A SUMMONS.
IN the course of a week, all things had settled into their usual way
with us. The ornaments were restored to the church, and the damage to
the building was repaired as far as possible by workmen sent by the
bishop from Toulon. The bishop praised our community to the skies, and
caused a contribution to be taken for our benefit among the good folks
of Toulon, who were very liberal on the occasion. The nuns took notice
of it as a good omen, that the Mother Angelique's rosebush, which had
been cut down, began directly to sprout from the root. I really think
this little accident gave them more comfort and hope than all the
bishop's assistance and promises.
Another consoling circumstance was the recession of the water in the
subterranean pool. Mother Prudentia, who had had occasion to visit the
vaults several times, to bring out from their concealment, things which
had been hidden away on the night of the attack, told us that the water
was falling rapidly, so that places heretofore impassable were now
quite dry. It seemed as if the spirit which dwelt in those awful depths
was content with the victims he had received, and wished for no more.
I have said that things fell into their usual train, and so it seemed
at first; but presently it became apparent that the health of our dear
mother superior was rapidly failing. Though over sixty at the time of
the robbers' visit, she had hitherto shown her age very little, but
now she seemed to grow old all at once. She had a cough, and a slight
spitting of blood, and began to be subject to fainting fits. She
herself attributed her illness to a cold taken in the cavern. I think
now that the strain of that terrible night, with, perhaps, the added
agitation of seeing again the lover she had so long believed dead, were
too much for a frame already enfeebled with fasting.
I do verily believe that those people who are said to bear trouble
the best are those who are usually most affected by it. Some, indeed,
get the credit of enduring with patience and cheerfulness things
which really trouble them very little, and such people are usually
excessively impatient of the grief of others. But I must not stop to
moralize, or I shall never get to the end of my story.
One day, the mother superior announced to the family as a settled
thing that in the course of the following October, the community
would be removed to a much smaller but more comfortable house in the
neighborhood of Toulon, which was at that very time being fitted up
for its reception. This house, she said, was a small chateau, formerly
called Fleurs, which belonged to the Count de Crequi, and had been
given by him to the community on condition that certain services should
be performed in perpetuum for the soul of his unfortunate heir and
nephew, who had been drowned while fishing.
We were surprised enough to hear this news, for the Count de Crequi was
well-known to be an out and out infidel, if not an atheist. In France
you may have no religion at all with impunity. It is even rather a
genteel thing to believe in nothing and nobody but Monsieur Voltaire;
but if you set up to have a religion at all, you must be content to
take that which the king prescribes for you.
But the death of the young count was a terrible blow to his uncle, who
had no son and was not like to have any. And it may be, that the poor
old man thought it best, in case he might, after all, be mistaken, to
have friends at court, as it were.
He was, indeed (so I have since understood), held up afterward as a
shining instance of conversion by the Jesuits, under whose influence
he fell—but I never heard that his conversion led him to give up
that twenty-five acres of meadow, which had been exacted from our
sisterhood as the price of his protection, or to pay for the ruin of
our buildings, caused by his secret emissaries on night of the robbery.
However this might be, there was no doubt that he had given us a new
dwelling, to which we were all to be removed before the coming on of
cold weather.
The church was to be kept up, with a resident priest to say mass. The
other parts of the building would be closed.
This news was received with varying feelings by the sisters. The elders
wept, and regretted that they must leave the place which had been their
home so long, and the graves of those who had been their companions in
youth. The younger sisters were divided, as was natural, between sorrow
at parting and the novelty of a new house and situation.
"I shall never live to see the day!" said poor old Mother Baptista.
"And I don't wish to. I was brought to this house when I was too young
to remember anything. I was professed at fourteen, * and in all these
years, I have not been outside of these walls. Here I have lived, and
here I will die and be buried."
* A nun would not be received at this age in any order I am
acquainted with, but such things were common enough at that time
in France.
"But we must, be obedient, you know, dear mother," said Sister
Filomena, trying to soothe her.
"Of course we must be obedient. I hope I know that by this time!"
answered the old mother, rather tartly. "All the same, I shall never
leave these walls. I shall be buried here."
"I cannot help hoping that the change will benefit dear mother's
health!" said another sister. "She has never been well since that
dreadful night in the vaults."
"I fear our dear reverend mother will never be well again!" said Mother
Prudentia, shaking her head. "She fails every day. I sometimes think
she will not live to see us settled in our new home."
"It will never be home without her," said Sister Agnes, sadly. "How
many times she has been elected superior. No; I am sure no other place
will seem like home after we have lived here so long."
"So much the better for us, perhaps," returned Mother Prudentia. "You
know, my child, that we are to have here no continuing city, but we
seek one to come."
"Still I cannot help hoping the change may do good," said Sister
Angela. "I sometimes fancy all that water under the house may make
it unhealthy. I wonder if the new house stands in a high and airy
situation."
"It does, I know," said Amabel.
"Why, how should you know anything about it, child?" said Mother
Prudentia, surprised.
"Lucy and I lived there before we came here," answered Amabel. "The
moment reverend mother spoke the name, I remembered the place quite
well. It stands on a hill, and one can see a great way. There are a
good many rooms, and a flower garden, with fountains and a terrace. I
can recollect that. But it is very much smaller than this house."
"So much the better. I never do like to think of these great empty
halls and buildings, especially at night!" said Sister Agnes, as Mother
Prudentia left us. "One never can guess who or what may be lurking in
them."
"You had better not let Mother hear you say so, or she will be sending
you from one end of them to the other!" remarked Sister Angela. "If I
dreaded it as much as you do, I would force myself to do it just for a
mortification."
To do something you particularly dislike, is a great point with some
devout nuns; I have seen a sister ordered to pick up a spider and
let it run over her face, only because she showed a disgust at the
creature. This however, was in the former Mother Assistant's time; I
don't think Mother Prudentia was much given to such performances.
I was naturally very much interested in the prospect of seeing again
the house where we had lived on our first coming abroad. The name of
Fleurs had awakened in my mind certain dim recollections, but it was as
when one strives to recall a dream. I plied Amabel with questions, to
most of which I received rather unsatisfactory answers, for though her
reminiscences were clearer than mine, they were still those of a mere
child.
In the excitement through which we had lately passed, and the prospect
of a change of residence—not to mention our anxiety about dear Mother's
health—we had almost forgotten that we had or were likely to have any
other home than the convent. So that when one day in August, we were
summoned from our task of splitting apricots to dry, to attend to the
Superior, we thought of almost anything, rather than a message from
England. I know my own mind was running on a very different subject,
namely, thinking that I had gone out of bounds that very morning,
having run down to the end of the orchard after a rare butterfly, and
wondering whether Mother had seen me.
We found the dear lady lying back in her great chair, an unusual
indulgence for her who usually sat up straight as an arrow. She looked
thin and worn, and her hands were white and transparent like alabaster;
but her wonderful eyes were as bright as ever, and she had a lovely
color in her cheeks, which I in my ignorance, took for a sign of
returning health. She held an open letter in her hand, and I fancied
that she had been weeping.
We knelt and kissed her hand, and she gave us her blessing as usual.
She then bade us to be seated on two stools, one on each side of her,
and laid a hand on each of our heads.
"My dear children!" said she. "I have heard from Sir Julius Leighton."
We both started, and I forgot all about that wicked butterfly.
"He tells me that being unable to come for you himself, he has sent for
you by the hands of a ship's captain sailing from Newcastle, to bring
you to that town. From thence, you will be sent to the house of Sir
Julius Leighton's sisters, who reside not far from that place. It seems
that this worthy man has brought his sister with him, in order that
you may have a female companion and guardian—a measure which speaks
well for him. This good woman will arrive to-night, and be our guest
for two or three days while your wardrobes are being got in order. And
it must be your business, my children, to make her stay as pleasant as
possible."
We had neither of us spoken, of course, while this address was being
made, but the moment it was finished, Amabel fell on her knees and
burst into a flood of tears.
"Dear Mother, do not send us away among strangers!" said she between
her sobs! "Let us live and die here with you, and the mothers and
sisters we have known so long; you are our only mother on earth, do not
send us away from you."
The lady was affected even to tears; and it was some moments before she
could command her voice to speak.
"Dear child, it is not I who send you away!" said she at last. "I have
no right to detain you when your father demands your presence. Be
calm, my Aimeè! I am not able to bear this agitation;" and indeed her
changing color alarmed me.
Amabel made a desperate effort to control herself, and succeeded so far
as to become quiet, though she could not speak.
"I would indeed gladly see you both in the safe shelter of the
cloister," continued dear Mother, stroking Amabel's head, as she still
knelt beside her; "but even that shelter is not always a protection in
these days. But your father has the right to dispose of you, and if he
requires that you should return to him, you have no choice but to obey.
It is hard for me to part with you, my little ones, but the parting
must have come at any rate, since I must soon leave you, even if you
did not leave me."
"Dear Mother do not say so!" I ventured to say.
"We all hope that the change will do you good; everyone says that the
new house is in a more healthy situation than this."
"I shall remove to another house before that change is made, my
child;—even to that house which is not made with hands. But do not let
it grieve you over-much. To me it is a joyful prospect, especially as I
shall leave the little flock I have ruled so long, in comparative ease
and safety. But now listen, my little ones, to the last words I may be
able to say to you—for my strength may fail at any time, and I believe
my end to be nearer than Father Brousseau thinks."
She then proceeded to give us much advice regarding our future
conduct—excellent, I am sure, from her own way of looking at things,
though some of it was quite impossible to any one living in the world.
But most of it was very good, and has always been of use to me.
And I may say here, that since I have myself had the ordering of a
family of young people, I have found the advantage of many things
I learned under our dear mother's rule—such as the habit of doing
everything in the exact time of it, and not letting one duty, as it
were, tread on the heels of another. At St. Jean, when the bell struck
the hour of recreation, all work must be dropped on the instant; and
the same was true of our play. One might think this would be often very
inconvenient, but knowing that it must be so, one learned to make one's
arrangements accordingly, and thus much time was saved.
Then we acquired habits of neatness and order, to do even the least
thing in the best way, and turn everything to the best account. Many a
child's garment have I seen got out of bits of linen or flannel, that
an ordinary English housewife would throw away; many a warm and even
pretty rug, for the feet of an invalid or an old person. And if the
girls in our school can darn a rent, or put on a patch, or work a heel
into a worn-out stocking, better than anybody in the duchy—though I say
it that shouldn't—it is owing at second hand to the teaching of dear
Mother Prudentia.
Of course, Amabel and I waited with no little impatience for the
arrival of our traveling companion. She came about three o'clock,
and was kindly received and lodged in the most comfortable place the
sisters could prepare for her, while Amabel and myself waited on her.
She was a very good specimen of a middle-class English woman—fat and
fair, with a clear, rosy complexion, and undeniably red hair, which,
nevertheless, was both pretty and becoming. She was about forty years
old, and had a frank, motherly way with her which made me take to her
at once. She looked a good deal surprised and rather awe-stricken at
the strange place in which she found herself, but she responded with
all due politeness to the apologies which Sister Agnes made concerning
her lodgings, and which we translated to her as well as we could—for
though Mrs. Thorpe could speak French after a fashion, she did not
understand it well.
"My dears, do ask the good lady not to trouble herself," said she, at
last. "What is good enough for her is certainly good enough for any one
like me. I am a sailor's wife anyhow, and used to roughing it in all
sorts of ways."
Sister Agnes was finally satisfied, and took her departure; and Mrs.
Thorpe sat down on the side of the narrow bed and began to unpack the
great bag she had brought in her hand.
"Your father has sent you each a purse of money," said she, producing
them; "there ought to be five guineas in each; count them and see.
Always count money as soon as you receive it. Is it all right?"
We satisfied her on this point. What a wonderful novelty it seemed to
have some money of our own.
"I am to provide you new clothes, and all you want for your journey,"
continued Mrs. Thorpe. "But I think, if you will allow me to judge,
that you had better not buy a great deal in Toulon, as fashions are so
different here and in England, and I fancy my ladies, your aunts, will
not much relish French ways."
We professed ourselves anxious of being guided by Mrs. Thorpe's
judgment in all things, and Amabel asked:
"Do you know my aunts, madame?"
"Why, no, not to say know them. They are great ladies, you see, and
I am but a seaman's widow, keeping a shop for laces and small wares
in Newcastle. But they have been in my shop, so that I know them well
by sight. My dears," she added, abruptly changing the subject, as she
pulled out from her bag—which seemed to have no bottom—a couple of
bulky parcels, "just see! I have ventured to bring the lady of the
house—I don't know what to call her—"
"The mother superior," said I.
"Well, I have taken the liberty, not knowing exactly what she would
like, to bring her a parcel of coffee and loaf sugar. Do you think she
would be offended at the liberty?"
"No, indeed!" said I. "Dear mother is never offended when any one
wishes to please her, and I am very glad you have brought the things.
Sister Lazarus was saying only yesterday how much she wished she had
some coffee to tempt Mother Superior, for she hardly eats anything at
all."
"Then I am in the nick of time; but, excuse me, my dears, why did not
Sister Lazarus—it seems a queer name for a woman—why did not she send
and buy some coffee, if the lady wished for it. When a delicate person
takes a fancy for some particular thing to eat, 'tis always best to
supply it at once, before they change their minds."
"She would have been glad to do so, but she had no money, I believe," I
answered. "We are a very poor community nowadays. I heard Mother Bursar
say she should have no more money till she sold her oil."
"Lack-a-day, poor thing! But in that case methinks I would sell some
of those grand vases and things I saw in the church," said Mrs. Thorpe
with decision. "However, that is no business of mine. I am glad you
think the things won't come amiss. And is the poor lady very ill?"
"Father Brousseau thinks she will never be well!" said Amabel sadly.
"Poor thing! But no doubt she is prepared to go, and the change will
be a blessed one. From what you say, I should think she must be a good
Christian according to her lights, and a man is accepted according to
what he hath, and not according to what he hath not."
Amabel and I looked at each other surprised and half offended, while
the good woman talked on, unconscious of offence, asking many questions
and making many shrewd remarks.
We left her at last to rest a little before supper, and retired by
ourselves to compare notes on our new acquaintance.
"Well, what do you think about her?" I asked.
"I like her," said Amabel with decision. "She is not like our sisters
here, of course, but I think she is good and kind."
"Yes, it was nice in her to bring mother the coffee and sugar, and to
give us these things," said I, examining the pretty and convenient
"equipages" for the pocket which Mrs. Thorpe had presented to us. "But
I did not like the way she spoke about dear mother."
"She is a Protestant, you know, and I suppose our ways are as strange
to her, as hers are to us," replied Amabel. "Of course if they think
they are right, they must believe we are wrong."
"But, Amabel, it seems that your aunts are Protestants," said I, for
Mrs. Thorpe had told us as much. "How shall we get on with them?"
"It will be time enough to decide that when we are there," replied
Amabel. "I don't think Protestants are all bad, Lucy. My mother was
one, and so was yours, and I am sure she never taught us anything that
was not good."
"Mother Superior says no Protestants will be saved except by reason of
their invincible ignorance," I remarked, "or unless they are capable
of acts of pure love to God, which are very difficult even to good
Catholics. And besides, Amabel, our 'examination of conscience' says
it is a betrayal of the Catholic Church to say that all religions are
good, and that a man may be saved in one as well as another, and that
it is a great sin even to read a heretical book or hear a heretical
preacher. Now suppose that your aunts should insist on our going to the
English Church with her—what shall we do?"
"We shall see when the time comes," said Amabel. "I never found much
use in making up my mind beforehand. Either the thing you expect
never comes, or else it comes in such a different way that all your
preparations are of no use at all."
This was Amabel's way, and has been all her life, and certainly it has
seemed to serve her very well. I have never seen any one pass through
with so little of what we call fretting. She has had many serious
troubles, but very few worries, while I must confess I have generally
had my troubles three times over—before they came, while they lasted,
and after they were gone.
After supper Mother Prudentia came to us with a very grave and sad face.
"The English lady is to go to Mother Superior, in her own room, at
once," said she.
"In her own room?" I repeated, very much surprised.
The "Community Rooms" in a convent are sacred from any profane foot, so
that one may be a pupil in such a house a dozen years and never enter
them. The peculiar circumstances of our family placed Amabel and myself
on a somewhat different footing from ordinary pupils, so that we were
treated rather as postulants, but even we had never been in the rooms
which opened from the Superior's parlor.
"Yes," answered the mother sadly. "Dear Mother Superior is not able to
go any farther than the outer room. She tried going to the parlor but
she was not able. I fear she will never descend those stairs again.
You may call madame—I cannot say her name for my life—and lead her to
madame's room."
Mrs. Thorpe was walking with Sister Agnes in the flower garden. It
was this sister's office to attend upon guests, and I think she was
well-pleased with having a chance to exercise it once more. She could
not understand Mrs. Thorpe's French much better than her English, but
happily they were both devoted to flowers, and the language of sympathy
and admiration are much the same all over the world.
We explained to Mrs. Thorpe that she was to go with us to the Superior,
and led her through the long hall and up the great stairs to the lady's
room.
"What a great castle of a place!" said Mrs. Thorpe, looking round her
and speaking in a half whisper. "Where do all these doors go to?"
"To different rooms and cells, I believe," replied Amabel. "I do not
think any of them are used at present. A great deal more than half the
house is shut up. See, this is Mother Superior's door."
Amabel scratched on the door with her nails as our convent fashion was,
and it was opened to us by Mother Prudentia. The Superior received
Mrs. Thorpe very graciously; it was not in her nature to be otherwise
than kind even to a heretic. Mrs. Thorpe was evidently greatly
impressed, and somewhat awe struck with the lady's dignity—nevertheless
she conducted herself toward her with a kind of respectful frank
independence, which made me like her all the more.
They had quite a long conversation, Amabel interpreting where it was
needful. Among other things, the Superior asked Mrs. Thorpe to promise
that she would in no way influence us in matters of religion.
"That I cannot promise, because it may not be in my power, my lady!"
answered Mrs. Thorpe frankly. "I will promise so much as this, that I
will enter into no arguments with the young ladies; for which indeed,
I am no ways qualified, being but a plain woman with only wit enough
to read my Bible, and do my duty in that state of life to which it has
pleased God to call me. But I strive as a Christian woman to rule my
household in the fear of God, and according to the lights He has given
me. If these young ladies should be my guests for a time, I can only
promise to be as faithful to them as I would have been to my own girls,
if the Lord had spared them to me."
This pledge which Amabel faithfully translated, seemed to give dear
mother more satisfaction than I should have expected. I think she was
so near the Eternal gates, that the light was already shining for her,
which makes all things plain. Mother Prudentia was called out at this
moment, and there was a little silence.
"She ought not to talk any more!" whispered Mrs. Thorpe. "She is tired
out now."
The words were not out of her mouth, before dear Mother fainted
entirely away.
"Don't be alarmed! It is but a fainting-fit," said Mrs. Thorpe,
catching her in her arms, laying her back in her chair and applying to
her nose a smelling-bottle, which she took from her pocket—all in the
space of an instant. "Run one of you, and bring some wine or strong
waters, and call one of the ladies—you, my dear, open the window and
help me to loosen her dress."
As we unloosed her girdle and opened her dress, I saw that she wore a
sharp cross on her bosom and that her undergarment was of the roughest
woolen, which must have been very irritating and distressing in hot
weather. I glanced at Mrs. Thorpe, and saw a look of anger and disgust
on her honest face.
"Poor thing, poor thing!" she muttered. "As if she could not trust the
Lord to send her all the trouble she needed, without making more for
herself; they must needs be wise, above what is written—there, don't
cry, my dear, she is coming to herself. See, her lips are getting quite
a color, poor lady."
Mother Prudentia now appeared, and with her help, Mother Superior was
so far revived as to be moved to her bed. Father Brousseau had come
home by that time, and was at once called in to see her.
"It is the beginning of the end!" said he, as he came out of the room.
"We shall hear the cry at midnight. Behold the Bridegroom cometh; let
all be in readiness to receive Him."
We had our usual recreation after supper, but no one cared for the
merriment which generally took place at that hour. The sisters walked
up and down in threes and fours—it was against our rules for two to
walk together—weeping and talking or entering the little Lady chapel,
which stood in the grounds, to say a prayer before the altar, where
was an image of the Virgin which had worked miracles in its time. This
little chapel had been entirely forgotten at the time of the robbery,
and had been also overlooked and left untouched by the robbers; a
circumstance which was considered a miracle in itself, and brought the
image into greater favor than ever. And by the way, if the worship is
paid not to the image, but to the person whom it represents, I wonder
why some images of the Virgin are so much more sought after than others.
We walked in the garden with Mrs. Thorpe, showed her different places
about the house, and told her the story of the midnight assault.
"And what will be done with the robbers!" said she.
"None of them have been taken!" I answered. "They say the whole thing
will be hushed up, because a noble family is mixed up in it. And we
think—Amabel and I do," I added in a whisper; "that it was the young
Count who was drowned in the vaults; we heard him talking when he was
here before with his uncle, and he had such a curious hoarse voice. I
am sure it was the same."
"Served him right!" said Mrs. Thorpe indignantly. "Pretty doings! A
family of ladies are set upon in their own house, and made to hide like
rats in a damp musty hole, where one at least has got her death; and
it is to be hushed up, forsooth, because a noble family is mixed up
in it? Well! There, I won't say a word—" as Amabel put her finger on
her lip—"but only this to free my mind. I can tell you what, my maids;
sometime or other, there will be a fearful uprising against the nobles
and rulers of this land. It may not come in our day, but it will surely
come. What is that for?" As the bell struck it accustomed signal.
We told her it was for the evening service, and asked her to attend.
Father Brousseau came himself to invite her, but she declined.
"I am not sure that I should be able to join in the worship with a
clear conscience, and I should not like to offend the good ladies by
sitting a mere looker on!" said she. "With your leave I will remain
here."
"All Protestants are not so scrupulous as yourself!" said Father
Brousseau. "I have seen them not only spectators of our services, but
very irreverent, and even noisy ones."
"They are not of my mind, then!" said Mrs. Thorpe. "I have seen the
same thing in my travels, and been disgusted with it."
We went into the church, and left Mrs. Thorpe to amuse herself in the
garden.
By half past eight, as our rule was, we were all in bed, except the
sister at her post in the chapel, and Mother Prudentia and Sister
Filomena (who was one of the tenderest and most skillful of nurses),
who watched with Mother Superior. The priest was right; about midnight
we were all called to our dear Mother's room. The door of her cell was
open, and we all stood or knelt in the outer room, while the priest
administered the last rites of the Church. The Superior was supported
in Mother Prudentia's arms, breathing in soft sighs, but not seeming to
suffer; we watched her, as it seemed, a long time after the rites were
concluded; her face was peaceful, and we could not be sure whether she
breathed or not.
At last she roused herself, turned her head toward us, smiled, and
raised her hand as in blessing; it fell; the dear eyes closed, and the
voice of the priest pronouncing the last solemn words, told us all was
over. We joined in the last prayers, and then withdrew from the chamber
of death; to spend the night in watching, or to cry ourselves to sleep.
The weather was too warm for the funeral to be delayed, and the Bishop
himself came to celebrate it on the third day. I never saw a man so
changed in so short a time; all his patronizing pompous fussiness
was gone; his face was pale and sunken, and he looked in every way
like a man who was not long for this world. I caught myself wondering
whether he and dear Mother would not have served God just as well if
they had married, and brought up a family, as Mrs. Thorpe had told us
many English bishops did; but I put away the thought as blasphemous,
and said several extra Hail Mary, by way of penance. It did not occur
to me, to think that it was not very complimentary to her, to make an
address to her an instrument for punishing myself.
The dear lady was laid in the cemetery, amidst the dust of those who
had gone before her for hundreds of years. The next day, the sisters
held an election and, as every one expected, Mother Prudentia was made
Superior. I am sure a better choice could not have been made on the
whole, though I do not believe she would ever rule the household as
the late mother had done. She herself shrank from the responsibility,
and earnestly wished that Sister Filomena might be chosen; but "ask
nothing, refuse nothing," is the rule in convents (at least it was in
ours) and she could not decline.
It was on the evening of this day, that Amabel and I were very busily
at work. Mrs. Thorpe was in the still-room with Sister Agnes, learning
and imparting wonderful secrets concerning the making of Hungary and
Elder flower waters, and I know not what else. She was improving
rapidly in the matter of French, for she would speak it right or wrong,
laughing at her own blunders, when Sister Agnes was too polite to do
so. With the other sisters she had little or no intercourse except
by bows and smiles; I think they looked upon her as some half-tamed
animal, allowed to run at large, but not exactly safe after all.
Father Brousseau had once or twice tried to draw her into an argument,
but without success. At least, he asked her the favorite question,
which is considered a knock down by Roman Catholics. "Where was the
Protestant church two hundred years ago?"
"Will your Reverence allow me to ask you a question in my turn?" asked
Mrs. Thorpe quietly, but with a smile lurking in her eyes.
"Certainly!" answered the father.
"Suppose then, that one of your flock—a simple unlearned woman like
myself—should be thrown in with a very learned and eloquent Protestant
clergyman, who should strive to draw her into an argument—what would
you advise her to do?"
The good priest smiled in spite of himself.
"But suppose I had the best of the argument, would not that convince
you?" he asked.
"It would convince me that your Reverence was much more skillful in
argument than myself," was the answer; "and I am quite ready to admit
that, now."
"But since you do admit that I am more learned than yourself, ought not
that to make my arguments of weight to you?"
"Well! I do not know about that. I suppose, your Reverence, that the
poor people who thronged to hear St. Peter and St. John, were not
nearly so learned as Gamaliel, and the other Pharisees; but they were
not greatly influenced by them after all."
Mrs. Thorpe spoke with such respectful frankness, that it was
impossible to be offended with her. The priest glanced at us girls,
who with eyes demurely cast down, were listening with all our ears,
shrugged his shoulders, offered his snuff-box, and gave the matter up.
I often thought of this little scene afterwards, when the relations
came to be so changed between these two good people. But all this is by
the way, and I have wandered far from the thread of my story, which I
fear is but a tangle skein at the best.
Amabel and I were sitting, as I said, with a frame between us,
finishing a wonderful bit of needle lace, an article for which our
house was famous. It was Saturday, and on Monday we were to leave the
old house which had been our home so long. We were very silent and
sewed with great diligence, for we were desirous of finishing our work,
which was destined for some church adornment—I forget what.
Presently Sister Angela appeared at the door and mysteriously beckoned
to us.
"What does she want?" said I, pettishly enough. "We shall have no more
than enough daylight to finish our work, and we never can do it by
lamplight."
However, it was my business to obey, and I followed Amabel who had
already risen. Sister Angela led us into a disused storeroom and closed
the door.
"Are you really going away with that heretic woman, and to that
dreadful England?" she asked of Amabel in a whisper.
"I suppose so," said Amabel. "My father has sent for us, and we have no
choice."
"But is your father a Catholic?" asked the sister. "Are you sure?"
"I suppose so. Why?"
"Well, I do not believe he is—not a good one. Madame Thorpe herself
told Sister Agnes that he sometimes went to the English Church."
"Perhaps he has a dispensation," said I.
"Well, at all events these ladies to whom you are going are heretics.
There is no doubt of that."
"I suppose not," said Amabel, "but they may not interfere with our
religion."
"They will. They cannot help it. They will try in every way to pervert
you. Besides, you will be deprived of the sacraments—you will be
perverted and lose your souls. Oh, my children, don't go."
"But we must," said Amabel.
"You need not, if you will listen. Suppose you declare to take the veil
and remain here. This woman has no force wherewith to take you away,
and she will have to go without you. Then if your father should send
again, you could be hidden in some place about the building, or sent
away to some other house where he would never find you."
I looked at Amabel in decided alarm, thinking that if she staid I must
stay too, and not disposed to lose the prospect of change, which was
growing more and more attractive every day.
"But would that be right?" asked Amabel. "I think I ought to obey my
father."
"Not if he is a heretic," said Sister Angela.
"You don't know certainly that he is," said I.
"And, besides, how many nuns have taken the veil against the wishes of
their nearest and dearest friends," added Sister Angela triumphantly.
"Think how St. Agnes left her father's house and ran away to St.
Francis in the middle of the night. Think of the blessed Mother
de Chantal, the friend of St. Francis de Sales—how she left her
children—and, though her eldest son threw himself prostrate on the
door-sill, beseeching his mother with tears and cries, she stepped over
his body and went her way as calmly as if nothing had happened."
There must have been some influence emanating from Mrs. Thorpe after
all, for though I had been brought up to think the Mother de Chantal
a model of all excellence, I began to conceive a disgust for her
directly—I can't say that I have ever got over it.
Amabel did not say a word while Sister Angela went on urging the
example of one saint after another, till she was stopped by sheer want
of breath.
Then Amabel asked—
"Does Mother Superior know of this plan?"
"No, I have not mentioned it to her," answered Sister Angela, taken
rather aback. "I thought I would see how you took it first."
"Then, if you please, we will say no more about it," said Amabel, "at
least not till you have consulted her. I will consider the matter and
then I shall know how to act. Come, Lucy, we must finish our task
before dark."
We sat down to our frame and worked for an hour without saying a word.
Then I looked up and, catching Amabel's eye, I saw in a moment that her
mind was made up.
"Well!" said I.
"I shall do nothing of the kind," said Amabel, answering my unspoken
question. "Did not Mother Superior say that it was our duty to obey Sir
Julius?"
"Yes, I know she did."
"Sister Angela had no right either to propose such a thing unknown to
Mother Prudentia—Mother Superior, I mean," pursued Amabel. "She and
some of the others think they can take liberties now. They may find
themselves mistaken."
"But would you wish to stay?" I asked. "For my part, I confess, I want
to know what the world is like."
"Mother Superior would have said that was like wishing to eat of the
fruit of the knowledge of good and evil," returned Amabel, smiling
gravely. "No, I don't think I want to stay now. I wish to see my
father, and my little brother, and step-mother. Besides, the Bible
itself says 'Children obey your parents.' Don't you know we read that
in Father Brousseau's big book?"
"But if the Church teaches, and of course it must or Mother de Chantal
and St. Agnes would not have done it," I began, but Amabel interrupted
me.
"I don't like to look two ways at once, it only puzzles me. There, our
work is finished—the last we shall do in this house. Does it not seem
strange? Come, let us carry it to Mother Sacristine, and then I want to
speak to Mrs. Thorpe."
Mother Sacristine praised our work to the skies, and lamented, as much
as Sister Agnes had done, over our going away.
"If you were only of age—but when you are, you can come back, you know.
I don't believe but it might be managed now. There are plenty of hiding
places where no one would ever find you."
We glanced at each other, but said nothing, and betook ourselves to
look for Mrs. Thorpe.
"They are all in it!" said Amabel.
"I see they are," returned I. "It frightens me. What if they should
keep us here?"
"There is no use in being frightened," said Amabel, composed as usual.
"Wait and see. I have a strong feeling that Mother Superior will not
approve; and if she does not, I would not be in their shoes."
We found Mrs. Thorpe in her little cell, busily writing something in
her pocketbook.
"Mrs. Thorpe, is my father a Catholic?" asked Amabel, going to the
point, as usual.
"My dear, that is more than I can tell you," answered Mrs. Thorpe. "His
father and mother were so, and he was brought up in that way. My own
impression is that he is not much of anything."
"You do not mean that he has no religion at all!" said Amabel, startled.
"If he hasn't, he is not the only one,—more's the pity say I," answered
the good woman. "But in England just now, as I understand is the case
here, a great many fine gentlemen profess infidelity just as they carry
clouded canes and tortoise-shell snuff-boxes. But your aunts, your
mother's sisters, are very religious ladies, in their way, and keep
their church regularly—so my sister-in-law tells me, who lives in the
same parish."
"Shall we have to go to church with them?" I asked.
"My dear Mrs. Corbet, if I were you, I would leave that to settle
itself," replied Mrs. Thorpe. "You cannot tell just how you may find
things, and there is no use in borrowing trouble. 'Sufficient unto the
day is the evil thereof.'"
"That is what I always tell Lucy," said Amabel, "but she picks out her
knots a dozen times before she comes to them, or they are made at all.
But what a nice proverb that is you repeated. Please say it again."
"Proverb, child! Why, 'tis in the Gospel. Our Lord himself said it.
'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.' Lay it to heart, my
dears. It will save you a great deal of trouble."
I never knew how or when Sister Angela propounded her notable plan to
Mother Superior, but I can make a good guess that it was that very
afternoon. For she appeared at the table with very red cheeks and all
the sisters were so very meek and silent, that I fancy they had got
what Mrs. Thorpe would have called a wigging at "obedience." Mother
Superior never mentioned the matter to us, and of course we never said
anything to her. Not but she might have considered all fair in the
cause of the church, and the saving of souls, but I think she naturally
revolted at anything underhanded, and, besides, our community had too
recently emerged from a heavy cloud of disgrace and danger to run any
such risk as would have been incurred by the spiriting away of two
English girls of good family at that time.
Sunday passed as rapidly as last days always do. On Monday the carriage
bespoken by Mrs. Thorpe came to the door. We bade a tearful farewell to
our old friends and home, and parted from them forever.
And in this place, I may as well say what I think about convent life.
I am far from believing all the scandalous tales that are told,
though one may learn from the writings of Roman Catholic authors, as
well as from the history of Mother Angelique herself, what disorders
have sometimes existed in them. But I do say the whole system is an
unnatural and, therefore, an unhealthy one, and it is liable to great
abuses.
Here is one of them: A young girl just leaving school, knowing nothing
of the world—especially if she be a French girl—is invited to make
a retreat. What does that mean? It means confinement—voluntary, no
doubt, in most cases, but still confinement—in a darkened room, with
just light enough to see to read. It means absence of all ordinary
occupation, shortened hours of rest, and long fasts. Some book like
the "Meditations of St. Ignatius" is put into her hands, full of the
grossest and most terrible material images of death and hell. They talk
about the ranting of the Methodists, and I won't deny that the local
preachers and exhorters go too far in this direction at times, but I
never met with one who would dare to say as much as this famous saint,
or as some Catechisms do. The decay of the body after death, with all
attendant horrors, real or imaginary, is a favorite theme. "You will
become that for which there is no name in any language!" says St.
Ignatius. * Then come pictures of purgatory and hell, wrought up to the
highest pitch, and then—the poor, tired, hysterical young creature is
invited to pause and seriously consider her vocation in life. Is it any
wonder that she decides for that vocation which is set before her as
the one of certain safety? Is it any wonder either that the excitement
over, she should too often find that she has made a horrible mistake?
* Bossuet has the same phrase. I don't know who stole it.
I think the peculiar circumstances under which we were placed had their
effect in elevating the characters of our sisters; and yet, looking
back, I can see what a petty world we lived in—a world, too, which had
its envies and jealousies even as the great one. Whoever goes into a
convent carries his flesh with him. No walls have ever been contrived
to shut out the devil, and where these two are, be sure the third
partner—the world—is not far away.
The Lord surely knew what He was about when he set people in families,
and created the dear ties of husband and wife, parent and child,
brother and sister. Our Lord Himself lived not in a convent—as He might
have done it seems, for Mr. Wesley has told me there were convents, or
at least brotherhoods, in those days—but in a family, and a working
family at that. One of the very few pictures of Him I ever saw that I
liked, is a little print Mother Superior gave me long ago, and which I
have still, representing the young Jesus holding a skein of yarn for
His mother, just as Judith Postlethwate often does for me.
There are some good things to be said for convent schools, as I have
remarked before. They take good care, so far as I have observed,
of their pupils' health; they teach them to be neat, tidy, and
punctual—all of which are very good things. I am sure of one thing: I
would not send a child to a smallpox hospital unless I wished it to
catch the smallpox, and I would not send a girl to a convent school if
I had any objection to her taking the veil.
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