"I have cut my finger," she said.
My Lady's hand went into her pocket.
"Hold it forth," said she, "and I will bind it up. I always carry linen
and emplasture."
Sister Philippa made half a dozen lame excuses, but at last held out her
left hand, having (if I saw rightly) passed something into the other,
under cover of her veil.
"Which finger?" said my Lady, who to my surprise took no notice of her
action.
"This," said Sister Philippa, holding out the first.
My Lady studied it closely.
"It must have healed quick," said she, "for I see never a scratch upon
it."
"Oh, then it is that," quoth Sister Philippa, holding forth the second
finder.
"I rather think, Sister, it is the other hand," said my Lady. "Let me
look at that."
As my Lady was holding Sister Philippa's left hand, she had no chance to
pass her hidden treasure into it. She held forth her right hand--full
unwillingly, as I saw--and something rustled down her gown and dropped
with a flop at her feet.
"Pick that up, Sister Annora," said my Lady.
I obeyed, and unfolding a German coverchief, found therein a flampoynt
and three placentae [a pork pie and three cheesecakes].
"What were you going to do with these?" said my Lady.
"It's always my luck!" cried Sister Philippa. "Nothing ever prospers if
I do it. Saint Elizabeth's loaves turned into roses, but no saint that
liveth ever wrought a miracle for me."
"It is quite as well, Sister, that evil deeds should not prosper," was
my Lady's answer. "Saint Elizabeth was carrying loaves to feed the
poor. Was that your object? If so, you shall be forgiven; but next
time, ask leave first."
Sister Philippa grew redder.
"Was that your intention?" my Lady persisted.
"I am sure I am as poor as any body!" sobbed the Sister. "We never get
any thing good. All the nice things we make go to the poor, or to
guests. I can't see why one might not have a bite one's self."
"Were you going to eat them yourself?"
"One of them, I was: the others were for Sister Roberga."
"Sister Roberga shall answer for herself. I will have no tale-telling
in my house. This evening at supper, Sister, you will stand at the end
of the refectory, with that placenta in your hand, and say in the
hearing of all the Sisters--`I stole this placenta from the kitchen, and
I ask pardon of God and the Saints for that theft.' Then you may eat
it, if you choose to do so."
My Lady confiscated the remainder, leaving the placenta in Sister
Philippa's hand. She looked for a minute as if she would heartily like
to throw it down, and stamp on it: but either she feared to bring on
herself a heavier punishment, or she did not wish to lose the dainty.
She wrapped it in her coverchief, and went upstairs, sobbing as she
went.
My Lady despatched Sister Marian at once to fetch Sister Roberga. She
came, looking defiant enough, and confessed brazenly that she knew of
Sister Philippa's theft, and had incited her to it.
"I thought as much," said my Lady sternly, "and therefore I dealt the
more lightly with your poor dupe, over whom I have suspected your
influence for evil a long while. Sister Annora, do you and Sister
Isabel take this sinner to the penitential cell, and I will take counsel
how to use her."
We tried to obey: but Sister Roberga proved so unmanageable that we had
to call in three more Sisters ere we could lodge her in the cell. At
long last we did it; but my arms ached for some time after.
Sister Philippa performed her penance, looking very shamefaced: but she
left the placenta on the table of the refectory, and I liked her all the
better for doing so. I think my Lady did the same.
Sister Roberga abode in the penitential cell till evening, when my Lady
sent for the four Mothers: and we found there the Master himself, Father
Benedict, and Father Mortimer. The case was talked over, and it was
agreed that Sister Roberga should be transferred to Shuldham where, as
is reported, the Prioress is very strict, and knows how to hold her
curb. This is practically a sentence of expulsion. We four all agreed
that she was the black sheep in the Abbey, and that several of the
younger Sisters--in especial Sister Philippa--would conduct themselves
far better if she were removed. Sister Ismania was sent to tell her the
sentence. She tossed her head and pretended not to care; but I cannot
believe she will not feel the terrible disgrace. Oh, why do women enter
into the cloister who have no vocation? and, ah me! why is it forced
upon them?
At last I have been to confession to Father Mortimer, and I think I
understand better what Margaret means, when she speaks of confessing to
Father Benedict such things as he expects to hear. I never could see
why it must be a sin to eat a lettuce without making the holy sign over
it. Surely, if one thanks God for all He gives us, He will not be
angered because one does not repeat the thanksgiving for every little
separate thing. Such thoughts of God seem to me to be bringing Him
down, and making Him seem full of little foolish details like men--and
like the poorest-minded sort of men too. I see that people of high
intellect, while they take much care of details that go to make
perfection--as every atom of a flower is beautifully finished--take no
care at all for mere trivialities--what my Lady calls fads--such as is,
I think, making the sign of the cross over every mouthful one eats.
Well, I made my confession and was absolved: and I told the priest that
I much wished to ask his explanation of various matters that perplexed
me. He bade me say on freely.
"Father," said I, "I pray you, tell me first, is knowledge good or
evil?"
"Solomon saith, my daughter, that `a wise man is strong;' and the
prophet Osee laments that God's people are `destroyed for lack of
knowledge.' Our Lord chideth the lawyers of the Jews because they took
away the key of knowledge: and Paul counted all things but loss for the
knowledge of Jesu Christ. Here is wisdom. Why was Adam forbidden to
eat of the tree of knowledge, seeing it was knowledge of good no less
than evil? Partly, doubtless, to test his obedience: yet partly also, I
think, because, though the knowledge might be good in itself, it was not
good for him. God never satisfies mere curiosity. He will tell thee
how to come to Heaven; but what thou wilt find there, that He will not
tell thee, save that He is there, and sin, suffering, and Sathanas, are
not there. He will aid thee to overcome thy sins: but how sin first
entered into the fair creation which He made so good, thou mayest ask,
but He gives no answer. Many things there are, which perhaps we may
know with safety and profit in Heaven, that would not be good for us to
know here on earth. Knowledge of God thou mayest have,--yea, to the
full, so far as thine earthen vessel can hold it, even here. Yet
beware, being but an earthen vessel, that thy knowledge puff thee not
up. Then shall it work thee ill instead of good. Moreover, have nought
to do with knowledge of evil; for that is ill, altogether."
"Then, how is it, Father," said I, "that some folks see their way so
much plainer than others, and never become tangled in labyrinths? They
seem to see in a moment one thing to be done, and that only: not as
though they walked along a road which parted in twain, and knew not
which turn to take."
"There may be many reasons. Some have more wit than others, and thus
perceive the best way. Some are less readily turned aside by minor
considerations. Some let their will conflict with God's will: and some
desire to perceive His only, and to follow it."
"Those last are perfect men," said I.
"Ay," he made answer: "or rather, they are sinners whom Christ first
loved, and taught to love Him back. My daughter, love is the great clue
to lead thee out of labyrinths. Whom lovest thou--Jesu Christ, or
Sister Alianora?"
"Now, Father, you land me in my last puzzle. I have always been taught,
ever since I came hither, a little child, that love of God and the holy
saints is the only love allowed to a religious woman. All other love is
worldly, carnal, and wicked. Tell me, is this true?"
"No." The word came quick and curt.
"Truly," said I, "it would give me great relief to be assured of that.
The love of our kindred, then, is permitted?"
"`Whoso loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love God
whom he hath not seen? And this mandate we have from God: that he who
loveth God, love his brother also.'"
"Father," said I, fairly enchanted to hear such words, "are those words
of some holy doctor, such as Saint Austin?"
"They are the words," saith he softly, "of the disciple that Jesu loved.
He seems to have caught a glimmer of his Master."
"But," said I, "doth it mean my mother's son, or only my brother in
religion?"
"It can scarcely exclude thy mother's son," saith he somewhat drily.
"Daughter, see thou put God first: and love all other as much as ever
thou canst."
"_Ha, jolife_!" cried I, "if the Church will but allow it."
"What God commandeth," said he, "can not His Church disallow."
Methought I heard a faint stress on the pronoun.
"Father," said I, "are there more Churches than one?"
"There is one Bride of Christ. There is also a synagogue of Satan."
"Ah! that, I count, is the Eastern Church, that man saith hath departed
from the faith."
"They that depart from the faith make that Church. I fear they may so
do in the West as well as the East."
"Well, in the most holy universal Church are counted both the holy Roman
Church, and our own mother, the Church of England," said I. "I know not
if it include the Eastern schism or no."
"All these," saith he, "are names of men, and shall perish. All that is
of man must come to nought. The Church Catholic, true and holy, is not
of man, but of God. In her is gathered every saved soul, whether he
come from the east or from the west, from the north or from the south.
She is not Pauline, nor Petrine, nor Johannine, but Christian. The
heavenly Bridegroom cannot have two Brides. `One is My dove, My perfect
one,' There are many counties in England; there is but one realm. So
there are many so-called Churches: there is but one holy Church."
"But to find her commands," I answered, "we must, I suppose, hearken
each to his own branch of the Church?"
"Her Lord's commands are hers. `Hear thou _Him_.' The day is coming,
daughter, when the Scriptures of God's Word shall be all rendered into
English tongue, and, I firmly trust, shall be accessible to every man
that chooses to know them. Pray thou heartily for that day; and
meanwhile, keep thou close following Christ's steps, to the best of thy
knowledge, and entreat Him for pardon of all unknown sins. And when the
light of day is fully come, and the blessed lamp of Holy Writ placed in
the hands of the people, then come to the light that thou mayest clearly
see. For then woe, woe upon him that tarrieth in the shadow! `If the
light that is in thee be darkness, what darkness can equal it?'"
"Father," said I, "I thank you, for you have much comforted me. All
this while have I been trying not to love folks; and I find it full hard
to do."
"Battle with thy sins, Daughter, and let thy love alone. I counsel thee
to beware of one thing, of which many need no warning to beware: I think
thou dost. A thing is not sin because it is comfortable and pleasant;
it is not good because it is hard or distasteful. Why mortify thy will
when it would do good? It is the will to sin which must be mortified.
When Christ bade His disciples to `love their enemies,' He did not mean
them to hate their friends. True love must needs be true concern for
the true welfare of the beloved. How can that be sin? It is not love
which will help man to sin! that love cometh of Sathanas, and is
`earthly, sensual, devilish.' But the love which would fain keep man
from sin,--this is God's love to man, and man cannot err in bestowing it
on his brother."
"But is it sin, Father, to prefer one in love above another?"
"It is sin to love man more than God. Short of that, love any one, and
any how, that ever thou wilt. The day _may_ come--"
He brake off suddenly. I looked up.
"There were wedded priests in England, not an hundred years ago," [Note
5] he said in a low voice. "And there were no monks nor nuns in the
days of the Apostles. The time may come--_Fiat voluntas Tua! Filia,
pax tibi_."
Thus gently dismissed, I rose up and came back into the
illuminating-room, where I found Joan gathering together her brushes and
other gear.
"The last time!" she said, sadly--for she returns to her home to-morrow.
"Why is it that last times are always something sorrowful? I am going
home to my Ralph and the children, and am right glad to do it: and yet I
feel very mournful at the thought of leaving you, dear Mother Annora.
Must it ever be so in this life, till we come to that last time of all
when, setting forth on the voyage to meet Christ our Lord, we yet say
`farewell' with a pang to them we leave behind?"
"I reckon so, dear heart," said I, sighing a little. "But Father
Mortimer hath comforted me by words that he saith are from Holy Writ--to
wit, that he which loveth God should love his brother likewise. I
always wanted to love folks."
"And always did it, dear Mother," said Joan with a laugh, casting her
arms around my neck, "for all those chains of old rules and dusty
superstitions which are ever clanking about you. And I am going to love
you, whatever rules be to the contrary, and of whomsoever made. Oh, why
did ill folks push you into this convent, when you might have come and
dwelt with Ralph and me, and been such a darling grandmother to my
little ones? There, now, I did not mean to make you look sorrowful. I
will come and see you every year, if it be only for an hour's talk at
the grating; and my Lady, who is soft-hearted as she is rough-tongued,
will never forbid it, I know."
"Never forbid what, thou losenger?" [Flatterer.]
Joan turned round, laughing.
"Dear my Lady, you are ever where man looketh not for you. But I am
sure you heard no ill of yourself. You will never forbid me to visit my
dear Mother Annora; you love her, and you love me."
"Truly a pretty tale!" saith my Lady, pretending (as I could see) to
look angry.
"Now don't try to be angered with me," said Joan, "for I know you
cannot. Now I must go and pack my saddle-bags and mails." [Trunks.]
She went thence with her light foot, and my Lady looked somewhat sadly
after her.
"I love thee, do I, child?" saith she in another tone. "Ah, if I do,
thou owest it less to anything in thee than to the name they wed thee
in. Help us, Mother of Mercy! Time was when I thought I, too, should
one day have been a Greystoke. Well, well! God be merciful to us poor
dreamers, and poor sinners too!"
Then, with slower step than she is wont, she went after Joan.
My child is gone, and I feel like a bereaved mother. I shall see her
again, if it please God, but what a blank she has left! She says when
next Lent comes, if God will, she will visit us, and maybe bring with
her her little Laurentia, that she named after my lost love, because she
had eyes like his. God bless her, my child Joan!
Sister Roberga set forth for Shuldham the same day, in company with
Father Benedict, who desired to travel that road, and in charge of two
of the brethren and of Sister Willa. I trust she may some day see her
errors, and amend her ways: but I cannot felicitate the community at
Shuldham on receiving her.
So now we shall slip back into our old ways, so far as can be under a
Prioress who assuredly will let none of us suffer the moss to grow upon
her, body or soul, so far as she can hinder it. I hear her voice now
beneath, in the lower corridor, crying to Sister Sigred, who is in the
kitchen to-day--
"Did ever man or woman see the like? Burning seacoal on the
kitchen-fire! Dost thou mean to poison us all with that ill smoke?
[Note 6.] And wood in the wood-house more than we shall use in half a
year! Forty logs came in from the King only yesterday, and ten from my
Lord of Lisle the week gone. Sister Sigred, when shall I put any sense
in you?"
"I don't know, Madam, I'm sure!" was poor Sister Sigred's rather
hopeless answer.
I have found out at last what the world is. I am so glad! I asked
Father Mortimer, and I told him how puzzled I was about it.
"My daughter," said he, "thou didst renounce three things at thy
baptism--the world, the flesh, and the Devil. The works of the flesh
thou wilt find enumerated in Saint Paul's Epistle to the Galatians
[Galatians 5, verses 19-21]: and they are _not_ `love, joy, peace,
long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance.'
These are the fruits of the Spirit. What the Devil is, thou knowest.
Let us then see what is the world. It lies, saith Saint John, in three
things: the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of
life. What are these? The lust of the flesh is not love, for that is a
fruit of the Spirit. It is self-love: worshipping thyself, comforting
thyself, advantaging thyself, and regarding all others as either toys or
slaves for that great idol, thyself. The lust of the eye is not
innocent enjoyment of the gifts of God: doth a father give gifts to his
child in order that she may _not_ use and delight in them? It lies in
valuing His gifts above His will; taking the gift and forgetting the
Giver; robbing the altar of God in order to deck thine idol, and that
idol thyself. Covetousness, love of gain, pursuit of profit to
thyself--these are idolatry, and the lust of the eye. The pride of
life--what is this? Once more, decking thyself with the property of
God. Show and grandeur, pomp and vanity, revelling and folly--all to
show thee, to aggrandise thee, to delight thee. The danger of abiding
in the world is lest the world get into thee, and abide in thee. Beware
of the thought that there is no such danger in the cloister. The world
may be in thee, howsoever thou art out of the world. A queen may wear
her velvet robes with a single eye to the glory of God, and a nun may
wear her habit with a single eye to the glory of self. Fill thine heart
with Christ, and there will be no room left for the world. Fill thine
heart with the world, and no room will be left for Christ. They cannot
abide together; they are contrary the one to the other. Thou canst not
saunter along the path of life, arm-in-arm with the world, in pleasant
intercourse. Her face is not toward the City of God: if thine be, ye
must go contrary ways. `How can two walk together, except they be
agreed' what direction to pursue? And remember, thou art one, and the
world is many. She is strong enough to pull thee round; thou art not at
all likely to change her course. And the peril of such intercourse is
that the pulling round is so gradually effected that thou wilt never see
it."
"But how am I to help it, Father?"
"By keeping thine eye fixed on God. Set the Lord alway before thee. So
long as He is at thy right hand, thou shalt not be moved."
Father Mortimer was silent for a moment; and when he spoke again, it was
rather to himself, or to God, than to me.
"Alas for the Church of God!" he said. "The time was when her baptismal
robes were white and spotless; when she came out, and was separate, and
touched not the unclean thing. Hath God repealed His command thus to
do? In no wise. Hath the world become holy, harmless, undefiled--no
longer selfish, frivolous, carnal, earth-bound? Nay, for it waxeth
worse and worse as the end draws nearer. Woe is me! has the Church
stepped down from her high position as the elect and select company of
the sons of God, because these daughters of men are so fair and
bewitching? Is she slipping back, sliding down, dipping low her once
high standard of holiness to the Lord, bringing down her aim to the
level of her practice, because it suits not with her easy selfishness to
gird up her loins and elevate her practice to what her standard was and
ought to be? And she gilds her unfaithfulness, forsooth, with the name
of divine charity! saying, Peace, peace! when there is no peace. `What
peace, so long as the whoredoms of thy mother Jezebel and her
witchcrafts are so many?' They cry, `Speak unto us smooth things'--and
the Lord hath put none such in our lips. The word that He giveth us,
that must we speak. And it is, `Come out of her, My people, that ye be
not partakers of her sins, and that ye receive not of her plagues.' Ye
cannot remain and not partake the sins; and if ye partake the sins, then
shall ye receive the plagues. `What God hath joined together, let not
man put asunder.'" [Note 7.]
Thank God for this light upon my path! for coming from His Word, it must
be light from Heaven. O my Lord, Thou art Love incarnate, and Thou hast
bidden us to love each other. Thou hast set us in families, and chosen
our relatives, our neighbours, our surroundings. From Thine hand we
take them all, and use them, and love them, in Thee, for Thee, to Thee.
"We are taught of God to love each other." We only love too much when
we love ourselves, or when we love others above Thee. And "the command
we have of Thee is that he who loveth Thee, love his brother also"--the
last word we hear from Thee is a promise that Thou wilt come again, and
take us--together, all--not to separate stars, but to be with Thee for
ever. Amen, Lord Jesu Christ, so let it be!
It is several weeks since I have seen Margaret, otherwise than in
community. But to-night I heard the timid little rap on my door, and
the equally timid "Annora?" which came after. When Margaret says that
word, in that tone, she wants a chat with me, and she means to inquire
deprecatingly if she may have it.
"Come in, darling," I said.
Since Father Mortimer gave me leave to love any one, any how, so long as
I put God first, I thought I might say "darling" to Margaret. She
smiled,--I fancied she looked a little surprised--and coming forward,
she knelt down at my feet, in her favourite attitude, and laid her
clasped hands in my lap.
"Is there some trouble, Margaret?"
"No, dear Annora. Only little worries which make one feel tired out:
nothing to be properly called trouble. I am working under Mother Ada
this week, and--well, you know what she is. I do not wish to speak evil
of any one: only--sometimes, one feels tired. So I thought it would
help me to have a little talk with my sister Annora. Art thou weary
too?"
"I think I am rested, dear," said I. "Father Mortimer has given me a
word of counsel from Holy Writ, and it hath done me good."
"He hath given me many an one," she saith, with a smile that seemed half
pleasure and half pain. "And I am trying to live by the light of the
last I had--I know not if the words were Holy Writ or no, but I think
the substance was--`If Christ possess thee, then shalt thou inherit all
things.'"
She was silent for a moment, with a look of far-away thought: and I was
thinking that a hundred little worries might be as wearying and wearing
as one greater trouble. Suddenly Margaret looked up with a laugh for
which her eyes apologised.
"I could not help thinking," she said, "that I hope `all things' have a
limit. To inherit Mother Ada's temper would scarcely be a boon!"
"All good things," said I.
"Yes, all good things," she answered. "That must mean, all things that
our Lord sees good for us--which may not be those that we see good for
ourselves. But one thing we know--that if we be His, that must be,
first of all, Himself--He with us here, we with Him hereafter. And next
to that comes the promise that they which are Christ's, with whom we
have to part here, will be brought home with us when He cometh. There
is no restriction on the companying of the Father's children, when they
are gathered together in the Father's House."
I knew what she saw. And I saw the dear grey eyes of my child Joan; but
behind them, other eyes that mine have not beheld for fifty years, and
that I shall see next--and then for ever--in the light of the Golden
City. Softly I said--[Note 8.]
"`_Hic breve vivitur, hic breve plangitur, hic breve fletur;
Non breve vivitur, non breve plangitur, retribuetur_.'"