"You have no very strong inclination to join us, I perceive."
"Not any," frankly replied Euphrosyne. "I have no doubt the sisters are
very happy. They choose their way of life for themselves. I only feel
it is one that I should never choose. Nor would grandpapa for me, for
more than a short time. I hope, madam, you understand that we neither
of us think of my ever becoming a nun."
"I see that there is no present sign of its being your vocation."
"And there never will be," cried Euphrosyne, very earnestly. "I assure
you, I cannot bear the idea of it."
"So I perceive, my dear. I am quite convinced, I assure you. Have you
as great a dislike to being educated?"
"Almost, I am afraid. But I could get over that. I like reading very
well, and learning things at my own time, and in my own way; but I feel
rather old to begin to be under orders as to what I shall learn, and
when and how; and yet rather young to be so grave and regular as the
sisters are. I am fifteen, you know."
"You are not aware, I see, how much we laugh when we are by ourselves,
nor how we like to see girls of fifteen happy and gay. I think, too,
that I may answer for the sisters not quarrelling with you about what
you ought to learn. You will comply with the rules of the house as to
hours; and your preceptresses will allow you, as far as possible, to
follow your bent."
"You are very kind, as you always are. But I think far less of all this
than of what grandpapa is to do without me. Consider what long, weary
days he will have! He has scarcely any acquaintance left in Cap; and he
has been accustomed to do nothing without me. He will sit and cry all
day--I know he will."
And Euphrosyne's tears began to overflow at the thought.
"It is a great honour, my child, to have been made such a blessing to an
old man."
"It was almost the only one he had left. Up to that terrible
ninety-one--"
The abbess shuddered.
"You knew my mother and sisters?"
"Very little. I was then a humble sister, and had little, intercourse
with any ladies who might occasionally visit us. But I remember her
coming, one day, with her children--three! girls--one who ran about the
garden, and two modest, blushing girls, who accepted some of our
flowers."
"I must have been the little one who ran about, and the others were my
poor sisters. Well, all these, besides my papa, were always about
grandpapa; and he never wanted amusement or waiting on. Since that
dreadful time, he has had only me; and now, in his old age, when he has
no strength, and nothing to do, he is going to be all alone! Oh, madam,
I think it is wicked to leave him! Had anybody ever a clearer duty than
I have--to stay with him?"
"You would be quite right if it was anybody but himself that desired you
to leave him. Your first duty, my dear, is to obey his wishes."
"I shall never be able to learn my lessons, for thinking of him, sitting
alone there--or perhaps lying in bed, because there is nothing to get up
for."
"Now you are presumptuous. You are counting upon what may never happen,
and fearing to leave your parent in the hand of Him who gave you to him.
Suppose you were to die to-night, I fear you could not trust him in the
hands of Him who wraps us round with old age, before taking us home to
Himself."
"Oh, yes, I could so trust him to-night, if I myself had watched him to
sleep. But a month hence, if I were to die, I should dread to meet my
parents. They would ask me, `How is our father?' and I should have to
answer, `I do not know--I have left him--I have done nothing for him of
late.' The whole time that I am here, madam, I shall be afraid to die
and meet my mother."
"We must lead you to doubt your own notions, and to trust more in God,"
said the lady, gently. "We know not what a day may bring forth; and as
you grow older, you will find how, in cases of hard and doubtful duty,
our way becomes suddenly clear, so as to make us ashamed of our late
anguish. Father Gabriel will tell you that one night he lost his way
among the marshes in the plain. The clouds hung thick and low overhead,
and there was not a ray of light. He plunged on the one hand into the
marsh; and on the other, the reeds grew higher than his head. Behind
him was a wood that he had hardly managed to struggle through; and he
knew not what might be before him. He groped about for a firm place to
stand on, and had no idea which way to move. At last, without his
having felt a breath of wind, he found that the clouds had parted to the
right, making a chink through which he saw the Cibao peaks standing up
against a starlight sky; and, to the left, there was, on the horizon, a
dim white line which he could not understand, till the crescent moon
dropped down from behind the cloudy canopy, across a bar of clear sky,
and into the sea. This made him look whether the church of Saint
Hilaire was not close by. He made out its dim mass through the
darkness, and in a few minutes stood in the porch. So, my child, is our
way (even yours, young as you are) sometimes made too dark for our
feeble eyes; and thus, from one quarter or another, is a ray permitted
to fall that we may not be lost."
"Thank you," said Euphrosyne, softly. "May I come to-morrow?"
"At any hour you shall be welcome, my dear."
"If you will appoint me something to do every morning in the garden,
madam, grandpapa might sit in the balcony, to see me, and talk to me.
That will be a reason for his getting up. That, will prevent his lying
too long, for want of something to do."
"A very good plan. If you love your grandfather so, Euphrosyne, how
would you have loved your mother, if she had lived?"
"Had you a mother, when you were my age?"
"Yes, my dear. But do not let us speak of that. Do you remember your
mamma, my dear?"
"Yes--a little. I remember her sitting in a wood--on the ground--with
her head bent down upon her knees, and a great many black people about."
"Well--tell me no more. I ought not to have asked you. I was not
thinking of that horrid time."
"But I do not mind telling you. I like to speak of it; and I never can
to grandpapa--it makes him so ill. Mamma shook so, that I remember
putting my arms about her to keep her warm, till I found how burning hot
her hands were. My sisters were crying; and they told me not to ask any
more why papa did not come to us; for he was dead. I remember being
wakened by a noise when I was very sleepy, and seeing some soldiers.
One of them lifted me up, and I was frightened, till I saw that, they
were carrying mamma too. They put us both into a cart. I did not see
my sisters; and I believe they were both dead then, of grief and
hardship. And mamma never spoke again. She looked as pale as her gown,
as she lay in the cart, with her eyes shut. She was breathing, however,
and I thought she was asleep. I felt very sleepy and odd. The soldiers
said I was half-starved, and they gave me a plantain that they pulled by
the road-side. I wanted them to give some to mamma too; but they made
me no answer. I put mine into her hand, but she let it fall; and I
cried because she would not take any notice. Then one of the soldiers
bade me eat my plantain; and I thought I must do as I was bid. I forget
where we went next."
"You remember more than I had supposed. Your mother was brought on
board the ship where we were; and there she presently died."
"You were on board ship, madam?"
"Yes--all the sisters--for the town was not considered safe, even for
us."
"And where was--" Euphrosyne stopped abruptly.
"You were going to ask where my mother was," said the lady. "I feel
that I was wrong in stopping you as I did just, now--for you might fancy
that my mother was in some way to blame. She was a good mother to me--
full of kindness; but I did not make her happy."
"You did not?"
"Indeed I did not. I crossed her in the thing she desired most of all--
that we should live together. I believed it my duty to become a nun,
and I left her. She returned to France, being a widow, and having no
other child; and there she died, among distant relations."
"Was she angry with you?"
"She never said or showed that she was. But I know that she was grieved
to the very soul, and for life. This, my dear, has been the greatest
affliction I have ever known. I did not feel it so at the time, having
no doubt of my vocation; but what I have suffered since from the thought
that an only child and only parent, who ought to have made each other
happy, were both miserable, God only knows."
"Yet you did what you thought was your duty to God. I wonder whether
you were right?"
"If you knew how many times--but," said the lady, interrupting herself,
"we shall know all when our hearts are laid open; and may minister to my
mother yet. If I erred, and there be further punishment yet for my
error, I am ready to bear it. You see, my child, how much you have to
be thankful for, that your difficulty is not from having failed in duty
to your parent. For the future, fear not but that your duty will be
made clear to you. I am sure this is all you desire."
"Shall we have any more such conversations as this when I come to live
here? If we can--"
"We shall see," replied the lady, smiling. "Father Gabriel says there
may easily be too much talk, even about our duties; but occasions may
arise."
"I hope so," said Euphrosyne, rising, as she perceived that the lady
thought it was time for her to go. "I dare say Pierre is here."
Pierre had been waiting some time.
The abbess sat alone after Euphrosyne was gone, contemplating, not the
lamp, though her eyes were fixed upon it, but the force of the filial
principle in this lonely girl--a force which had constrained her to open
the aching wound in her own heart to a mere child. She sat, till called
by the hour to prayer, pondering the question how it is that relations
designed for duty and peace become the occasions of the bitterest sin
and suffering. The mystery was in no degree cleared up when she was
called to prayer--which, however, has the blessed power of solving all
painful mysteries for the hour.