In Convent Walls Part 34

"Well!" I said with a sigh, "I suppose I never had one."

"Stuff and nonsense!" said Sister Gaillarde. "If you mean you never had a liking for the life, that may be true--you know more about that than I; but if you mean you do not fill your place well, and do your duty as well as you know how, and a deal better than most folks--why, again I say, stuff and nonsense! You are not perfect, I suppose. If you ever see any body who is, I should like to know her name. It won't be Gaillarde--that I know!"

I wonder whose daughter the Lady Joan is! Something in her eyes puzzles me so, as if she reminded me of somebody whom I had known, long, long ago--some Sister when I was novice, or perchance even some one whom I knew in my early childhood, before I was professed at all. They are dark eyes, but not at all like Margaret's. Margaret's are brown, but these are dark grey, with long black lashes; and they do not talk--they only look as if they could, if one knew how to make them. The Lady Joan is very quiet and attentive to her religious duties; I think Sister Ada's fears may sleep. She is not at all likely to unsettle any body.

She talks very little, except when necessary. Two months, I hear, she will remain; and I do not think she will be any trouble to one of us.

Even Sister Gaillarde says, "She is a decent woman: she'll do." And that means a good deal--from Sister Gaillarde.

I have the chance to speak to Margaret now. Of course a Mother can call any Sister to her cell if needful; and no one may ask why except another Mother. I must be careful not to seem to prefer Margaret above the rest, and all the more because she is my own sister. But last night I really had some directions to give her, and I summoned her to my cell.

When I had told her what I wanted, I was about to dismiss her with "_Pax tibi_!" as usual, but Margaret's talking eyes told me she had something to say.

I said,--"Well! what is it, Margaret?"

"May I speak to my sister Annora for a moment, and not to the Mother?"

she asked, with a look half amused and half sad.

"Thou mayest always do that, dear heart," said I.

(I hope it was not wicked.)

"Then--Annora, for whom is the Lady Joan looking?"

"Looking! I understand thee not, Margaret."

"I think it is either thou or I," she replied. "Sister Anne told me that she asked her if there were not some Sisters of the Despenser family here, and wished to have them pointed out to her: and she said to Sister Anne, 'She whom I seek was professed as a very little child.'

That must be either thou or I, Annora. What can she want with us?"

"Verily, Margaret, I cannot tell."

"I wondered if she might be a niece of ours."

"She may," said I. "I never thought of that. There is something about her eyes that reminds me of some one, but who it is I know not."

"Thou couldst ask her," suggested Margaret.

"I scarcely like to do that," said I. "But I will think about it, Margaret."

I was wicked enough to kiss her, when I let her go.

This morning Sister Ada told me that the Lady Joan had asked leave to learn illuminating, so she would spend her mornings henceforth in the illumination chamber. That will bring her with Margaret, who is much there. Perchance she may tell her something.

It would be strange to see a niece or cousin of one's very own! I marvel if she be akin to us. Somehow, since I had that night watch with Margaret, my heart does not feel exactly the dry, dead thing it used to do in times past. I fancy I could love a kinswoman, if I had one.

Sister Gaillarde said such a strange thing to me to-day. I was remarking that the talk in the recreation-room was so often vapid and foolish--all about such little matters: we never seemed to take an interest in any great or serious subject.

"Sister Annora," said she, with one of her grim smiles, "I always looked to see you turn out a reformer."

"Me!" cried I.

"You," said she.

"But a reformer is a great, grand man, with a hard head, and a keen wit, and a ready tongue!" said I.

"Why should it not be a woman with a soft heart?" quoth Sister Gaillarde.

"_Ha, jolife_!" cried I. "Sister Gaillarde, you may be cut out for a reformer, but I am sure I am not."

I looked up as I spoke, and saw the Lady Joan's dark grey eyes upon me.

"What is to be reformed. Mother?" said she.

"Why, if each of us would reform herself, I suppose the whole house would be reformed," I answered.

"Capital!" said Sister Gaillarde. "Let's set to work."

"Who will begin?" said Sister Ismania.

"Every body will be the second," replied Sister Gaillarde, "except those who have begun already: that's very plain!"

"I expect every body will be the last," said Margaret.

Sister Gaillarde nodded, as if she meant Amen.

"Well, thank goodness, I want no reforms," said Sister Ada.

"Nor any reforming?" said Sister Gaillarde.

"Certainly not," she answered. "I always do my duty--always. n.o.body can lay any thing else to my charge." And she looked round with an air that seemed to say, "Deny it if you can!"

"It is manifest," observed Sister Gaillarde gravely, "that our Sister Ada is the only perfect being among us. I am not perfect, by any means: and really, I feel oppressed by the company of a seraph. I'm not nearly good enough. Perchance, Sister Ada, you would not mind my sitting a little further off."

And actually, she rose and went over to the other side of the room.

Sister Ada tossed her head,--not as I should expect a seraph to do: then she too rose, and walked out of the room. Sister Ismania had laughingly followed Sister Gaillarde: so that the Lady Joan, Margaret, and I, were alone in that corner.

"My mother had a Book of Evangels," said the Lady Joan, "in which I have sometimes read: and I remember, it said, 'be ye perfect,' The priests say only religious persons can be perfect: yet our Lord, when He said it, was not speaking to them, but just to the common people who were His disciples, on the hill-side. Is it the case, that we could all be perfect, if only we tried, and entreated the grace of our Lord to enable us to be so?"

"Did your Ladyship ever know any who was?" asked Margaret.

The Lady Joan shook her head. "Never--not perfect. My mother was a good woman enough; but there were flaws in her. She was cleverer than my father, and she let him feel it. He was nearer perfection than she, for he was humbler and gentler--G.o.d rest his sweet soul! Yet she was a good woman, for all that: but--no, not perfect!"

Suddenly she ceased, and a light came in her eyes.

"You two," she said, looking on us, "are the Despenser ladies, I believe?"

We a.s.sented.

"Do you mind telling me--pardon me if I should not ask--which of you was affianced, long years ago, to the Lord Lawrence de Hastings, sometime Earl of Pembroke?"

"Sometime!" ah me, then my lost love is no more!