TROUBLES.
IT was I think, about a year after our adventures in the caverns, that
Dénise died. She was the only pupil left except Amabel, Desireè and
myself—Desireè affected great devotion about that time, and Mother
Prudentia rejoiced over her as a brand plucked from the burning;
but I think Mother Superior considered her a brand that would bear
watching—as indeed she was, and one that was destined to kindle a great
fire.
Dénise had always been a delicate girl, more so even than Amabel
herself. She would never allow that she was ill, however, and used
to join in all our sports and latterly made herself very useful in
the house and garden. She was one of those people for whom everything
will grow, and she loved flowers with an absolute passion. But by and
by, she began to grow thin and to have a very little cough. She had a
lovely complexion which seemed to grow more beautiful day by day, and
her eyes were brighter than ever. We noticed that she became rather
silent, though she was always cheerful—and we were sometimes inclined
to murmur when Mother Prudentia excused her from one duty after
another, and Sister Lazarus cooked all sorts of nice things for her,
whereas our own table grew plainer all the time.
But at last we found out the truth. Dénise was taken suddenly ill in
chapel. She fainted and was carried out by Mother Prudentia. She did
not come to her own bed that night, and in the morning Mother told us
with solemnity that Dénise would never sleep in that bed again—that
she had been taken with bleeding at the lungs and might indeed be
considered a dying person.
"If she lives to see the snowdrops come, it will be a wonder!" said the
dear Mother, wiping her eyes. "I have long known that death had set his
seal on her, but I did not think the end would come so soon. God's will
be done."
"Will her friends come to see her, Mother?" I asked.
"She has no friends except those in these walls, child, not a relation
alive that I know of!" answered the Mother. Adding in a lower tone—"So
much the better for her. It will be all the easier for her to leave
this world."
The Mother turned away and we finished dressing and began to make our
beds by the light of the lamp Mother had left us, for it was mid-winter
and the mornings were dark and cold.
"Lucy, do you suppose that Dénise's friends were Protestants?" asked
Amabel in a low tone.
She always called me Lucy in English fashion—never Lucille, as the
others did.
"I don't know!" I answered. "Why should you think so?"
"Partly from something Mother said once—that she was at least one brand
plucked from the burning, and partly from some things Dénise herself
told me. We were talking about what we could remember before we came
here, and Dénise said, 'My father used to read the Holy Scriptures—I
know that! I often repeat to myself little bits that I remember. He
said prayers that are not in any of our books, and he and my mother
used to sing sweet songs about holy things!' And then she repeated one
about the Lord being a Shepherd."
"That is in the twenty-third Psalm!" said I.
"Yes, but this was in rhyme and had a sweet tune to it!" persisted
Amabel. "I think I could sing it. It makes me think of the time before
we came here. How much can you remember of that time, Lucy?"
"Very little indeed!" said I. "I don't remember my mother at all,
though I often try to do so."
"I recollect exactly how she looked!" said Amabel musingly. "You are
very much like her at times, only you are not so quiet. And I remember
my father too—I am sure I should know him in a moment."
"I suppose if Dénise's friends were Protestants, it is just as well
that they are out of the way," I remarked. And then, struck with a
sudden thought—"But Amabel, I suppose your father and all your friends
are Protestants, because all English people are so. What should we do
if he were to send for us to come back to England?"
"We should go I suppose!" answered Amabel.
"And then should we have to become Protestants?"
"I don't know. They would not make us Protestants if we did not choose
whatever they might do."
"Perhaps your father is a Catholic!" I suggested.
"I have sometimes thought he must be, or he would not have left us here
to be educated!" replied Amabel. "But we need not borrow trouble, Lucy.
Perhaps he may never send for us. I should like that best—to live here
always and become a religious, would not you?"
"I should like to do so if you did!" I answered truly enough, for
imagination was not strong enough to picture for myself a life apart
from Amabel. "But sometimes I think I should like to see what the world
is like, especially England. Perhaps the Protestants are not all so bad
after all!" And here I stopped and looked about me rather alarmed, lest
my audacious remark should have been overheard.
"I am sure our mother was not bad!" said Amabel. "She used to teach us
to say our prayers at her knees."
"How I wish I could remember her as you do!" said I, enviously. "I
wonder why I cannot!"
"I heard Mother Prudentia say once that you were very ill when you came
here and for some time after—perhaps that is the reason!" answered
Amabel, and then recurring to our sick play fellow. "How strange and
sad it will seem not to have Dénise."
"I can't bear to think of it!" said I, beginning to cry. "She has
played with us ever since I remember. It was she who told Mother
Superior about our going into the cavern, and only for her we might
have died there, for I am sure Desireè would never have told!"
"Not she!" said Amabel with decision. "She would not care if the whole
family perished, so she were safe. Lucy, that girl is a hypocrite!"
"You should not say so—she is very devout," said I; for I rather
believed in Desireè's conversion, though I am afraid I did not like her
any the better for it.
"Devout or not, she is a hypocrite!" persisted Amabel in a tone which
surprised me. I had never heard her speak so bitterly, and indeed she
rarely spoke ill of any one. "She despises dear Mother Prudentia, whose
shoes she is not fit to carry, and she hates Mother Superior. I have
seen the looks she casts at them when she thinks herself unobserved.
But come, we must not be here. The bell will ring in a moment."
Dénise lingered a few weeks, and then died full of peace and hope. Her
death was followed, not very long after, by that of Mother Assistant
and one of the sisters, which reduced the number of the professed
members of the household to eight, beside the superiors.
"Our band grows smaller and smaller, and Sister Augustine is failing
fast," I heard Mother Prudentia say after Sister Agnes was buried.
We had all gone to pray at the grave, next day, and I was helping
Mother Bursar to smooth the turf and set some violet roots in it.
"There will soon be no one left, and what will become of the dear
children?" continued Mother Prudentia.
"The Lord will provide, dear sister," answered the Mother. "Our numbers
are indeed small, but we must make up for it by more earnestness. We
have always, as yet, been able to keep up our constant devotion to the
Holy Sacrament of the Altar."
I heard no more at that time, but what I did hear set me to wondering
what would become of us if any more were taken away. This same
constant devotion to the Holy Sacrament must have been great drain on
the strength of our little community, as I remember it. It had been
established by the Mother Angelique in Port Royal some years before
Madame de Longueville and the Bishop of Langris had set up, with this
same Mother's assistance, the short-lived sub-order of Daughters of the
Holy Sacrament.
From morning till night and from night till morning, no matter what
might be the weather, a sister was always on her knees in the church,
before the altar on which was the consecrated wafer. She might seek
relief by lying on her face or by leaning against a post which was
placed for that purpose. Hence the sisters usually spoke of "being at
the post." (I never heard, by the way, that when our Lord was in this
world in bodily presence, he kept the women who ministered to him on
their knees before him. Even Mary sat at his feet.) This duty, which
was not so very hard divided among forty or fifty people, was certainly
a severe burden when it came to be divided among ten or twelve. It
makes me vexed whenever I remember how much strength, both of body and
mind, our good sisters used to waste on just such performances as these.
Sister Augustine had been out of health for many years, and it was not
thought she could survive Mother Assistant very long. Nevertheless,
she lingered till the snows came again, sometimes confined to the
bed, sometimes able to sit up a little. The second week in Advent,
she too was laid away to rest in the cemetery. She had been very low
and desponding through great part of her illness, indeed, almost in
despair. The day that she died, I was sitting with her administering
the sips of wine and water every few minutes which seemed all that
kept her alive. She had been dozing for half an hour—an unusually long
time—and looked so peaceful, I could not find it in my heart to waken
her. At last she opened her eyes, and I hastened to give her the usual
refreshment.
"Thank you, dear child. How kind you are to me!" said she, and then,
pressing my hand, "I have had a lovely vision. I saw the dear Saviour
stand there at the foot of my bed, and heard him say, 'Her sins, which
are many, are forgiven.' It is all clear to me now. He has saved me,
and I shall be saved."
I saw a change had come over her face, and, in great alarm, I would
have called some one, but she held me fast, while her eyes, turned
toward the foot of the bed, seemed to behold some glorious vision. In a
moment, the clasp of her hand relaxed, her eyes rolled upward—she was
gone.
I called Mother Prudentia, but Sister Augustine never breathed again. I
told the Mother what she had said.
"She was happy then in her death," said the good lady, half enviously,
as it seemed. "Such assurance is granted to but very few. Doubtless it
was a reward for the suffering she has borne so long and so patiently."
Had I known as much as I do now, I could have told her that such an
assurance, or even a more certain one, was possible to every true
believer; but I had never seen a whole Bible or heard a Bible sermon at
that time. I say even more certain; for the assurance that our sins are
forgiven rests on no doubtful vision or apparition, but on the rock of
God's sure word and promise.
Our family was now small indeed. It was long since we had received any
novices or postulants, and Desireè, who was to have been professed in
the spring, seemed to have cooled considerably in her devotion. She
used to excuse herself from the early services on the ground of an
ague, and for a time the plea was admitted; but I think even Mother
Prudentia saw through her at last. She concocted a horribly bitter dose
of herb tea, with the addition of half a dozen wood-lice and a handful
of earth worms, and administered the same to Desireè with her own hands
every morning. I suppose Desireè thought the medicine worse than the
early service, for she soon got better under this heroic treatment.
It became evident, however, that she was not the stuff of which a
religious was made. At last matters came to a climax. Desireè was
detected one night stealing out to the orchard, at an hour when all
honest people should be in bed, and a glimpse was caught of a man's
figure vanishing among the trees. If one of the elders of the house had
made the discovery, the thing would doubtless have been managed without
scandal, as the phrase is. But it was poor Sister Frances who saw her
as she was going to relieve Sister Lazarus at the post, and the poor
thing, who was not over-gifted with sense, took her for a ghost. She
uttered such a succession of screams that Sister Lazarus rushed to the
rescue. She caught Desireè in the act of hiding behind a thicket of
evergreens, and plainly saw a man in the garden.
The whole family was aroused by that time, and came flocking to the
scene of action; and so the disgraceful act became known to the whole
sisterhood. Desireè was questioned in vain. She refused to utter a
word. She was at last remanded to a cell, under guard; and as soon as
it was light, a messenger was sent for the Count de Crequi, who was her
stepfather and guardian.
Amabel and I saw him arrive from the window of the deserted oratory,
where we often sat with our work. He was a little withered-looking
man, richly dressed, and with a good deal of personal dignity. He was
accompanied by his nephew and heir, a dissipated-looking young man,
and a number of sufficiently insolent-looking lackeys. The young man
staid outside talking with one of the servants. The count was received
with great ceremony in the parlor, and was invited to visit the holy
relics in the church, but declined, excusing himself on the ground of
want of time. He was closeted for a long time with Mother Superior and
Mother Prudentia, whom I ought to call Mother Assistant, since she had
been elected to that place immediately after Mother Benedict's death.
Meantime, wine and other refreshments were sent out to the young count
and the servants, who made themselves very merry.
The old gentleman departed at last evidently in a very bad humor;
for he swore furiously at the groom when he mounted his horse, and
spurred the poor beast till it bolted and nearly threw him. I saw the
servants laughing among themselves as they rode away. Later in the
day, a covered litter, with two or three mounted servants and a female
attendant, was brought to the gate, and Desireè was carried away. I was
in the little chamber over the porch and saw her go. Her dress had been
changed, and she wore neither veil nor rosary. She looked pale enough
but not at all scared; just as she entered the litter, she turned and
shook her hand at the house with such an expression of malice as I
never saw before. She was then carried away and I have never seen her
since.
I was dying with curiosity, but I knew better than to ask any
questions, which was indeed counted a great misdemeanor among us. I was
pretty sure I should have the tale from Mother Prudentia the first time
we were alone together; opportunity was not likely to be wanting, for I
was her regular assistant in the dairy and still-room, and it was not
long before the whole came out.
"You see, child, the Count de Crequi put his step-daughter here,
thinking to have made a nun of her, and so provide for her at less
expense than it would have taken to marry her. I fancy, too, he did
not care to have her in the way of his nephew. He is still set on his
scheme, and even offered Mother Superior the choice of a double dowry
with Desireè, or the withdrawal of his protection altogether. The worst
is that this new Bishop is related to Desireè's mother."
"What harm should that do?" I asked in wonder! "Surely the Bishop would
not wish Desireè to be received after such a scandal, and when she has
no vocation!"
"Oh my child, as to that—the Bishop is the Bishop of course—but you
can see that it happened very unluckily, because we are in disgrace
already, having never accepted the Pope's bull about Jansenius and the
five propositions."
"What were the five propositions about?" I asked.
"My child, I don't understand any more about them than that cat, which
has no business here," said Mother Prudentia, "scatting" the cat out
of the dairy, and throwing her a bit of cheese curd to console her.
"Mother Superior knows and has explained it to me many a time, but
I have no head for such matters, only one order held by Jansenius
and Abbè St. Cyran, and the rest of the Port Royalists, and believed
that they were cruelly treated and unjustly condemned. And we never
accepted the Pope's bull about Jansenius as most of the Oratorians and
Bernardines did. And you know we always look upon Mother Angelique as a
sort of saint, because she reformed our house."
"But if the Pope is the one and infallible head of the Church—" said I
rather surprised.
"Ah well—the Pope is the Pope, and of course he is infallible as to
matters of faith. But we have always held that in matters of fact he
is not infallible more than any one. And those who know, say that the
propositions which the Pope condemned, are not in Jansenius' book at
all. But however that may be, we are in disgrace and likely to be
turned out at any time. And then what is to become of you children I
don't know. Don't cut that curd any finer, child—you are working twice
as much as is needful."
"I should think Sir Julius would send for us!" said I, a good deal
startled.
"I believe Mother Superior has written to him—" answered Mother
Prudentia—with a scared look, such as she always wore when she had been
betrayed into some indiscretion greater than usual. "Oh! My unlucky
tongue—when shall I ever learn to rule it? However, I know Mother
Superior means to tell you all about it before long—only if she does
you know—" and the good Mother looked rather wistfully at me.
"I understand, dear Mother—" said I, seeing that she wished to caution
me against displaying any previous knowledge of what the Superior had
to tell me.
In effect, it was only a few days before Mother Superior called Amabel
and myself into her room and informed us that she had heard from Sir
Julius Leighton concerning us, and that he would probably send for us
in a short time. She gave us a great deal of excellent advice, and
particularly enjoined it upon us to preserve our faith intact, in the
land of heretics to which we were going.
"Your father, my Aimeè, is a good Catholic, or so I understand!" said
she. "But your step-mother belongs to the so-called reformed religion,
as do your father's sisters; you will therefore need to exercise great
firmness and caution."
I cannot tell all the dear Mother said to us, only she specially warned
us against reading heretical books. She gave us each a reliquary
containing a precious relic. Mine was a bit of the veil of St. Agnes
in a handsome gold and enameled setting. I have it still. She then
addressed herself to me, telling me what it had never entered my head
to think of before—namely, that I was inferior in rank to Amabel, and
must probably be content to take a lower place. (French people cannot
understand that commoners have any rank at all, more than French
bourgeois.) While I was trying to take in and understand this new idea,
Amabel spoke in her gentle decided voice.
"I shall never be separated from Lucy!" said she firmly. "Where she
goes, I will go."
"That will be as your father says, my child!" answered dear Mother,
rather reprovingly. "I hope indeed that you may continue united as you
have been, but remember your father's will is your law, so long as he
does not command anything contrary to our Holy Faith."
Amabel did not reply, but she shut her lips as she was used to do, when
she had made up her mind. Mother Superior gave us some more words of
advice and then dismissed us with her blessing.
We went away in silence, till we reached our old place of retirement in
the Oratory, and then Amabel threw her arms round my neck, and burst
into a passionate flood of tears—an unusual thing for her, for she
seldom cried.
"You won't desert me, will you Lucy!" she sobbed. "It is bad enough
to leave this dear home and all the Mothers and Sisters for a strange
land, but if I must lose you—"
"Now you are borrowing trouble, as you tell me!" said I, holding her in
my arms and trying to console her. "You don't know that any one will
want to separate us."
"I feel as if they would try!" said Amabel, striving to recover her
composure. "But oh! Lucy, promise me that you never will leave me, if
you can help it."
"Of course I will. See, I promise on this holy relic!" said I, kissing
the reliquary which I still held in my hand.
Amabel promised the same, and then to divert her and myself also,
I suggested that we should go down to the chapel, and see if we
could assist Mother Sacristine, who was busy cleaning the silver
candlesticks, and other altar furniture.
[Illustration]