I.

When Sister Dolorosa had reached the summit of a low hill on her way to

the convent, she turned and stood for a while looking backward. The

landscape stretched away in a rude, unlovely expanse of grey fields,

shaded in places by brown stubble, and in others lightened by pale, thin

corn--the stunted reward of necessitous husbandry. This way and that ran

wavering lines of low fences, some worm-eaten, others rotting beneath

over-clambering wild-rose and blackberry. About the horizon masses of

dense and rugged woods burned with sombre fires as the westering sun

smote them from top to underbrush. Forth from the edge of one a few

long-horned cattle, with lowered heads, wound meekly homeward to the

scant milking. The path they followed led towards the middle background

of the picture, where the weather-stained and sagging roof of a

farmhouse rose above the tops of aged cedars. Some of the branches,

broken by the sleet and snow of winters, trailed their burdens from the

thinned and desolated crests--as sometimes the highest hopes of the

mind, after being beaten down by the tempests of the world, droop around

it as memories of once transcendent aspirations.

Where she stood in the dead autumn fields few sounds broke in upon the

pervasive hush of the declining day. Only a cricket, under the warm clod

near by, shrilled sturdily with cheerful forethought of drowsy

hearthstones; only a lamb, timid of separation from the fold, called

anxiously in the valley beyond the crest of the opposite hill; only the

summoning whistle of a quail came sweet and clear from the depths of a

neighbouring thicket. Through all the air floated that spirit of vast

loneliness which at seasons seems to steal like a human mood over the

breast of the great earth and leave her estranged from her transitory

children. At such an hour the heart takes wing for home, if any home it

have; or when, if homeless, it feels the quick stir of that yearning for

the evening fireside with its half-circle of trusted faces, young and

old, and its bonds of love and marriage, those deepest, most enchanting

realities to the earthly imagination. The very landscape, barren and

dead, but framing the simple picture of a home, spoke to the beholder

the everlasting poetry of the race.

But Sister Dolorosa, standing on the brow of the hill whence the whole

picture could be seen, yet saw nothing of it. Out of the western sky

there streamed an indescribable splendour of many-hued light, and far

into the depths of this celestial splendour her steadfast eyes were

gazing.

She seemed caught up to some august height of holy meditation. Her

motionless figure was so lightly poised that her feet, just visible

beneath the hem of her heavy black dress, appeared all but rising from

the dust of the pathway; her pure and gentle face was upturned, so that

the dark veil fell away from her neck and shoulders; her lips were

slightly parted; her breath came and went so imperceptibly that her

hands did not appear to rise and fall as they clasped the cross to her

bosom. Exquisite hands they were--most exquisite--gleaming as white as

lilies against the raven blackness of her dress; and with startling

fitness of posture, the longest finger of the right hand pointed like a

marble index straight towards a richly-embroidered symbol over her left

breast--the mournful symbol of a crimson heart pierced by a crimson

spear. Whether attracted by the lily-white hands or by the red symbol, a

butterfly, which had been flitting hither and thither in search of the

gay races of the summer gone, now began to hover nearer, and finally

lighted unseen upon the glowing spot. Then, as if disappointed not to

find it the bosom of some rose, or lacking hope and strength for further

quest--there it rested, slowly fanning with its white wings the tortured

emblem of the divine despair.

Lower sank the sun, deeper and more wide-spread the splendour of the

sky, more rapt and radiant the expression of her face. A painter of the

angelic school, seeing her standing thus, might have named the scene the

transfiguration of angelic womanhood. What but heavenly images should

she be gazing on; or where was she in spirit but flown out of the

earthly autumn fields and gone away to sainted vespers in the

cloud-built realm of her own fantasies? Perhaps she was now entering

yon vast cathedral of the skies, whose white spires touched the blue

eternity; or toiling devoutly up yon grey mount of Calvary, with its

blackened crucifix falling from the summit.

Standing thus towards the close of the day, Sister Dolorosa had not yet

passed out of that ideal time which is the clear white dawn of life. She

was still within the dim, half-awakened region of womanhood, whose

changing mists are beautiful illusions, whose shadows about the horizon

are the mysteries of poetic feeling, whose purpling east is the palette

of the imagination, and whose up-springing skylark is blithe aspiration

that has not yet felt the weight of the clod it soars within. Before her

still was the full morning of reality and the burden of the mid-day

hours.

But if the history of any human soul could be perfectly known, who would

wish to describe this passage from the dawn of the ideal to the morning

of the real--this transition from life as it is imagined through hopes

and dreams to life as it is known through action and submission? It is

then that within the country of the soul occur events too vast,

melancholy, and irreversible to be compared to anything less than the

downfall of splendid dynasties, or the decay of an august religion. It

is then that there leave us for ever bright, aerial spirits of the

fancy, separation from whom is like grief for the death of the beloved.

The moment of this transition had come in the life of Sister Dolorosa,

and unconsciously she was taking her last look at the gorgeous western

clouds from the hill-tops of her chaste life of dreams.

A flock of frightened doves sped hurtling low over her head, and put an

end to her reverie. Pressing the rosary to her lips, she turned and

walked on towards the convent, not far away. The little footpath across

the fields was well trodden and familiar, running as it did between the

convent and the farmhouse behind her, in which lived old Ezra and Martha

Cross; and as she followed its windings, her thoughts, as is likely to

be true of the thoughts of nuns, came home from the clouds to the

humblest concerns of the earth, and she began to recall certain

incidents of the visit from which she was returning.

The aged pair were well known to the Sisters. Their daughters had been

educated at the convent; and, although these were married and scattered

now, the tie then formed had since become more close through their age

and loneliness. Of late word had come to the Mother Superior that old

Martha was especially ailing, and Sister Dolorosa had several times been

sent on visits of sympathy. For reasons better to be understood later

on, these visits had had upon her the effect of an April shower on a

thirsting rose. Her missions of mercy to the aged couple over, for a

while the white taper of ideal consecration to the Church always burned

in her bosom with clearer, steadier lustre, as though lit afresh from

the Light eternal. But to-day she could not escape the conviction that

these visits were becoming a source of disquietude; for the old couple,

forgetting the restrictions which her vows put upon her very thoughts,

had spoken of things which it was trying for her to hear--love-making,

marriage, and children. In vain had she tried to turn away from the

proffered share in such parental confidences. The old mother had even

read aloud a letter from her eldest son, telling them of his approaching

marriage, and detailing the hope and despair of his wooing. With burning

cheeks and downcast eyes Sister Dolorosa had listened till the close and

then risen and quickly left the house.

The recollection of this returned to her now as she pursued her way

along the footpath which descended into the valley; and there came to

her, she knew not whence or why, a piercing sense of her own separation

from all but the Divine love. The cold beauty of unfallen spirituality

which had made her august as she stood on the hill-top died away, and

her face assumed a tenderer, more appealing loveliness, as there crept

over it, like a shadow over snow, that shy melancholy under which those

women dwell who have renounced the great drama of the heart. She

resolved to lay her trouble before the Mother Superior to-night, and ask

that some other Sister be sent hereafter in her stead. And yet this

resolution gave her no peace, but a throb of painful renunciation; and

since she was used to the most scrupulous examination of her

conscience, to detect the least presence of evil, she grew so disturbed

by this state of her heart that she quite forgot the windings of the

pathway along the edge of a field of corn, and was painfully startled

when a wounded bird, lying on the ground a few feet in front of her,

flapped its wings in a struggle to rise. Love and sympathy were the

strongest principles of her nature, and with a little outcry she bent

over and took it up; but scarce had she done so, when, with a final

struggle, it died in her hand. A single drop of blood oozed out and

stood on its burnished breast.

She studied it--delicate throat, silken wings, wounded bosom--in the

helpless way of a woman, unwilling to put it down and leave it, yet more

unwilling to take it away. Many a time, perhaps, she had watched this

very one flying to and fro among its fellows in the convent elms.

Strange that any one should be hunting in these fields, and she looked

quickly this way and that. Then, with a surprised movement of the hands

that caused her to drop the bird at her feet, Sister Dolorosa

discovered, standing half hidden in the edge of the pale yellow corn a

few yards ahead, wearing a hunting-dress, and leaning on the muzzle of

his gun, a young man who was steadfastly regarding her. For an instant

they stood looking each into the other's face, taken so unprepared as to

lose all sense of convention. Their meeting was as unforeseen as another

far overhead, where two white clouds, long shepherded aimlessly and from

opposite directions across the boundless pastures by the unreasoning

winds, touched and melted into one. Then Sister Dolorosa, the first to

regain self-possession, gathered her black veil closely about her face,

and advancing with an easy, rapid step, bowed low with downcast eyes as

she passed him, and hurried on towards the convent.

She had not gone far before she resolved to say nothing about the

gossip to which she had listened. Of late the Mother Superior had seemed

worn with secret care and touched with solicitude regarding her. Would

it be kind to make this greater by complaining like a weak child of a

trivial annoyance? She took her conscience proudly to task for ever

having been disturbed by anything so unworthy. And as for this meeting

in the field, even to mention that would be to give it a certain

significance, whereas it had none whatever. A stranger had merely

crossed her path a moment and then gone his way. She would forget the

occurrence herself as soon as she could recover from her physical

agitation.