In Convent Walls

  PART THREE, CHAPTER 2.

  SISTER MARGARET.

  "Do I not know The life of woman is full of woe? Toiling on and on and on, With breaking heart, and tearful eyes, And silent lips--and in the soul The secret longings that arise, Which this world never satisfies?"

  Longfellow.

  Mother Alianora was lying in her bed when I entered the Infirmary, justunder the window, where the soft light of the low autumn sun came in andlit up her pillow and her dear old face. She smiled when she saw me.

  There was another Sister in the room, who was stirring a pan over thefire, and at first I scarcely noticed her. I went up to the dearMother, and asked her how she was.

  "Well, my child," she said, tenderly. "Nearly at Home."

  Something came up in my throat that would not let me speak.

  "Hast thou been sent to relieve Sister Marian?" she asked.

  "I know not," said I, after a moment's struggle with myself: then,remembering what I had been bidden, I added, "Mother Gaillarde bade mecome."

  We sat silent for a few moments. Sister Marian poured out the broth andbrought it to the Mother, and I supported her while she drank a littleof it. She could not take much.

  Just before the bell rang for compline, Mother Ada came in.

  "I bring an order from my Lady," said she. "Sister Marian will berelieved after compline by another Sister, who will be sent up. SisterAnnora is to stay with the sick Mother during compline, and both she andthe Sister who then comes will keep watch during the night."

  I was surprised. I never knew any case of sickness, unless it weresomething very severe and urgent, allowed to interfere with a Sister'sattendance at compline. But I was glad enough to stay.

  Mother Ada went away again after her orders were given, and SisterMarian followed her when the bell rang. As soon as the little sounds ofthe Sisters' footsteps had died away, and we knew they were all shut inthe oratory, Mother Alianora, in a faint voice, bade me bring a stoolbeside her bed and sit down.

  "Annora," said she, in that feeble voice, "my child, thou art fiftyyears old, yet I think of thee as a child still. And in many respectsthou art so. It has been thy lot, whether for good or evil--which, whoknoweth save God?--to be safe sheltered from very much of the ill thatis in the world. But I doubt not, at times, questionings will arise inthy heart, whether the good may not have been shut out too. Is it so,my child?"

  I suppose Mother Ada would say I was exceedingly carnal. But somethingin the touch of that soft, wrinkled hand, in whose veins I knew ran mineown blood, seemed to break down all my defences. I laid my head down onthe coverlet, my cheek upon her hand, and in answer I poured forth allthat had been so long shut close in mine own heart--that longing crywithin me for some real, warm, human love, that ceaseless regret for thelost happiness which was meant to have been mine.

  "O Mother, Mother! is it wicked in me?" I cried. "You, who are so nearGod, you should see with clearer eyes than we, lost in the tangledwilderness of this world. Is it wicked of me to dream of that lostlove, and of all that it might have been to me? Am I his true wife, oris she--whoever that she may be? Am I robbing; God when I love anyother creature? Must I only love any one in Heaven? and am I to preparefor that by loving nobody here on earth?"

  The door opened softly, and the Sister who was to share my watch camein. She must have heard my closing words.

  "My child!" said the faint voice of the dear Mother, who had always feltto me more like what I supposed mothers to be than any other I hadknown--"my child, `it is impossible that scandals should not come: butwoe unto them through whom they come!' It seems to me probable that onesin may be written in many books: that the actor, and the inciter, andthe abettor--ay, and those who might have prevented, and did not--mayall have their share. Thy coming hither, and thy religious life, havingreceived no vocation of God, was not thy fault, poor, helpless,oppressed child! and such temptations as distress thee, therefromarising, will not be laid to thy charge as sins. But if thou let atemptation slide into a sin by consenting thereto, by cherishing andpursuing it with delight, then art thou not guiltless. That thoushouldst feel thyself unhappy here, in an unsuitable place, and thatthou mightest have been a happier woman in the wedded life of theworld,--that is no marvel: truly, I think it of thee myself. To know itis no sin: to repine and murmur thereat, these are forbidden. Thy lotis appointed of God Himself--God, thy Father, who loveth thee, who hathgiven Himself for thee, who pleased not Himself when He came down to diefor thee. Are there not here drops of honey to sweeten the bitter cup?And if thou want another yet, then remember how short this life is, andthat after it, they that have done His will shall be together with Himfor ever. Dear hearts, it is only a little while."

  The Sister who was to watch with me had come forward to the foot of thebed, and was standing silent there. When Mother Alianora thus spoke, Ifancied that I heard a little sob. Wondering who she was, I looked up--looked up, to my great astonishment, into those dark, strange eyes of myown sister Margaret.

  Margaret and I, alone, to keep the watch all night long! What could myLady Prioress mean? Here was an opportunity to indulge my will, not tomortify it; to make my love grow, instead of repressing it. I hadactually put into my hand the chance that I had so earnestly desired, tospeak to Margaret alone.

  But now that the first difficulty was removed, another rose up beforeme. Would Margaret speak to me? Was she, perhaps, searching foropportunities of mortification, and would refuse the indulgencepermitted? I knew as much of the King's Court, as much of a knightlytournament, as I knew of that sealed-up heart of hers. Should I beallowed to know any more?

  "Annora," said our aunt again, "there is one thine in my life that Iregret sorely, and it is that I was not more of a mother to thee whenthou earnest as a little child. Of course I was under discipline: but Ifeel now that I did not search for opportunities as I might have done,that I let little chances pass which I might have seized. My child,forgive me!"

  "Dearest Mother!" I said, "you were ever far kinder to me than any oneelse in all the world."

  "Thank God I have heard that!" saith she. "Ah, children--for we arechildren to an aged woman like me--life looks different indeed, seenfrom a deathbed, to what it does viewed from the little mounds of ourhuman wisdom as we pass along it. Here, there is nothing great but God;there is nothing fair save Christ and Heaven; there is nothing elsetrue, nor desirable, nor of import. Every thing is of consequence, if,and just so far as, it bears on these: and all other things are as thedust of the floor, which ye sweep off and forth of the doors into theoutward. Life is the way upward to God, or the way down to Satan. Whatdoes it matter whether the road were smooth or rough, when ye come tothe end thereof? The more weary and footsore, the more chilled andhungered ye are, the sweeter shall be the marriage-supper and the restof the Father's House."

  "Ay--when we are there." It was Margaret who spoke.

  "And before, let us look forward, my child."

  "Easy enough," said Margaret, "when the sun gleameth out fair, and yesee the domes of the city stand up bravely afore. But in the darknight, when neither sun nor star appeareth, and ye are out on a wildmoor, and thick mist closeth you in, so that ye go it may be aroundthinking it be forward, till ye know not whether your face is toward thecity or no--"

  "Let thy face be toward the Lord of the city," said Mother Alianora."He shall lead thee forth by the right way, that thou mayest come to Hiscity and to His holy hill. The right way, daughter, is sometimes theway over the moor, and through the mist. `Who of you walketh indarkness, and there is no light to him? Let him trust in the name ofthe Lord, and lean upon his God.' Why, my child, it is only when mancannot see that it is possible for him to trust. Faith is not called inexercise so long as thou walkest by sight."

  "But when thou art utterly alone," said my sister in a low voice, "withnot one footstep on the road beside thee--"

  "That art thou never, child, so thou be Christ's. _His_
footsteps arealway there."

  "In suffering, ay: but in perplexity?"

  "Daughter, when thou losest His steps, thou yet hast Himself. `If anylack wisdom, let him ask of God.' And God is never from home."

  "Neither is Satan."

  "`Greater is He that is in you than he in the world.'"

  Mother Alianora seemed weary when she had said this, and lay still awhile: and Margaret did not answer. I think the Mother dropped asleep;I sat beside her and watched. But Margaret stood still at the foot ofthe bed, not sitting down, and in the dim light of our one little lamp Icould scarcely see her face as she stood, only that it was turned towardthe casement, where a faint half-moon rode in the heavens, and the calmancient stars looked down on us. Oh, how small a world is ours in thegreat heavens! yet for one soul of one little babe in this small world,the Son of God hath died.

  My heart went out to Margaret as she stood there: yet my lips weresealed. I felt, strangely, as if I could not speak. Something held meback, and I knew not if it were God, or Satan, or only mine own want ofsense and bravery. The long hours wore on. The church bell tolled forlauds, and we heard the soft tramp of the Sisters' feet as they passedand returned: then the doors closed, and Mother Ada's voice said,

  "_Laus Deo_!" and Sister Ismania's replied, "_Deo gratias_!" ThenMother Ada's footsteps passed the door as she went to her cell, and oncemore all was silence. On rolled the hours slowly, and still MotherAlianora seemed to sleep: still Margaret stood as if she had been cut instone, without so much as moving, and still I sat, feeling much as if Iwere stone too, and had no power to move or speak.

  It might be about half-way between lauds and prime when the spell was atlast broken. And it was broken, to my astonishment, by Margaret'sasking me a question that fairly took my breath away.

  "Annora, art thou a saint?"

  These were the first words Margaret had ever spoken to me, except fromnecessity. That weary, dried-up thing that I call mine heart, seemed togive a little bit of throb.

  "Our Lady love us, no!" said I. "I never was, nor never could be."

  "I am glad to hear it," she said.

  "Why, Margaret?"

  Oh, how my heart wanted to call her something sweeter! _It_ said, Mydarling, my beloved, mine own little sister! But my tongue was all sounwonted to utter such words that I could not persuade it to say them.

  Yet more to my surprise, Margaret came out of the window,--came andknelt at my feet, and laid her clasped hands on my knee.

  "Hadst thou said `Ay,' I should have spoken no more. As thou art not--Annora, is it true that we twain had one mother?"

  Something in Margaret's tone helped me. I took the clasped hands inmine own.

  "It is true, mine own Sister," I said.

  "`Sister!' and `Mother!'" she said. "They are words that mean nothingat all to me. I wonder if God meant them to mean nothing to us? Couldwe not have been as good women, and have served Him as well, if we haddwelt with our own blood, as other maidens do, or even if--"

  Her voice died away.

  "Margaret," I said, "Mother Ada would say it was wicked, but mine heartis for ever asking the same questions."

  "Is it?" she said eagerly. "O Annora! then thou knowest! I thought,maybe, thou shouldst count it wicked, and chide me for indulging suchthoughts."

  "How could I chide any one, sinner as I am!" said I. "Nay, Margaret, Idoubt not my thoughts have been far unholier than thine. Thourememberest not, I am sure; but ere we were professed, I wastroth-plight unto a young noble, and always that life that I have lostflitteth afore me, as a bird that held a jewel in his beak might lure meon from flower to flower, ever following, never grasping the sweetillusion. Margaret, sister, despise me not for my confession! But thouwilt see I am no saint, nor like to be."

  "Despise thee!" she said. "Dear heart, wert thou to know how muchfurther I have gone!"

  I looked on her with some alarm.

  "Margaret! we are professed religious women." [Note 1.]

  "Religious women!" she answered. "If thou gild a piece of wood, doth itbecome gold? Religious women are not women that wear black and white,cut in a certain fashion: they are women that set God above all things.And have I not done that? Have I not laid mine heart upon His altar, aliving sacrifice, because I believed He called me to break that poorquivering thing in twain? And will He judge me that did His will, tothe best of my power and knowledge, because now and then a human sobbreaks from my woman-heart, by reason that I am not yet an angel, andthat He did not make me a stone? I do not believe it. I will notbelieve it. He that gave His own Son to die for man can be no Molochdelighting in human suffering--caring not how many hearts be crushed solong as there be flowers upon His altar, how many lives be made desolateso long as there be choirs to sing antiphons! Annora, it is not God whodoes such things, but men."

  I was doubtful how to answer, seeing I could not understand what shemeant. I only said--

  "Yet God permits men to do them."

  "Ay. But He never bids them to make others suffer,--far less to takepleasure in doing so."

  "Margaret," said I, "may I know thy story? I have told thee mine.Truly, it is not much to tell."

  "No," she said, as if dreamily,--"not much: only such an one as will betold out by the mile rather than the yard, from thousands of convents onthe day when the great doom shall be. Only the story of a crushedheart--how much does that matter to the fathers of the Order? There besomewhat too many in these cells for them to take any note of one."

  I remembered what Mother Gaillarde had said.

  "It is terrible, if that be true," I answered. "I thought I was theonly one, and that made me unhappy because I must be so wicked. Attimes, in meditation, I have looked round the chamber and thought--Herebe all these blessed women, wrapped in holy meditations, and only Itempted by wicked thoughts of the world outside, like Lot's wife atSodom."

  Margaret fairly laughed. "Verily," said she, "if it were given to us tolift the veil from the hearts of all these blessed women, and scan theirholy meditations, I reckon thine amaze would not be small. Annora, Ithink thou art a saint."

  "Impossible!" said I. "Why, I fell asleep in the midst of the Rosary as'ennight back,--having been awake half the night before--and FatherBenedict said I must do penance for it. Saints are not such as I."

  "Annora, if the angels that write in men's books have no worse to setdown in thine than what thou hast told me, I count they shall reckontheir work full light. O humble and meek of heart, thinking all otherbetter than thyself--trust me, they be, at best, like such as thou."

  Margaret left her station at my feet, and coming round, knelt downbeside me, and laid her head on my shoulder.

  "Kiss me, Sister," she said.

  So did I, at once, without thought: and then, perceiving what I haddone, I was affrighted.

  "O Margaret! have we not sinned? Is it not an indulgence of the flesh?"

  "Wert thou made without flesh?" asked Margaret, with a short, dry laugh.

  "No, but it must be mortified!"

  "Sin must be mortified," she answered more gravely. "Why should wemortify love?"

  "Not spiritual love: but natural love, surely, we renounce."

  "Why should we renounce it? Does God make men sons and brothers,husbands and fathers, only that they may have somewhat to renounce? CanHe train us only in the wilderness of Sinai, and not in the land flowingwith milk and honey?"

  "But we renounce them for Him."

  "We renounce for Him that which He demandeth of us." Margaret's voicewas low and sorrowful now. "Ay, there be times when He holdeth out Hishand for the one dearest earthly thing, and calls us to resign either itor Him. Blessed are they that then, howsoever they shrink and faint,yet love Him more than it, and brace their will to give it up to Him.To them that so do, Annora, He giveth Himself; and He is better than anyearthly thing. `_Quid enim mihi est in caelo? et a Te quid volui superterram_?' [Psalm 73, verse 25] But it seems to me that we o
ught tobeware of renouncing what He does not ask of us. If we are in doubt,then let us draw the line on the safe side,--on His side, not on theside of our inclinations. Yet of one thing am I sure--that many a womanmortifies her graces instead of her sins, and resigns to God that whichHe asks not, keeping that which He would have."

  "Mortify graces!" I cried. "O Margaret! how could we?"

  "I think thou wouldst, Sister, if thou hadst refused to kiss me," shereplied with an amused smile.

  "But kisses are such very carnal things," said I. "Mother Ada alwayssays so. She saith we read of none of the holy Apostles kissing anybody, save only Judas Iscariot."

  "Who told her so? Doth she find it written that they did not kiss anybody? Annora, I marvel if our Lord kissed not the little children. AndI am sure the holy patriarchs kissed each other. I do not believe intrying to be better than God. I have noted that when man endeavours topurify himself above our Lord's example, he commonly ends in beingconsiderably less good than other men."

  "I wish we might love each other!" I said with a sigh. And I am verymuch afraid I kissed her again. I do not know what Mother Ada wouldhave said.

  "I do not wish we might!" said Margaret, sturdily. "I do, and I will."

  "But if we should make idols of each other!" said I.

  "I shall not make an idol of thee," answered my sister, again in thatlow sad tone. "I set up one idol, and He came to me, and held out Hispierced hands, and I tore it down from over the altar, and gave it toHim. He is keeping it for me, and He will give it back one day, in theworld where we need fear no idol-making, nor any sin at all. Annora,thou shalt hear my story."

  At that moment I looked up, and saw Mother Alianora's eyes wide open.

  "Do you lack aught, dear Mother?" I asked.

  "No, my children," she answered gently. "Go on with thy tale, Margaret.The ears of one that will soon hear the harps of the angels will notharm thee."

  I was somewhat surprised she could say that. What of the dread fires ofPurgatory that must come first? Did she count herself so great a saintas to escape them? Then I thought, perhaps, she might have had the samerevealed to her in vision. The thought did not appear to troubleMargaret, who took it as matter of course. Not, truly, that I should besurprised if Mother Alianora were good enough to escape Purgatory, for Iam sure she is the best woman ever I knew: but it was strange she shouldreckon it of herself. Mother Ada always says they are no saints thatthink themselves such: whereto Mother Gaillarde once added, in her dry,sharp way, that they were not much better who tried to make other folkthink so. I do not know of whom she was thinking, but I fancied MotherAda did, from her face.

  Then Margaret began her story.

  "You know," she saith, "it is this year forty-seven years since Annoraand I were professed. And wherefore we were so used, mere babes as wewere, knew I never."

  "Then that I can tell thee," I made answer, "for it was Queen Isabelthat thrust us in hither. Our father did somewhat to her misliking,what indeed I know not: and she pounced on us, poor little maids, andmade us to suffer for his deed."

  "Was that how it was done?" said Margaret. "Then may God pardon hermore readily than I have done! For long years I hated with all theforce of my soul him or her that had been the cause thereof. It is pastnow. The priests say that man sinneth when, having no call of God, heshall take cowl upon him. What then of those which thrust it on him,whether he will or no? I never chose this habit. For years I hated itas fervently as it lay in me to hate. Had the choice been given me, anymoment of those years, I would have gone back to the world that instant.The world!" Her voice changed suddenly. "What is the world? It isthe enemy of God: true. But will bolts and bars, walls and gates, keepit out? Is it a thing to be found in one city, which man can escape byjourneying to another? Is it not rather in his own bosom, and ever withhim? They say much of carnal affections that are evil, and creep notinto religious houses. As if man should essay to keep Satan and hisangels out of his house by painting God's name over the door! But alllove, of whatsoever sort, say they, is a filthiness of the flesh. Ahme! how about the filthiness of the spirit? Is there no pride andjealousy in a religious house? no strife and envying? no murmuring andrebellion of heart? And are these fairer things in God's sight than thenatural love of our own blood? Doth He call us to give up that, and notthese? May it not be rather that if there were more true love, therewere less envy and jealousy? if there were more harmless liberty, therewere less murmuring? When man takes God's scourge into his hands, itseems to me he is apt to wield it ill."

  "But, Margaret!" said I, "so shouldst thou make Satan cast out Satan.Forbidden love were as ill as strife and murmuring."

  "Forbidden of whom?" saith she. "God never forbade me to love mybrethren and sisters. He told me to do it. He never forbade me tohonour my father and mother--to dwell with them, to tend and cherishthem in their old age. He told me to do it. Ay, and He spake ofcertain that did vainly worship Him seeing they taught learning andcommandments of men." [Matthew 15, verse 9, Vulgate.]

  "O Margaret! what art thou saying? Holy Church enjoins vows ofreligion."

  "Tell me then, Annora, what is Holy Church? It is a word that fillsman's mouth full comely, that I know. But what it _is_, is simply thesouls of all righteous men--all the redeemed of Christ our Lord, whichis His Body, and is filled with His Spirit. When did He enjoin suchvows? or when did all righteous men thus band together to make men andwomen unrighteous, by binding commands upon them that were of men, notof God?"

  "Margaret, my Sister!" I cried in terror. "Whence drewest thou suchshocking thoughts? What will Father Benedict say when thou confessestthem?"

  "It is not to Father Benedict I confess _them_," she said, with a littlecurl of her lips. "I confess to him what he expects to hear--that Iloved not to sweep the gallery this morrow, or that I ate a lettuce lastnight and forgot to sign the cross over it. Toys are meet for babes,and babes for toys. They cannot understand the realities of life. Suchmatters I confess to--another Priest, and He can understand them."

  "Well," said I, "I always thought Father Hamon something less wise thanFather Benedict: at least, Father Benedict chides me, and Father Hamongives me neither blame nor commendation. But, Margaret, I do notunderstand thy strange sayings in any wise. Surely thou knowest what isthe Church?"

  "I know what it is not," saith she; "and that is Father Hamon, or FatherBenedict, or Father Anything-Else. Christ and they that are Christ's--the Head and the Body, the Bridegroom and the Bride: behold the Church,and behold her Priest and Confessor!"

  "Margaret," saith Mother Alianora, "who taught thee that? Where didstthou hear such learning?"

  She did not speak chidingly, but only as if she desired information. Iwas surprised she was not more severe, for truly I never heard suchtalk, and I was sorely afraid for my poor Margaret, lest some evil thinghad got hold of her--maybe the Devil himself in the likeness of someSister in her old convent.

  A wave of pain swept over Margaret's eyes when Mother Alianora saidthat, and a dreamy look of calm came and chased it thence.

  "Where?" she said. "In the burning fiery furnace, heated seven timeshotter than its wont. Of whom? Verily, I think, of that Fourth thatwalked there, who was the Son of God. He walks oftener, methinks, inthe fiery furnace with His martyrs, than in the gilded galleries withthe King Nebuchadnezzar and his princes. At least I have oftener foundHim there."

  She seemed as if she lost herself in thought, until Mother Alianorasaith, in her soft, faint voice--"Go on, my child."

  Margaret roused up as if she were awoke from sleep.

  "Well!" she said, "nothing happened to me, as you may well guess, forthe years of childhood that followed, when I was learning to read,write, and illuminate, to sew, embroider, cook, and serve in variousways. My Lady Prioress found that I had a wit at devising patterns andsuch like, so I was kept mainly to the embroidery and painting: beingfirst reminded that it was not for mine own enjoyme
nt, but that I shouldso best serve the Order. I took the words and let them drop, and I tookthe work and delighted in it. So matters went until I was a maid ofseventeen years. And then something else came into my life."

  I asked, "What was it?" for she had paused. But her next words were notan answer.

  "I marvel," she saith, "of what metal Saint Gilbert was made, thatfounded our Order. Was it out of pity, or out of bitter hardness, orout of simple want of understanding, that he framed our Rule, and gaveus more liberty than other Sisters? Is it more or less happy for a larkthat thou let him out of his cage once in the year in a small cellwhence he cannot escape into the free air of heaven? Had I been hismother or his sister, when the Saint writ his Rule, I had said to him,Keep thy brethren and sisters apart at the blessed Sacrament, or elsebandage their eyes."

  "O Margaret!" I cried out, for it was awful to hear such words. As ifthe blessed Saint Gilbert could have made a mistake! "Dost thou thinkthyself wiser than the holy saints?"

  "Yes," she answered simply. "I am sure I know more about women thanSaint Gilbert did. That he did not know much about them was shown bysuch a Rule, he might as well have set the door of the lark's cage open,and have said to the bird, `Now, stay in!' Well, I did not stay in.One morrow at mass, I was all suddenly aware of a pair of dark eyesscanning my face across the nave--"

  "From the brethren's side of the church! O Margaret!"

  "Well, Annora? I am human: so, perchance, was he. He had been thrustinto this life, as I had. Had we both been free, we might have lovedeach other without a voice saying, `It is sin.' Why was it sin becausewe wore black and white habits?"

  "But the vows, Margaret! the vows!"

  "What vows? I made none, worthy to be called vows. I was bidden, alittle babe of four years, to say `ay' and `nay' at certain times, and`I am willing,' and so forth. What knew I of the import attaching tosuch words? I do ensure thee I knew nothing at all, save that when Ihad been good and done as I was told, I should have a pretty littlehabit like the Sisters, and be called `Sister' as these grown womenwere. Is that what God calls a vow?--a vow of life-long celibacy,dragged from a babe that knew not what vow nor celibacy were! `Doth Godlack your lie?' saith Job [Job 13, verse 7]. Yea, the Psalmist crieth,`_Numquid adhaeret Tibi sedes iniquitatis_?' [Psalm 94, verse 20]--Walawa! the only thing I marvel is that He thundereth not down with Hisgreat wrath, and delivereth not him that is in misery out of the hand ofhim that despoileth."

  If it had been any other Sister, I think I should have been horriblyshocked: but do what I would, I could not speak angrily to my ownsister. I wonder if it were very wicked in me! But it surprised memuch that Mother Alianora lay and hearkened, and said nought. Neitherwas she asleep, for I glanced at her from time to time, and always sawher awake and listening. Truly, she had little need of nurses, for itwas no set malady that ailed her--only a gentle, general decay from oldage. Why two of us were set to watch her I could not tell. Had Ithought it possible that Mother Gaillarde could do a thing so foreign toher nature, I might have fancied that she sent us two there that nightjust in order that we might talk and comfort each other. If MotherAlianora had been the one to do it, I might have thought such a thing:or if my Lady had sent us herself, I should have supposed she had neverconsidered the matter: but Mother Gaillarde! Well, whatever reason shehad, I am thankful for that talk with Margaret. So I kept silence, andmy sister pursued her tale.

  "He was not a Brother," she said, "but a young man training for thepriesthood under the Master. But not yet had he taken the holy vows,therefore I suppose thou wilt think him less wicked than me."

  She looked up into my face with a half-smile.

  "O Margaret! I wis not what to think. It all sounds so strange andshocking--only that I have not the heart to find fault with thee as Isuppose I should do."

  Margaret answered by a little laugh.

  "In short," said she, "thou canst be wicked sometimes like other folk.Be it done! I ensure thee, Annora, it comforts me to know the same.Because it is not real wickedness, only painted. And I fear not paintedsin, any more than I hold in honour painted holiness. For real sin isnot paint; it is devilishness. And real holiness is not paint; it isdwelling in God. And God is love."

  "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 tosin, that is not love. How can it be, when God is love, and God and sinare opposites? Tarry until my tale be ended, and then shalt thou bejudge 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. Thenit came to words."

  "In the church!"

  "No, not in the church, my scrupulous sister! We should have felt thatas wrong as thou. Through the wall between the gardens, where was alittle chink that I dare be bound we were not the first to find. Wouldthat no sinfuller words than ours may ever pass athwart it! We foundout that both of us had been thrust into the religious life without ourown consent: I, thou savest, by the Queen's wrath (which I knew notthen); he, by a cousin that coveted his inheritance. And we talkedmuch, and at last came to agreement that as neither he nor I had anyvocation, it would be more wrong in us to continue in this life than toescape and be we'd."

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

  "None. We were young, Annora: we thought not of such things. As forwhat 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. ThePrioress found us out. That night I was in solitary cell, barred in myprison, 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 oneOther, but at first I saw Him not. Nay, nor for eight years afterwards.Cold, silent, stony, that crucifix looked down: and I thought He waslike that, the living Christ that had died for me, and I turned awayfrom Him. My heart seemed that night as if it froze to ice. It washard and ice-bound for eight years. During that time there were manychanges at Watton. Our Prioress died; and a time of sore sicknessremoved many of our Sisters. At the end of the eight years, only threeSisters were left who could remember my punishment--it was more than Ihave told"--ah, poor soul! lightly as she passed it thus, I dare bebound it was--"and these, I imagine, knew not why it was. And at lastour confessor died.

  "I thought I had utterly outlived my youthful dream. Roland haddisappeared as entirely as if he had never been. What had become of himI knew not--not even if he were alive. I went about my duties in adull, wooden way, as an image might do, if it could be made to move soas to sew or paint without a soul. Life was worth nothing to me--onlyto 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 oneof these was confession: but I went through with them, in the cold, dullway of which I spake. It had to be: what did it matter?

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

  "I knelt down in the confessional, and repeated the Confiteor. Then, inthat stony way, I went on with my life-confession: the falsehood that Ihad 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 ofdivine things which ever oppressed me, the want of vocation that I hadalways felt. I finished, and paused. He would ask me some questions,of course. Let him get them over. There was silence for a moment. Andthen I heard myself asked--`Is that all thou hast to confess?'--in thevoice I had loved best of all the world. My tongue seemed to cleave tot
he roof of my mouth. I only whispered, `Roland!' in tones which Icould not have told for mine own.

  "`I scarce thought to find thee yet here, Margaret,' he said. `Iwell-nigh feared to do it. But after thy confession, I see whereforeGod hath sent me--that I may pour out into the dry and thirsty cup ofthine heart a little of that spiced wine of the kingdom which He hathgiven 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 itmust be yet alive. Roland would care no more for me, if he had receiveda vocation. I must go on yet alone till death freed me. Alone, forevermore!

  "`I have received the blessedest of all vocations,' he answered; `thecall to God Himself. Margaret, art thou thinking that if this be so, Ishall love thee no more? Nay, for I shall love thee more than ever.Beloved, God is not stone and ice; He is not indifference nor hatred.Nay, He is love, and whoso dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and Goddwelleth in us, and His love is perfected in us. Open thy heart to thatlove, and then this little, little life will soon be over, and we shalldwell together beside the river of His pleasures, unto the ages of theages.'

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

  "`Then,' said he, `ask Jesus to lift the latch and to come in. Thouwilt never desire Him to go forth again. I have much to say: but ithath been long enough now. Every time thou prayest, say also, "LordJesu, come into mine heart and make it soft." He will come if thoudesire Him. And if thou carest not to do this for His sake, do it forthine 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 amoment, `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 yearsI have been learning to know Christ our Lord, and the fellowship of Hissufferings. For as time passed on, Roland told me much of saintly menfrom whom he had learned, and of many a lesson direct from our LordHimself. 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 bitternesshas gone out of my love. Not all the pain. For we came to thecertainty after a time, when he had taught me much, that we had betterbide asunder for this life, and in that which is to come we shall dwelltogether for evermore. He was about to resign his post as confessor,when the Lord disposed of us otherwise, for the Master thought fit todraft me into the house at Shuldham, and after eighteen years there wasI sent hither. So Roland, I suppose, bides at Watton. I know not: theLord knows. We gave up for His sake the sweet converse wherein ourhearts delighted, that we might serve Him more fully and with lessdistraction. I do not believe it was sinful. That it is sin in me tolove Roland shall I never own. But lest we should love each otherbetter than we love Him, we journey apart for this lower life. And I donot think our Lord is angry with me when at times the longing pain andthe aching loneliness seem to overcome me, for a little while. I thinkHe is sorry for me. For since I learned--from Roland--that He is notdead, but the Living One--that He is not darkness, but the Light--thatHe is not cold and hard, but the incarnate Love--since then, I can neverfeel afraid of Him. And I believe that He has not only madesatisfaction for my sins, but also that He can carry my burdens, and canforgive my blunders. And if we cannot speak to one another, we can bothspeak to Him, and entrust Him with our messages for each other. He willgive them if it be good: and before giving, He will change the words ifneedful, 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 peaceinto my heart, I wonder whether Roland was asking Him to do it: and Ipray Him to comfort and rest Roland whenever he too feels weary. So yousee we send each other many more letters round by Heaven than we couldpossibly do by earth. It was the last word Roland said to me--`The roadupward 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: ifthey be good or ill, God wot. I dare not have uttered some of them thusboldly; yet neither dare I condemn thee. We all know so little! Butone thing have I learned, methinks--that God will not despise a giftbecause 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 themanner of its usage, then methinks He shall stoop to lift it with verytender hands, so as to let it feel that it hath value in His eyes--itsown value, that nought save itself can have. My children, we are notmere figures to Him--so many dwellers in so many houses. Before Him weare living men and real women--each with his separate heart, and everyseparate pang that rends it. The Church of God is one: but it is HisBody, and made of many members. We know, when we feel pain, in whatmember 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 nowamong us. Dear child, keep at His feet: it is the only safe place, andit is the happy place. Heaven will be wide enough to hold us all, andbefore long we shall be there."

  ------------------------------------------------------------------------

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

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