THE SOUL'S STRUGGLE.
That same evening, while the vesper bells were ringing, Salome dressed
herself, and, leaning on the arm of the mother-superior headed the
procession of the sisterhood as they marched to the chapel and took their
seats in the recess behind the screen, which was so cunningly devised,
that, while it afforded the nuns a full view of the altar, the priests,
the interior of the pews and the whole congregation, it effectually
concealed the forms and faces of the sisterhood seated within it.
Father Francois, the confessor of the convent, officiated at the altar.
A rustic congregation of the faithful filled the pews in the body of
the church. They came from farm-houses and villages in the immediate
neighborhood of the convent.
The vesper hymn was raised by the nuns.
Salome joined in singing it. She had a rich, sweet, clear soprano voice.
Many were the heads in the rustic assemblage that turned to listen to the
new singer in the nuns' choir.
Salome saw them, and shrank back as if she herself could have been seen,
though she was quite invisible to them, for the screen, which was
transparent to her eyes, was impenetrable to theirs. She remembered this,
at length, and recovered her composure.
The sweet vesper service soothed her soul, and when it was over, and the
benediction was given, the "peace that passeth all understanding"
descended upon her troubled spirit.
She left the chapel, leaning on the mother-superior's arm.
When she reached her room door she kissed the lady's hand in bidding her
good-night.
"This has done you good, my daughter," said the abbess, gently.
"It has done me good. Thanks for your wise counsel, holy mother. I will
follow it still. I will go again tomorrow. Bless me, my mother," said
Salome, bowing her head before the abbess, who blessed her again, and
then softly withdrew.
Salome entered her room and retired to rest, and slept more calmly than
she had done for many days and nights.
She arose on Sunday morning refreshed; but it seemed as if her stony
apathy had passed off, only to leave her more keenly sensitive to her
cause of grief; for as she dressed herself, a flood of tender memories
overflowed her soul, and she threw herself, weeping freely, on her cot.
In this condition she was found by the abbess, who was pleased to see her
weep, knowing that the keenness of sorrow is much softened by tears.
She sat down in silence by the cot, and waited until the paroxysm was
past.
"Good mother, I could not help it," said Salome, with a last convulsive
sob, as she wiped her eyes, and arose.
"Nor did I wish you to do so. Thank the Lord for the gift of tears. Have
you had breakfast, my daughter?"
"Yes, dear mother. Sister Francoise brought it to me before I was up.
This is the last time I will allow myself such an indulgence. To-morrow
morning, if you will permit me, I will join you in the refectory."
"I am rejoiced to hear you say so my child. Your recovery depends much
upon yourself. Every exertion that you make helps it forward. And now I
came to tell you that in ten minutes we shall go on to the chapel. Will
you be ready to accompany us?"
"Yes, dear mother, I will come on and join you almost immediately," said
Salome standing up and shaking down her black robe into shape.
The abbess softly slipped out of the room and left the guest to complete
her toilet.
In a few minutes Salome passed out and joined the procession of nuns to
the chapel.
As soon as they were seated in the screened choir, Salome looked through
the screen, to see if the English priest was at the altar. He was not
there yet; but the body of the little chapel was filled with an expectant
crowd of small country gentry, farmers and laborers with their families,
all drawn together by the fame of the great Oratorian.
Presently the procession entered--six boys, in white surplices, preceding
a pale, thin, intellectual-looking young man in priestly robes.
The priest took his place before the altar, the boys kneeling on his
right and left, and the solemn celebration of the high mass was begun.
The nuns sang well within their screened choir; but the new soprano voice
that sang the solos, and rose elastic, sweet and clear, soaring to the
heavens in the _Gloria in Excelsis_, seemed to carry all the
worshipers with it.
"Who is she?" inquired one of another, in hushed whispers, when the
divine anthem had sunk into silence.
"Who is she?"
No one in the congregation could tell; but many surmised that she must be
some young postulant of St. Rosalie, just beginning, or about to begin,
her novitiate.
At length the pale priest passed into the pulpit, and, amid a breathless
silence of expectancy, gave out his text:
"GOD IS LOVE."
A truth revealed to us by the Divine Saviour, and confirmed to our hearts
by the teachings of His Holy Spirit.
The preacher spoke of the divine love, "never enough believed, or known,
or asked," yet the source of all our life, light and joy; he spoke of
human love, a derivative from the divine, in all its manifestations of
family affection, social friendship, charity to the needy, forgiveness
of enemies.
And while he spoke of love, "the greatest good in the world," his tones
were full, sweet, deep and tender, his pale face radiant, his manner
affectionate, persuasive, winning.
He was listened to with rapt attention, and even when he had brought his
sermon to a close, and his eloquent voice had ceased, his hearers still,
for a few moments, sat motionless under the spell he had wrought upon
them.
As soon as the benediction had been pronounced, the abbess arose from her
seat in the choir, drew the arm of her still feeble guest within her own,
and, followed by her nuns, walking slowly in pairs, left the choir.
She took Salome to the door of her room in perfect silence, and would
have left her there but that the girl stopped her by saying:
"Holy mother, I wish to speak to you, if you can give me a few minutes,
before we go to the refectory."
"Surely, my daughter," answered the abbess, kindly, as she followed her
guest into the chamber.
"Sit down in the easy-chair, good mother," said Salome, drawing the soft,
white-cushioned seat toward her.
"No, sit you there, poor child," answered the abbess, taking her guest
kindly and seating her in the easy-chair. "I shall be well enough here,"
she added, as she sat down on one of the painted, wooden seats. "Now,
tell me what you wish to say, daughter," she concluded.
"Dear mother, I have been very deeply interested in Father F. this
morning."
"You should be interested in the message only, not in the messenger, my
child," gravely replied the elder lady.
"In the message alone I believe I was most concerned; but the message was
most eloquently delivered by the messenger," said Salome, as her pale
cheeks flushed.
"Well, my daughter, go on in what you were about to say."
"Holy mother, that message, so earnestly spoken, has moved me to greater
diligence in what I have purposed to do. You know that I have intended to
take the vail in this convent, and devote my life and my fortune to
good works."
"Yes, my child, I know that such has been your pious purpose. What then?"
"I wish to use all diligence in carrying out that purpose. I wish to
enter upon my novitiate immediately."
"My good daughter, far be it from me to throw any stumbling-block in the
way of such praise-worthy intentions; but the strict rules of our order
require that a postulant should remain in the convent twelve calendar
months, to test her vocation, before she is suffered to bind herself by
any vows," said the abbess, very gravely.
"As if _my_ vocation had not been sufficiently tested," sighed
Salome.
"It may have been so, my daughter. This probation may not be necessary in
your case, yet we can make no exception to our rules even in your favor.
You will, therefore, if you wish, remain with us for one year, unfettered
by any vows. At the end of this year of probation, if you shall still
desire to do so, you may be permitted to take the white vail and commence
your novitiate. In the meantime you need not, and ought not, to be idle.
You may be as zealous and diligent in good works while a postulant as you
possibly could be as a white-vailed novice or a black-vailed nun."
"Show me how I may be so, holy mother, and I will bless you," exclaimed
Salome.
"I will very gladly be your guide, my child. Listen, Salome. Hitherto,
you have been very charitable in giving alms. You have given liberally of
your means; but you have never yet given your personal services to the
poor and needy. That was not our Lord's way, whose servants we are. He
gave alms, indeed, and he performed miracles to supply them, as in the
case of the loaves and fishes; but most of all, better than all, He gave
His personal ministrations; He taught the ignorant; He anointed the eyes
of the blind; _He laid His hands on the leper_; He shrank from no
personal contact with disease, however loathsome; distress, however
ignominious; nor must we, His children, do so. We must give our personal
services to the poor."
"Tell me what to do, and how to do it, good mother, and I will gladly
obey your instructions. Tell me, for I am so very ignorant."
"To-morrow, the Monday before Christmas, you may go with me the rounds
of our asylums and schools, and see for yourself destitute old age,
destitute childhood and abandoned infancy; and you may choose your work
among these poor, needy, helpless ones," said the abbess, gravely.
"And are laborers wanted in that vineyard, mother?"
"Always."
"Then here am I, for one, poor one. I am longing to go to work."
"At first your work shall be a very bright and pleasant labor, dear
child. This is the joyous week of preparation for the glad, Christmas
festival. This week we are all, young and old, engaged in the delightful
recreations of charity. Our Lord Himself, who, in His Divine benignity,
blessed the marriage feast of Cana with a miracle, smiles on our
recreations of charity, which with us just now consist in the preparation
of Christmas gifts to gladden the hearts of our poor these Christmas
times. To-morrow, if you please, I will take you to our work-rooms, where
you may choose your own task."
"Oh, how willingly I will do that!" said Salome, earnestly.
A bell had been ringing for a few moments; and so the abbess arose and
said:
"That is the dinner-bell. You promised to join us in the refectory, and
I think it is best you should do so, my daughter."
"I will follow your counsels in everything, holy mother," answered
Salome, sweetly, as she arose and put her hand on the offered arm of her
friend.
The abbess led her protegee down a long passage and deep flights of
stairs to the refectory, where, at each side of a very long table,
running down the length of the room, stood about fifty nuns waiting for
their mother-superior.
The abbess gave her guest a seat next to her own, then crossed herself
and sat down.
The nuns all made the sign of the cross upon their breasts, and seated
themselves at the table.
This was the first occasion upon which Salome sat down at the nuns'
table; but it was not the last, for from this day she regularly appeared
there, and, though she was given to frequent and violent fits of weeping,
her health and spirits steadily improved under the regimen of the abbess.
On Monday morning the lady-superior took Salome through all the asylums
on the east side of the convent.
They went first into the aged men's home, where, in a large, clean,
well-warmed and well-lighted hall, furnished with arm-chairs, tables, and
many plain and cheap conveniences, were gathered about thirty gray-haired
or bald-headed patriarchs, whose ages ranged from seventy to a hundred
years. Yet not one of them was idle. They were all engaged in plaiting
chip-mats, baskets, hampers and other useful articles that could be made
out of reeds or cane. The oldest man among them, a centenarian, was
employed in plaiting straw for hats.
"They look very happy and busy," said Salome, after she had responded to
their respectful nods and smiles of welcome.
"Yes, and they nearly half pay expenses by their handicrafts. Even they,
aged and infirm as they are, can half support themselves if they have
only shelter, protection and guidance."
"And there seems to be no sick among them," said Salome.
"Ah, yes," answered the abbess, gravely, "there are five in the infirmary
connected with this home; but we will not go there now. Let us pass on to
the aged women's home."
They entered the next house, where, in a large, warm, light room, plainly
furnished, about twenty old women, from sixty to ninety years of age,
were collected. They were neatly dressed in gray stuff gowns, white
aprons, white kerchiefs, and white Normandy caps. And all were busy--some
knitting, some sewing, some tatting.
They bowed and smiled a welcome to the visitor, who responded in the same
manner.
"These, also, half support themselves by their work," said the abbess;
"but the proportion of sick among them is greater than among the men.
There are ten in the infirmary."
They went next to the orphan boys' asylum, where fifty male children of
ages from three to twelve years were lodged, fed, clothed, and educated.
"What becomes of these when they leave here?" inquired Salome.
"We send them out as apprentices to learn trades; and we find homes for
them," answered the abbess.
"Can you always find good homes and masters for them?"
"Yes, always. We do it through the secular clergy. Now let us go into the
girls' asylum," said the abbess, leading the way to the next institution.
The orphan girls' asylum was, in many respects, similar to the boys'
home.
"Do you wish to know what becomes of these, when they leave here?"
inquired the abbess, anticipating the question of her companion. "I will
tell you. The greater number of them are sent out to service as cooks,
chambermaids, seamstresses, or nursery governesses. Some few, who show
unusual intelligence, are educated for teachers. If any one among their
number evinces talent for any particular art, she is trained in that art.
My child, we have sent out more than one artist from our orphan girls'
asylum," said the abbess.
"How much good you do!" exclaimed Salome.
"Let us go into the Foundling," said the mother-superior, leading the way
to the last house of the eastern row of buildings.
Ah! here was a sight sorrowful enough to make the "angels weep!"
The abbess led her companion into a long room, clean, warm, light and
airy, with about thirty narrow little cots, arranged in two rows against
the walls, fifteen on each side, with a long passage between them.
About half a dozen of these cots were empty. On the others lay about
twenty-four of the most pitiable of all our Lord's poor--young infants
abandoned by their unnatural parents. All these were under twelve months
old, and were pale, thin, and famished-looking. Some were sleeping, and
seemingly, ah! so aged and care-worn in their sleep; some were clasping
nursery-bottles in their skeleton hands, and sucking away for dear life;
one little miserable was wailing in restless pain, and sending its
anguished eyes around in appealing looks for relief.
Four women of the sisterhood were on duty here, and each one sat with a
pining infant on her lap, while there was no one to attend to the wants
of that wailing little sufferer on the bed.
"Oh, merciful Father in Heaven! what a sight!" cried Salome, overcome
with compassionate sorrow.
"Yes, it is piteous! most piteous!" said the mother-superior, in a
mournful tone. "We do the very best we can for these poor, deserted
babes; but young infants, bereft of their mother's milk, which is their
life, and of their mother's tender love and intuitive care, suffer more
than any of us can estimate, and are almost sure to perish, out of
_this_ life, at least. With all our care and pains, more than
two-thirds of them die."
"Is there no help for this?" sadly inquired the visitor.
"No help within ourselves. But the peasant women in our neighborhood have
Christian spirits and tender hearts. When any one among them loses her
sucking child, she comes to us and asks for one of our motherless babes.
We select the most needing of them and give it to her, and the nurse
child has then a chance for its life; but even then, if it lives, it is
because some other child has died and made room for it."
"Oh, it is piteous! it is piteous, beyond all words to express! Destitute
childhood, destitute old age, are both sorrowful enough, Heaven knows!
But they have power to make their sufferings known, and to ask for help!
_But destitute infancy!_ Oh! look here! look here! Can anything on
earth be so pathetic as this?
"They are so innocent; they have not brought their evils on themselves.
They are so helpless! They have not even words to tell their pain, or ask
for relief! Mother! You said that I might choose my work! I have chosen
it. It is here. And I begin it from this moment," said Salome.
And she threw off her hat and cloak, and drew her gloves and cast them
all on a chair, and went and took up the wailing infant from the cot.
The abbess sat down and watched her.
She soothed the baby's plaints upon her bosom as she walked it, up and
down the floor, singing a sweet, nursery song in a low and tender voice,
until it fell asleep. Then she came and laid it sleeping on its cot.
"My dear daughter," said the abbess, gravely, "before you select this
field of duty, I must warn you that it is, and it _must needs_ be,
of all charitable administrations, the most laborious and trying."
"It may be so; but it is also the most divine," said Salome, with a
grave, sweet smile. "Listen, dear mother. I know not how it is, but--with
all its pathos--the sphere of this room is heavenly. And while I held
that baby to my bosom and soothed it to sleep, its little, soft form
seemed to draw all the fever and soreness from my own aching heart as
well. Here is my earthly work, dear mother! Nay, rather, here is my
heavenly mission and consolation. Leave me here."
The mother-superior took the votaress at her word, and left her then and
there.
In the course of the same day a small closet, communicating with the
infants' dormitory, was fitted up as a sleeping berth for Salome, and her
few personal effects were conveyed from the convent and arranged within
her new dwelling.
Salome had not mistaken her vocation. To serve these forsaken and
suffering children was to her a labor of love; to relieve them, a work
of joy.
She never left her charge, except to go to chapel, or to her meals, which
she took at the nuns' table, in their refectory.
On Christmas Eve, as she returned from dinner, Sister Francoise invited
her to look into the work-room and see the Christmas presents in process
of preparation.
To please the kind sister, she followed her into a long hall, furnished
with little tables, at each of which sat two or three of the nuns at
work.
As Salome, with her conductor, walked down the room, she saw that on one
table was a pile of children's illustrated books of great variety to suit
little ones, from three years old to thirteen. The two nuns seated at the
table were busy writing in the books the names of those for whom they
were intended.
Another table was piled with woolen scarfs, socks, gloves, and night-caps
for the aged men and women, which the two nuns seated there were employed
in rolling up into separate little parcels, and labeling with the names
of the intended recipients.
Still another, and a longer table, was bright and gay with party-colored
scraps of silk, satin, velvet, ribbon, muslin, lace and linen, with which
half a dozen young nuns seated there were cheerfully engaged in making
dresses for a basket full of dolls, for the Christmas gifts to the
infants.
The blooming young nun Felecitie presided at this table. Seeing Salome
approach with Sister Francoise, she accosted her:
"Our holy mother told us that you would come in and help us dress these
dolls."
"And so I would have done, only I found some living and suffering dolls
to dress and feed," said Salome, smiling.
"Yes, I know, the babies of the Foundling. Well, we are dressing these
dolls for your babies," said the smiling sister.
"But do you suppose my tiny little ones will care for dolls?" inquired
Salome.
"Be sure they will; from six months old, up, boys or girls, sick or well,
babies will love dolls. I have seen a sick baby hug her doll, just as I
have seen a sick mother clasp her child," answered the sister.
"These are the recreations of charity the holy mother told me of," said
Salome, as she passed out of the work-room and went back to her own
sphere of duty.
On Christmas morning after matins, the Christmas gifts were distributed
in every one of the asylums, and every inmate was made happy by an
appropriate present.
At ten o'clock high mass was celebrated in the chapel of the convent, and
all the sisterhood assembled in their screened choir.
Three priests in their sacerdotal robes, and a dozen boys in white
surplices, were expected to serve at the altar. The chapel was profusely
decorated with holly, and the shrines were dressed with flowers. The pews
were filled with a congregation of a rather better social position than
usually assembled there in the convent chapel.
The services had not yet commenced. Salome bent forward with all the
interest and curiosity of a recluse, to look, for a moment, upon the
strangers.
She gave but one glance through the screen, and then suddenly, with a low
cry, she sank back upon her seat.
"What is the matter, my daughter? Are you ill?" inquired the
mother-superior, in a whisper.
Salome lifted up a face ashen pale with dismay, and gasped:
"I have seen him! I have seen him! He is there--there in the congregation
below!"
"Who?" inquired the abbess, in vague alarm.
"My husband?--yet, no; oh, Heaven! not my husband, but the Duke of
Hereward!"