In Convent Walls Part 30

"But not that sort of love!" I cried.

"Is there any sort but one?" she made answer. "Love is an angel, Annora: it is self-love that is of the Devil. When man helps man to sin, that is not love. How can it be, when G.o.d is love, and G.o.d and sin are opposites? Tarry until my tale be ended, and then shalt thou be judge thyself how far Roland's love and mine were sin."

"Go on," said I.

"Well," she said, "for many a week it went no further than looks. Then it came to words."

"In the church!"

"No, not in the church, my scrupulous sister! We should have felt that as wrong as thou. Through the wall between the gardens, where was a little c.h.i.n.k that I dare be bound we were not the first to find. Would that no sinfuller words than ours may ever pa.s.s athwart it! We found out that both of us had been thrust into the religious life without our own consent: I, thou savest, by the Queen's wrath (which I knew not then); he, by a cousin that coveted his inheritance. And we talked much, and at last came to agreement that as neither he nor I had any vocation, it would be more wrong in us to continue in this life than to escape and be we'd."

"But what priest should ever have wedded a Sister to man training for holy orders?"

"None. We were young, Annora: we thought not of such things. As for what should come after we were escaped, we left that to chance. Nay, chide me not for my poor broken dream, for it was a dream alone. The Prioress found us out. That night I was in solitary cell, barred in my prison, with no companions save a discipline that I was bidden to use, and a great stone crucifix that looked down upon me. Ay, I had one Other, but at first I saw Him not. Nay, nor for eight years afterwards.

Cold, silent, stony, that crucifix looked down: and I thought He was like that, the living Christ that had died for me, and I turned away from Him. My heart seemed that night as if it froze to ice. It was hard and ice-bound for eight years. During that time there were many changes at Watton. Our Prioress died; and a time of sore sickness removed many of our Sisters. At the end of the eight years, only three Sisters were left who could remember my punishment--it was more than I have told"--ah, poor soul! lightly as she pa.s.sed it thus, I dare be bound it was--"and these, I imagine, knew not why it was. And at last our confessor died.

"I thought I had utterly outlived my youthful dream. Roland had disappeared as entirely as if he had never been. What had become of him I knew not--not even if he were alive. I went about my duties in a dull, wooden way, as an image might do, if it could be made to move so as to sew or paint without a soul. Life was worth nothing to me--only to get it over. My love was dead, or it was my heart: which I knew not.

Either came to the same thing. There were duties I disliked, and one of these was confession: but I went through with them, in the cold, dull way of which I spake. It had to be: what did it matter?

"One morrow, about a week after our confessor's death, my Lady Prioress that then was told us at recreation-time that our new confessor had come. We were commanded to go to him, ten in the day, and to make a full confession from our infancy. My turn came on the second day. So many of our elder Sisters had died or been transferred, that I was, at twenty-five years, one of the eldest (beside the Mothers) left in the house.

"I knelt down in the confessional, and repeated the Confiteor. Then, in that stony way, I went on with my life-confession: the falsehood that I had told when a child of eight, the obstinacy that I had shown at ten, the general sins whereof I had since been guilty: the weariness of divine things which ever oppressed me, the want of vocation that I had always felt. I finished, and paused. He would ask me some questions, of course. Let him get them over. There was silence for a moment. And then I heard myself asked--'Is that all thou hast to confess?'--in the voice I had loved best of all the world. My tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of my mouth. I only whispered, 'Roland!' in tones which I could not have told for mine own.

"'I scarce thought to find thee yet here, Margaret,' he said. 'I well-nigh feared to do it. But after thy confession, I see wherefore G.o.d hath sent me--that I may pour out into the dry and thirsty cup of thine heart a little of that spiced wine of the kingdom which He hath given to me.'

"Mine heart sank down very low. 'Thou hast received thy vocation, then?' I said; and I felt the poor broken thing ache so that I knew it must be yet alive. Roland would care no more for me, if he had received a vocation. I must go on yet alone till death freed me. Alone, for evermore!

"'I have received the blessedest of all vocations,' he answered; 'the call to G.o.d Himself. Margaret, art thou thinking that if this be so, I shall love thee no more? Nay, for I shall love thee more than ever.

Beloved, G.o.d is not stone and ice; He is not indifference nor hatred.

Nay, He is love, and whoso dwelleth in love dwelleth in G.o.d, and G.o.d dwelleth in us, and His love is perfected in us. Open thy heart to that love, and then this little, little life will soon be over, and we shall dwell together beside the river of His pleasures, unto the ages of the ages.'

"'It sounds fair, Roland,' I said; 'but it is far away. My soul is hard and dry. I cannot tell how to open the door.'

"'Then,' said he, 'ask Jesus to lift the latch and to come in. Thou wilt never desire Him to go forth again. I have much to say: but it hath been long enough now. Every time thou prayest, say also, "Lord Jesu, come into mine heart and make it soft." He will come if thou desire Him. And if thou carest not to do this for His sake, do it for thine own.'

"'I care not for mine own, nor for any thing,' I answered drearily.

"'Then,' saith he, and the old tenderness came into his tone for a moment, 'then, Margaret, do it for mine.'

"I believe he forgot to absolve me: but I did not miss it.

"It is four and twenty years since that day: and during all these years I have been learning to know Christ our Lord, and the fellowship of His sufferings. For as time pa.s.sed on, Roland told me much of saintly men from whom he had learned, and of many a lesson direct from our Lord Himself. Now He has taken Roland's place. Not that I love Roland less: but I love him differently. He is not first now: and all the bitterness has gone out of my love. Not all the pain. For we came to the certainty after a time, when he had taught me much, that we had better bide asunder for this life, and in that which is to come we shall dwell together for evermore. He was about to resign his post as confessor, when the Lord disposed of us otherwise, for the Master thought fit to draft me into the house at Shuldham, and after eighteen years there was I sent hither. So Roland, I suppose, bides at Watton. I know not: the Lord knows. We gave up for His sake the sweet converse wherein our hearts delighted, that we might serve Him more fully and with less distraction. I do not believe it was sinful. That it is sin in me to love Roland shall I never own. But lest we should love each other better than we love Him, we journey apart for this lower life. And I do not think our Lord is angry with me when at times the longing pain and the aching loneliness seem to overcome me, for a little while. I think He is sorry for me. For since I learned--from Roland--that He is not dead, but the Living One--that He is not darkness, but the Light--that He is not cold and hard, but the incarnate Love--since then, I can never feel afraid of Him. And I believe that He has not only made satisfaction for my sins, but also that He can carry my burdens, and can forgive my blunders. And if we cannot speak to one another, we can both speak to Him, and entrust Him with our messages for each other. He will give them if it be good: and before giving, He will change the words if needful, so that we shall be sure to get the right message. Sometimes, when I have felt very lonely, and He comes near me, and sends His peace into my heart, I wonder whether Roland was asking Him to do it: and I pray Him to comfort and rest Roland whenever he too feels weary. So you see we send each other many more letters round by Heaven than we could possibly do by earth. It was the last word Roland said to me--'The road upward is alway open,' and, '_Et de Hierosolymis et de Britannia, aequaliter patet aula caelestis_.'" [Note 2.]

Margaret was silent.

Then said Mother Alianora, "Child, thou hast said strange things: if they be good or ill, G.o.d wot. I dare not have uttered some of them thus boldly; yet neither dare I condemn thee. We all know so little! But one thing have I learned, methinks--that G.o.d will not despise a gift because men cast it at His feet as having no value for them. I say not, He will not despise such givers: verily, they shall have their reward.

But if the gift be a living thing that can feel and smart under the manner of its usage, then methinks He shall stoop to lift it with very tender hands, so as to let it feel that it hath value in His eyes--its own value, that nought save itself can have. My children, we are not mere figures to Him--so many dwellers in so many houses. Before Him we are living men and real women--each with his separate heart, and every separate pang that rends it. The Church of G.o.d is one: but it is His Body, and made of many members. We know, when we feel pain, in what member it is. Is He less wise, less tender, less sensitive than we?

There are many, Margaret, who would feel nought but horror at thy story; I advise thee not to tell it to any other, lest thou suffer in so doing.

But I condemn thee not: for I think Christ would not, if He stood now among us. Dear child, keep at His feet: it is the only safe place, and it is the happy place. Heaven will be wide enough to hold us all, and before long we shall be there."

Note 1. To the mind of a Roman Catholic, a "religious person" is only a priest, monk, or nun.

Note 2. "From Jerusalem, or from England, the way to Heaven is equally near."--Jerome.

PART THREE, CHAPTER 3.

ANNORA FINDS IT OUT.

"Peace, peace, poor heart!

Go back and thrill not thus!

Are not the vows of the Lord G.o.d upon me?"

It would really be a convenience if one could buy common sense. People seem to have so little. And I am sure I have not more than other people.

That story of Margaret's puzzles me sorely. I sit and think, and think, and I never seem to come any nearer the end of my thinking. And some never seem to have any trouble with their thoughts. I suppose they either have more of them, and more sense altogether, so that they can see things where I cannot; or else--Well, I do not know what else.

But Margaret's thoughts are something so entirely new. It is as if I were looking out of the window at one end of the corridor, which looks towards Grantham, and she were looking from the window at the other end, which faces towards Spalding. Of course we should not see the same things: how could we? And if the gla.s.s in one window were blue, and the other red, it would make the difference still greater. I think that must be rather the distinction; for it does not seem to lie in the things themselves, but in the eyes with which Margaret looks on them.

Dear Mother Alianora yet lives, but she is sinking peacefully. Neither Margaret nor I have been called to watch by her again. I begged of Mother Gaillarde that I might see her once more, and say farewell; and all I got for it was "Mind your broidery, Sister!"

I should not wonder if she let me go. I do not know why it is, but for all her rough manner and sharp words, I can ask a favour of Mother Gaillarde easier than of Mother Ada. There seems to be nothing in Mother Ada to get hold of; it is like trying to grip a lump of ice.

Mother Gaillarde is like a nut with a rough outside burr; there is plenty to lay hold of, though as likely as not you get p.r.i.c.ked when you try. And if she is rough when you ask her anything, yet she often gives it, after all.

I have not exchanged a word with Margaret since that night when we watched together. She sits on the other side of the work-room, and even in the recreation-room she rather avoids coming near me, or I fancy so.

Whatever I begin with, I always get back to Margaret. Such strange ideas she has! I keep thinking of things that I wish I had said to her or asked her, and now I have lost the opportunity. I thought of it this morning, when the two Mothers were conversing with Sister Ismania about the Christmas decorations in our own little oratory. Sister Ismania is the eldest of all our Sisters.

"I thought," said she, "if it were approved, I could mould a little waxen image of our Lord for the altar, and wreathe it round with evergreens."

"As an infant?" asked Mother Gaillarde.

"Well--yes," said Sister Ismania; but I could see that had not been her idea.

"Oh, of course!" answered Mother Ada. "It would be most highly indecorous for _us_ to see Him as a man."

Was it my fancy, or did I see a little curl of Margaret's lips?

"He will be a man at the second advent, I suppose," observed Mother Gaillarde.

Mother Ada did not answer: but she looked rather scandalised.

"And must we not have some angels?" said Sister Ismania.

"There are the angels we had for Easter, Sister," suggested Sister Roberga.