Mariquita's profession took place fourteen months after her father's
second marriage. Her brother was already an accomplished fact; he was,
indeed, six weeks old and present (not alone) on the occasion. He was
startlingly like his father, a circumstance not adverse to his future
comeliness as a man, but which made him a little portentous as a baby.
Don Joaquin on the day of his birth wrote to the rector of the college
whom he had met at Loretto with many additional inquiries. Mariquita
first beheld her brother when, fortunately, his father and her own was
not present, for she laughed terribly at the great little black creature
with eyes and nose at present much too big. He looked about fifty and
had all the solemnity of that distant period of his life.
"_Isn't_ he a thorough Spaniard?" Sarella demanded, pretending to pout
discontentedly. But Mariquita saw very clearly that she was as proud of
her baby as Don Joaquin himself. Since his birth Sarella's letters had
been full of him, and she thought of _his_ clothes now. She had
persuaded her husband, as a thank-offering for his son, to give a
considerable piece of ground, in a beautiful situation, not a mile from
the homestead, as the site of the future Church, Convent, and
Sanatorium.
* * * * *
The beautiful and bright chapel of the Carmelite convent was free of
people; two prie-dieus, side by side, had been placed at the entrance of
the church. Towards these Mariquita, dressed as a bride, walked, leaning
on her father's arm. She had always possessed the rare natural gift of
walking beautifully. No one in the church had ever seen a bride more
beautiful, more radiant, or more distinguished by unlearned grace and
dignity.
Among the congregation, but nearest to the two prie-dieus, knelt
Sarella and Mr. Gore.
Behind their grille the nuns were singing the ancient Latin hymn of
invocation to the Holy Ghost.
Presently the Archbishop in noble words set out the Church's doctrine
and attitude concerning "Holy Religion," especially in reference to the
Orders called Contemplative, for no Catholic Order of religion can be
anything but contemplative, in its own degree and fashion. He dwelt upon
the thing called Vocation, and the vocation of every human soul to
heaven, each by its own road of service, love, and obedience; then upon
the more exceptional vocation of some, whereby God calls them to come to
Him by roads special and less thronged by travellers to the Golden Gate;
pointing out that the Church, unwavering guardian of Christian liberty,
in every age insisted on the freedom of such souls to accept that Divine
summons as the rest are free to go to Him by the ways of His more
ordinary and usual Providence. He spoke of the Church's prudence in this
as in all else, and of the courses enjoined by her to enable a sound
judgment to be made as to the reality of such exceptional vocation; and
so of postulancy, novitiate, and profession.
His words ended, the "bride" and her father rose from their knees and
after (on his part the usual genuflection) and on hers a slow and
profound reverence, they turned and walked down the church as they had
come, she leaning upon his arm. After them the whole congregation moved
out of the chapel, and went behind them to the high wooden gates behind
which was the large garden of the "enclosure." Grouped before these
gates all waited, listening to the nuns slowly advancing towards them
from the other side, out of sight, but audible, for they were singing as
they came. Slowly the heavy gates opened inwards, and the Carmelites
could be seen. In front stood one carrying a great wooden crucifix. The
faces of none of them could be seen, for their long black veils hung,
before and behind, down to the level of their knees, leaving only a
little of the brown habit visible.
Mariquita embraced her father, and Sarella spoke a low word to Gore,
who stood on one side of Sarella, went forward with a low reverence
towards the Crucifix, kissed its feet, and then turned; with a profound
curtesy she greeted those who had gathered to see her entrance into Holy
Religion, and took her farewell of "the world," the gates closed slowly,
and among her Sisters she went back to the chapel.
The congregation returned thither also. Many were softly weeping; poor
Sarella was crying bitterly. Her husband was not unmoved, but his grave
dignity was not broken by tears. Gore could not have spoken, but there
was no occasion for speech.
Behind the nun's grille in the chapel the little community was gathered,
Mariquita among them, no longer in her bride's dress, but in the brown
habit without scapular or leathern belt.
The Archbishop advanced close to the grille and put to her many
questions. What did she ask? Profession in the order of holy religion of
Mount Carmel. Was this of her own free desire? Yes. Had any coerced or
urged her to it? No one. Did she believe that God Himself had called her
to it? Yes. And many other questions.
Then the Archbishop blessed the scapular, and it was put upon her by her
Sisters, as in the case of the belt. So with each article of her nun's
dress, sandals and veil.
Thereafter, upon ashes, she lay upon the ground covered by a Pall, and
De Profundis was sung.
So the solemn rite proceeded to its end. Afterwards the new Religious
sat in the parlor of the grille, or "speak-room," and the witnesses kept
it full for a long time, as in succession they went to talk to her where
she sat behind the grille.
The last of all was Gore. He only went in as the last of the groups came
out.
"I was afraid you might not come," Mariquita told him. "Thank you for
coming. If you had not come I should have been afraid that you felt it
sad. There is nothing sad about it, is there?"
"Indeed nothing."
There was something in her voice that told him she was gayer than of
old, happy she had always been. Though she smiled radiantly she did not
laugh as she said:
"I know the _ceremonies_ are rather harrowing to the lookers-on. (I
heard someone sob--dear Sarella, I'm afraid.) But not to _us_. One is
not sad because one has been allowed to do the one thing one wanted to
do? Is one?"
"Not when it is a great, good thing like this."
"Ah, how kind you are! I always told you you were the kindest person I
had ever met. Yes the _thing_ is great and good--only you must help me
to do it in God's own way, in the way He wishes it done. You will not
get tired of helping, by your prayers for me, will you?"
"Of course I never shall."
Presently she said, not laughing now either, but with a ripple like the
laughter of running water in her voice, "You can't think how I like it
all, how amusing some of it is! One has to do 'manual labor'--washing
pots and pans, and cleaning floors; I believe it is supposed to be a
little humiliating, and meant to keep us humble. And you know how used
I am to it. I'm afraid of its making me conceited--I do it so much
better than the Sisters who never did anything like that at home. Mother
Prioress is always afraid, too, that I shan't eat enough, and that I
shall say too many prayers. I fell into a pond we have in our garden,
and she was terrified, thinking I must be drowned; no one could drown in
it without standing on her head. I was trying to get a water-lily, so I
fell in and came out frightfully muddy and smelly, too.... You must be
kind to Sarella; she is so good, and has been so good to me. I shall
never forget what you and she did for me. Write to her if you go away,
and tell her all about yourself."
"What there is to tell."
"Oh, there will be lots. You are not such a bad letter-writer as
that...."
So they talked, the small, trivial, kindly talk that belongs to
friendship, and showed him that Mariquita was more Mariquita than ever,
now she was Sister Consuelo. Her father liked the Spanish name, without
greatly realizing its reference to Our Lady of Good Counsel.
THE END