A QUICK CONVERSION.
"When is this horror to have an end? Only with my life? Am I, indeed, to
pass the remainder of my days within this dismal cell? Days so happy,
till that the happiest of all--its ill-starred night! And my love so
strong, so confident--its reward seeming so nigh--all to be for
nought--sweet dreams and bright hopes suddenly, cruelly extinguished!
Nothing but darkness now; within my heart, in this gloomy place,
everywhere around me! Oh, it is agony! When will it be over?"
It is the English girl who thus bemoans her fate--still confined in the
convent, and the same cloister. Herself changed, however. Though but a
few weeks have passed, the roses of her cheeks have become lilies, her
lips wan, her features of sharper outline, the eyes retired in their
sockets, with a look of woe unspeakable. Her form, too, has fallen away
from the full ripe rounding that characterized it, though the wreck is
concealed by a loose drapery of ample folds. For Soeur Marie now wears
the garb of the Holy Sisterhood--hating it, as her words show.
She is seated on the pallet's edge while giving utterance to her sombre
soliloquy; and without change of attitude, continues it,--
"Imprisoned I am--that's certain! And for no crime. It may be without
hostility on the part of those who have done it. Perhaps, better it were
so. Then there might be hope of my captivity coming to an end. As it is,
there is none--none! I comprehend all now--the reason for bringing me
here--keeping me--everything. And that reason remains--must, as long as
I am alive! Merciful heaven!"
This exclamatory phrase is almost a shriek; despair sweeping through her
soul, as she thinks of why she is there shut up. For hinging upon that
is the hopelessness, almost a dead, drear certainty, she will never have
deliverance!
Stunned by the terrible reflection, she pauses--even thought for the
time stayed. But the throe passing, she again pursues her soliloquy, now
in more conjectural strain,--
"Strange that no friend has come after me! No one caring for my
fate--even to inquire! And _he_--no, that is not strange--only sadder,
harder to think of. How could I expect or hope he would?
"But surely it is not so. I may be wronging them
all--friends--relatives--even him. They may not know where I am? Cannot!
How could they? I know not myself! only that it is France, and in a
nunnery. But what part of France, and how I came to it, likely they are
ignorant as I.
"And they may never know--never find out! If not, oh! what is to become
of me? Father in heaven! Merciful Saviour! help me in my helplessness!"
After this phrensied outburst, a calmer interval succeeds, in which
human instincts as thoughts direct her. She thinks,--
"If I could but find means to communicate with my friends--make known to
them where I am, and how, then--Ah! 'tis hopeless. No one allowed near
me but the attendant and that Sister Ursule. For compassion from either,
I might just as well make appeal to the stones of the floor! The Sister
seems to take delight in torturing me--every day doing or saying some
disagreeable thing. I suppose, to humble, break, bring me to her
purpose--that the taking of the veil. A nun! Never! It is not in my
nature, and I would rather die than dissemble it!"
"Dissemble!" she repeats in a different accent. "That word helps me to a
thought. Why should I not dissemble? I _will_."
Thus emphatically pronouncing, she springs to her feet, the expression
of her features changing suddenly as her attitude. Then paces the floor
to and fro, with hands clasped across her forehead, the white,
attenuated fingers writhingly entwined in her hair.
"They want me to take the veil--the _black_ one! So shall I, the
blackest in all the convent's wardrobe if they wish it--ay, crape if
they insist on it. Yes, I am resigned now--to that--anything. They can
prepare the robes, vestments, all the adornments of their detested
mummery; I am prepared, willing, to put them on. It's the only way--my
only hope of regaining liberty. I see--am sure of it!"
She pauses, as if still but half resolved, then goes on,--
"I am compelled to this deception! Is it a sin? If so, God forgive me!
But no--it cannot be! 'Tis justified by my wrongs--my sufferings!"
Another and longer pause, during which she seems profoundly to reflect.
After it, saying,--
"I shall do so--pretend compliance; and begin this day--this very hour,
if the opportunity arise. What should be my first pretence? I must think
of it; practise, rehearse it. Let me see. Ah! I have it. The world has
forsaken, forgotten me. Why then should I cling to it? Instead, why not
in angry spite fling it off--as it has me? That's the way!"
A creaking at the cloister door tells of its key turning in the lock.
Slight as is the sound, it acts on her as an electric shock, suddenly
and altogether changing the cast of her countenance. The instant before
half angry, half sad, it is now a picture of pious resignation. Her
attitude different also. From striding tragically over the floor she has
taken a seat, with a book in her hand, which she seems industriously
perusing. It is that "Aid to Faith" recommended, but hitherto unread.
She is to all appearance so absorbed in its pages as not to notice the
opening of the door, nor the footsteps of one entering. How natural her
start, as she hears a voice, and, looking up, beholds Soeur Ursule!
"Ah!" ejaculates the latter, with an exultant air, as of a spider that
sees a fly upon the edge of its web, "Glad, Marie, to find you so
employed! It promises well, both for the peace of your mind and the good
of your soul. You've been foolishly lamenting the world left behind:
wickedly too. What is to compare with that to come? As dross-dirt, to
gold or diamonds! The book you hold in your hand will tell you so.
Doesn't it?"
"It does, indeed."
"Then profit by its instructions, and be sorry you have not sooner taken
counsel from it."
"I am sorry, Sister Ursule."
"It would have comforted you--will now."
"It has already. Ah! so much! I would not have believed any book could
give me the view of life it has done. I begin to understand what you've
been telling me--to see the vanities of this earthly existence, how poor
and empty they are in comparison with the bright joys of that other
life. Oh! why did I not know it before?"
At this moment a singular tableau is exhibited within that convent
cell--two female figures, one seated, the other standing--novice and
nun; the former fair and young, the latter ugly and old. And still in
greater contrast the expression upon their faces. That of the girl's
downcast, demure lids over the eyes, less as if in innocence than
repentant of some sin, while the glances of the woman show pleased
surprise, struggling against incredulity!
Her suspicion still in the ascendant, Soeur Ursule stands regarding
the disciple, so suddenly converted, with a look which seems to
penetrate her very soul. It is borne without sign of quailing, and she
at length comes to believe the penitence sincere, and that her
proselytising powers have not been exerted in vain. Nor is it strange
she should so deceive herself. It is far from being the first novice
_contre coeur_ she has broken upon the wheel of despair, and made
content to taking a vow of lifelong seclusion from the world.
Convinced she has subdued the proud spirit of the English girl, and
gloating over a conquest she knows will bring substantial reward to
herself, she exclaims prayerfully, in mock-pious tone,--
"Blessed be Holy Mary for this new mercy! On your knees _ma fille_, and
pray to her to complete the work she has begun!"
And upon her knees drops the novice, while the nun, as if deeming
herself _de trop_ in the presence of prayer, slips out of the cloister,
silently shutting the door.