In Convent Walls Part 25

Then the fire died out of her eyes, and her voice fell low, and she added--'ah, my sister! dost thou envy me Christ's cross?' Ay, she had carried more of that cross than most. She came here about the age thou didst, Annora--a little child of six years."

"Who was she in the world, Mother?" quoth Sister Nora.

I was surprised to see Mother Alianora glance round the room, as if to see who was there, afore she answered. Nor did she answer for a moment.

"She was Sister Guendolen of Sempringham: let that satisfy thee. Maybe, in the world above, she is that which she should have been in this world, and was not."

And I could not but wonder if Mother Guendolen's life had held a _might have been_ like mine.

I want to know what 'carnal' and 'worldly' mean. They are words which I hear very often, and always with condemnation: but they seem to mean quite different things, in the lips of different speakers. When Mother Ada uses them, they mean having affection in one's heart for any thing, or any person, that is not part of holy Church. When Mother Gaillarde speaks them, they mean caring for any thing that she does not care for-- and that includes everything except power, and grandeur, and the Order of Saint Gilbert. And when Mother Alianora says them, they fall softly on the ear, as if they meant not love, nor happiness, nor any thing good and innocent, but simply all that could grieve our Lord and hurt a soul that loved Him. They are, with her, just the opposite of Jesus Christ.

Oh, if only our blessed Lord had been on earth now, and I might have gone on pilgrimage to the place where He was! If I could have asked Him all the questions that perplex me, and laid at His feet all the sorrows that trouble me! For I do not think He would have commanded the saints to chase me away because I maybe have poorer wits than other women,--He who let the mothers bring the babes to Him: I fancy He would have been patient and gentle, even with me. I scarce think He would have treated sorrow--even wrong or mistaken sorrow, if only it were real--as some do, with cold looks, and hard words, and gibes that take so much bearing. I suppose He would have told me wherein I sinned, but I think He would have done it gently, so as not to hurt more than could be helped--not like some, who seem to think that nothing they say or do can possibly hurt any one.

But it is no use saying such things to people. Once, I did say about a tenth part of what I felt, when Mother Ada was present, and she turned on me almost angrily.

"Sister Annora, you are scarce better than an idiot! Know you not that confession to the priest is the same thing as to our Lord Himself?"

Well, it may be so, though it never feels like it: but I am sure the priest is not the same thing. If I were a young mother with little babes, I could never bring them to any priest I have known save one, and that was a stranger who confessed us but for a week, some five years gone, when the Lord Prior was ill. He was quite different from the others: there was a soul behind his eyes--something human, not merely a sort of metallic box which sounded when you rang it with another bit of metal.

I never know why Margaret's eyes make me think of that man, but I suppose it may be that there was the same sort of look in his. I am not sure that I can put it into words. It makes me think, not of a dry bough like my heart feels to be, but rather of a walled recluse-- something alive, very much alive, inside thick, hard, impenetrable walls which you cannot enter, and it can never leave, but itself soft and tender and sweet. And I fancy that people who look like that must have had histories.

Another person troubles me beside that man and Margaret, and that is Saint Peter's wife's mother. Because, if the holy Apostle had a wife's mother, he must have had a wife; and what could a holy Apostle be doing with a wife? I ventured once to ask Mother Ada how it was to be explained, and she said that of course Saint Peter must have been married before his conversion and calling by our Lord.

"And I dare be bound," added Mother Gaillarde, "that she was a shocking vixen, or something bad, so as to serve for a thorn in the flesh to the holy Apostle. He'd a deal better have been an unwedded man."

Well, some folks' relations are thorns in the flesh, I can quite suppose. I should think Mother Gaillarde was, and that her being a nun was a mercy to some man, so that she was told off to p.r.i.c.k us and not him. But is every body so? and are we all called to be thorns in the flesh to somebody? I should not fancy being looked on by my relations (if I were in the world) as nothing but a means of grace. It might be good for them, but I doubt if it would for me.

I wonder if Margaret ever knew that priest whose eyes looked like hers.

I should like to ask her. But Mother Ada always forbids us to ask each other questions about our past lives. She says curiosity is a sin; it was curiosity which led Eve to listen to the serpent. But I do not think Mother Ada's soul has any wings, and I always feel as if mine had--something that, if only I were at liberty, would spread itself and carry me away, far, far from here, right up into the very stars, for aught I know. Poor caged bird as I am! how can my wings unfold themselves? I fancy Margaret has wings--very likely, stronger than mine. She seems to have altogether a stronger nature.

Mother Alianora will let us ask questions: she sometimes asks them herself. Well, so does Mother Gaillarde, more than any body; but in such a different way! Mother Alianora asks as if she were comforting and helping you: Mother Gaillarde as though you were a piece of embroidery that had been done wrong, and she were looking to see where the st.i.tches had begun to go crooked. If I were a piece of lawn, I should not at all like Mother Gaillarde to pull the crooked st.i.tches out of me. She pounces on them so eagerly, and pulls so savagely at them.

I marvel what Margaret's history has been!

Last evening, as we were putting the orphans to bed--two of the Sisters do it by turns, every week--little Damia saith to me--

"Sister Annora, what is the matter with our new Sister?"

"Who dost thou mean, my child?" I asked. "Sister Marian?"

For Sister Marian was our last professed.

"No," said the child; "I mean Sister Margaret, who has such curious eyes--eyes that say every thing and don't tell any thing--it is so funny! (So other folks than I had seen those eyes.) But what was the matter with her yesterday morning, at the holy Sacrament?"

"I know not, Damia, for I saw nothing. A religious, as thou knowest, should not lift her eyes, save for adoration."

"O Sister Annora, how many nice things she must lose! But I will tell you about Sister Margaret. It was just when the holy ma.s.s began.

Father Hamon had said '_Judica me_' and then, you know, the people had to reply, '_Quia Tu es_.' And when they began the response, Sister Margaret's head went up, and her eyes ran up the aisle to the altar."

"Damia, my child!" I said.

"Indeed, Sister, I am not talking nonsense! It looked exactly like that. Then, in another minute, they came back, looking so sorry, and so, _so_ tired! If you will look at her, you will see how tired she looks, and has done ever since. I thought her soul had been to look for something which it could not find, and that made her so sorry."

"Had ever child such odd fancies as thou!" said I, as I tucked her up.

"Now say thy Hail Mary, and go to sleep."

I thought it but right to check Damia, who has a very lively imagination, and would make up stories by the yard about all she sees, if any one encouraged her. But when I sat down again to the loom, instead of the holy meditations which ought to come to me, and I suppose would do so if I were perfect, I kept wondering if Damia had seen rightly, and if Margaret's soul had been to look for something, and was disappointed in not finding it. I looked at her--she was just across the room,--and as Damia said, there was a very sorrowful, weary look on her face--a look as if some thought, or memory, or hope, had been awakened in her, only to be sent back, sorely disappointed and disheartened. Somebody else noticed it too.

My Lady Prioress was rather late last night in dismissing us. Sister Roberga said she was sure there had been some altercation between her and Mother Gaillarde: and certainly Mother Gaillarde, as she stood at the top of the room by my Lady, did not look exactly an incarnation of sweetness. But my Lady gave the word at last: and as she said--"_Pax vobisc.u.m, Sorores_!" every Sister went up to her, knelt to kiss her hand, took her own lamp from the lamp-stand, and glided softly from the recreation-room. Half-way down stood Mother Alianora, and at the door Mother Ada. Margaret was just behind me: and as I pa.s.sed Mother Alianora, I heard her ask--

"Sister Margaret, art thou suffering in some wise?"

I listened for Margaret's answer. There was a moment's hesitation before it came.

"No, Mother, I thank you; save from a malady which only One can heal."

"May He heal thee, my child!" was the gentle answer.

I was surprised at Margaret's answering with anything but thanks.

"Mother, you little know for what you pray!"

"That is often the case," said Mother Alianora. "But He knoweth who hath to answer: and He doeth all things well. He will give thee, maybe, not the physic thou lookest for; yet the right remedy."

I heard Margaret answer, as we pa.s.sed on, in a low voice, as if she scarce desired to be heard--"For some diseases there is no remedy but death."

There are two dormitories in our house, and Margaret is in the west one, while I sleep in the eastern. At the head of the stairs we part to our places. That I should speak a word to her in the night is impossible.

And in the day I can never see her without a score of eyes upon us, especially Mother Gaillarde's, and she seems to have eyes, not in the back of her head only, but all over her veil.

I suppose, if we had lived like real sisters and not make-believe ones, Margaret and I would have had a little chamber to ourselves in our father's castle, and we could have talked to each other, and told our secrets if we wished, and have comforted one another when our hearts were sad. And I do not understand why it should please our Lord so much more to have us shut up here, making believe to be one family with thirty other women who are not our sisters, except in the sense that all Christian women are children of G.o.d. I wonder where it is in the Gospels, that our Lord commanded it to be done. I cannot find it in my Evangelisterium. I dare say the holy Apostles ordered it afterwards: or perhaps it is in some Gospel I have never seen. There are only four in my book.

If that strange priest would come again to confess us, I should like very much to ask him several questions of that sort. I never saw any other priest that I could speak to freely, as I could to him. Father Hamon would not understand me, I am sure: and Father Benedict would rebuke me sharply whether he understood or not; telling me for the fiftieth time that I ought to humble myself to the dust because my vocation is so imperfect. Well, I know I have no vocation. But why then was I shut up here when G.o.d had not called me? I had no choice allowed me. Or why, seeing things are thus, cannot the Master or some one else loose me from my vow, and let me go back to the world which they keep blaming me because they say I love?

Yet what should I do in the world? My mother has been dead many years, for her name is in the obituary of the house. As to my brothers and sisters, I no more know how many of them are living, nor where they are, than if they dwelt in the stars. I remember my brother Hugh, because he used to take my part when the others teased me: but as to my younger brothers, I only know there were some; I forget even their names. I think one was Hubert, or Robert, or something that ended in _bert_. And my sisters--I remember Isabel; she was three years elder than I. And-- was one Elizabeth? I think so. But wherever they are, I suppose they would feel me a stranger among them--an intruder who was not wanted, and who had no business to be there. I am unfit both for Heaven and earth.

n.o.body wants me--least of all G.o.d.

I do not imagine that is Margaret's history. How far she may or may not have a vocation--that I leave; I know nothing about it. But I cannot help fancying that somebody did want her, and that it might be to put her out of somebody's way--Foolish woman! what am I saying? Why, Margaret was not five years old when she was professed. How can she have had any history of the kind? I simply do not understand it.

Poor little Damia! I think Mother Gaillarde has given her rather hard measure.

I found the child crying bitterly when she came into the children's south dormitory where I serve this week.

"Why, whatever is the matter, little one?" said I.

"O Sister Annora!" was all she could sob out.

"Well, weep not thus broken-heartedly!" said I. "Tell me what it is, and let us see if it cannot be amended."

"It's Erneburg!" sobbed little Damia.