OUR SISTER LEAVES US
O death, where is thy sting?
O grave, where is thy victory?
--New Testament.
Well hath he of great afflictions said, "Man is born unto trouble as the
sparks fly upward." Thus I said unto myself the night following the
fright of my Sister Bernice as I sought in vain for sleep, for I felt
the shadow of some heavy sorrow hanging over us. Not even the prattle of
Sonnlein, or my unremitting daily toil, God's antidote for corroding
care, could efface from my mind the wan features of Sister Bernice, the
extreme delicacy of her fragile form, and the shock she had received
from the witch.
And yet, for so He hath ordained, as time dragged its slow length away,
my forebodings almost vanished, and the days were beginning to pass
"swifter than a weaver's shuttle," so I was not without hope that, after
all, my fears had been the result of a too tender solicitude for my dear
sister.
Thus almost a year passed away in which I saw her in fleeting glimpses,
but not to hold sweet converse with her or once again to feel the touch
of that hand I longed to harbor in mine and shelter from all the storms
of life. How my poor human nature struggled with me those days, so that
at times I thought I must take her in mine arms and with Sonnlein flee
to some retreat where we could pass the rest of our days in perfect love
and peace!
But "happy is the man whom God correcteth," for after all we are not fit
for heaven until all the dross hath been tormented out of us, leaving
the pure gold for his kingdom.
Whether my sister was enduring all these pangs of unspoken, forbidden
love I knew not; I only knew that if by chance our eyes met, which was
all too seldom, I thought I could see in their pure depths a tender,
beseeching longing for me.
And now the glory of autumn had passed away. The fields about the
Kloster lay cold and bare. The naked branches of the trees shivered in
the chilling airs. How bleak and cheerless the world seemed in these
early days of winter before the touch of ice and snow had transformed
the fields and the forests into fairyland!
The last day of November was drawing to its close. The Brethren had
partaken, in solemn thankfulness, of our simple evening meal and I had
gone to my _Kammer_, first putting Sonnlein to rest, after having
recounted to me all the marvelous happenings of the day, and was about
myself to lie down to sleep, when hearing a step near, I looked up and
saw Brother Beissel, even graver and sadder than usual. "Brother Jabez,
Mother Maria hath come saying she would see thee and me." At once a
great fear gripped my heart--something about Bernice.
"I am ready to see her, brother," said I quietly, rising to my feet.
Just outside the door of Zion, for she would not come in, stood our
prioress, a deep sadness in her usually hard and inscrutable features.
When she saw us, she waited first for Brother Beissel to bid her speak,
and then she said quietly, with tears in her voice, for which I ever
felt grateful to her: "Sister Bernice is leaving us; she is dying." And
then duty overcame grief and pity, and looking up steadfastly into our
faces, Mother Maria said, almost sternly, I thought: "Our Sister Bernice
doth entreat us that before she die Brother Jabez may see her. I told
her gently 'twas 'gainst the rules of our order for Sister to be in Zion
or Brother in Kedar."
We stood silent for a few moments, and then, looking at me as though he
would read my very soul, Brother Beissel said to me softly: "Art thou
and our Sister Bernice aught to each other?"
"But for our vows the world would know we loved each other," I said
humbly, but looking not unsteadily into those eyes that seemed to read
men's hearts like open books.
"Now I know for a surety that which thy troubled face hinted to me of
late, my Brother Jabez. I know thou hast fought a hard fight. I command
thee go see our sister, thy Bernice; no fear of idle tongue or hard
letter of the law shall keep us from the true promptings of the spirit."
And then, pushing me gently along, he said: "Go, haste. Mother Maria, it
is my wish that thou take our brother to our sister; be thou the only
one present."
And thus this wonderful man, who had in him all the fiery, unyielding
hatred of sin of a Jeremiah, and yet a woman's tender sympathy, bound me
to him, though oft we differed in opinion, for life.
When Mother Maria and I entered the narrow doorway leading from the
corridor into the cell where Bernice lay, the Sisters gathered there
were sent obediently to their cells, though the hearts of each of the
gentle nuns longed to be present to soften the last moments of their
young sister who for so many years had been a dear companion. Only
Mother Maria and I remained with Bernice. At first, in the dim light of
the little paper lantern, she did not seem to notice me as I knelt down
beside her, Mother Maria standing in the doorway and so thoughtfully
filling it that no one could see into this little chamber already
hallowed by the presence of the angel of death.
As I knelt there I took one of my sister's dear, white, wasted hands
into mine, and lifting into my arm her head, from which flowed the
golden masses of hair that gilded the hard, wooden pillow, I murmured to
her, "Bernice"; and as she opened those eyes that had ever the look of
heaven in them, I breathed softly to her, "Tis thy Brother Jabez; dost
not know me?"
And then she looked at me with understanding in her gaze and whispered
so weakly I thought my heart would burst with love and grief: "I know
thee; I am so happy." And as she said this, she smiled so sweetly I held
her closer in my arms, our souls meeting in our first kiss.
For many moments I knelt sheltering her dear head in mine arms, each of
us unspeakably happy that now even, though in the hour of death, we
could say freely with our lips that which our hearts had told each other
long ago. Outside was stillness, and so inside the hall. Mother Maria
still kept her watch in the doorway, grim and sad, as though she neither
saw nor heard my sister and me.
"I could not leave thee without telling how I loved thee," she
whispered, lifting up the hand I had not imprisoned in mine, and
resting it on my shoulder, where it lay like a lily. "I tried so hard to
forget thee, but since that love feast--thou knowest which one--thou
wast ever with me."
"That love feast was paradise, my beloved sister; but thou must not talk
so much, I fear."
"Nay, I know my end is near; I am not afraid now."
In a few moments she whispered shyly, "Dost remember the witch?"
"Yea, I could have slain her for frightening thee so."
"But when thou didst take me into thy great arms and soothe and pity me
like some little child, I was almost glad I had seen the witch."
"Thou foolish girl, how canst care so for such a great, clumsy, stupid
brother like me?"
She lay a few minutes as if she could not whisper more, and then, after
I thought she had forgotten what I had just said, she whispered, but
more feebly than before, "Thou'rt not clumsy or stupid; thou art so
strong but so tender--I love thee better than life." And then she seemed
so exhausted I was obliged to lay her head off my breast to her pillow
thinking she could breathe more easily, but the gentle pressure of her
hand on my shoulder and the nestling touch of the one on my own told me
she preferred it thus.
I know not how long I held her in mine embrace, but she again opened
her eyes and whispered, pausing between each word, "Thou wilt be with me
in heaven?"
"Yea, _mein Liebchen_, forever and forever," I murmured holding her to
me still more closely, whereat she smiled and whispered, but so low and
broken I could hardly hear it, "I am so happy," and then I felt a
shudder pass through the dear frame in mine arms; her head fell limp and
lifeless from my shoulder, and I knew that from within the narrow walls
of the bare, cold cell, and out through the dark night, there was
winging its way to heaven the soul of my sister, my Bernice.
For a long while I knelt holding her in mine arms, the tears raining
down my face as never since childhood. Then I laid her down on the bench
which could no longer crucify the earthly habitation of my Bernice; I
kissed the dear face for the last time, and then rising, I said as
calmly as I could to Mother Maria, "Our sister hath gone to her home,"
and then I left the "House of Sorrow" with the light of a great peace in
mine heart, for though I knew that earth had lost much of its sweetness,
yet the bitterness of my short sojourn here was as naught compared with
the added bliss heaven now held for me.
Thus Sister Bernice was the first flower to die of the Roses of Saron
and the first of the Solitary to be laid away in the little God's Acre
down in the meadow by the roadside. Mine own wish, had it been
expressed, would have been that our sister be buried in the simplicity
which marked her gentle life, but those in authority thought it best to
make her burial an occasion for all the imposing honors and ceremonies
of our Order.
At midnight, while earth and sky were held in intense darkness--the
chill, wintry winds sighing a mournful requiem more sad and mournful
even than the chanting by the heavy-hearted Sisters and Brothers, of the
dirge composed in loving memory by Sister Foeben--six of the Brothers
clad in their long cowls tenderly and reverently carried the body of our
dear Bernice from Mount Sinai down to the narrow little _Kammer_ where
all that was of earth of her could rest in peace until the call of the
last day.
My heart was too full to note all this but dimly and to hear but faintly
our footfalls upon the hard ground and the solemn tolling of the convent
bells, the flickering rushlights shedding a weird, ghostly light over
the sad, thin line of mourners.
Tenderly as a fond mother lays her child to sleep at evenfall we laid
our sister to rest with all the symbolic beauty of the ritual of the
Brotherhood of Zion and then having performed our last sacred offices
for our departed one, we filed slowly back to our cells. The room Sister
Bernice had occupied in Kedar was now closed to remain so for some
time, and upon the walls of her _Kammer_ was hung a legend, or
_Segenspruch_, composed by our Brother Beissel, and lovingly executed by
the Sisters in their beautiful Gothic penwork:
"_Bernice, Freue dich in ihrem gang unter der Schafweide, und sey
freundlich u. huldreich unter den Liebhabern._"
Which meaneth: "Bernice, enjoy yourself in your sojourn among the sheep
pastures and be affable and gracious among the suitors."
Ah me, ah me!