In Convent Walls

  PART THREE, CHAPTER 1.

  WHEREIN SISTER ALIANORA LA DESPENSER MAKETH MOAN (1371).

  CAGED.

  "But of all sad words by tongue or pen, The saddest are these-- `It might have been!'"

  Whittier.

  "I marvel if the sun is never weary!"

  Thus spoke my sister Margaret [Note 1], as she stood gazing from thewindow of the recreation-room, and Sister Roberga looked up and laughed.

  "Nay, what next?" saith she. "Heard I ever such strange fancies asthine? Thou wilt be marvelling next if the stars be never athirst."

  "And if rain be the moon weeping," quoth Sister Philippa, who seemed asmuch amused as Roberga.

  "No, the moon weepeth not," said Margaret. "She is too cold to weep.She is like Mother Ada."

  "Eh dear, what fancies hast thou!" saith Sister Roberga. "Who but thouwould ever have thought of putting the moon and Mother Ada into onestall!"

  "What didst thou mean, Sister Margaret?" saith the quiet voice of MotherAlianora, as she sat by the chimney corner.

  Mother Alianora is our father's sister--Margaret's and mine; but I oughtnot to think of it, since a recluse should have no kindred out of herOrder and the blessed saints. And there are three Sisters in the Priorynamed Alianora: wherefore, to make diversity, the eldest professed iscalled Alianora, and the second (that is myself) Annora, and theyoungest, only last year professed, Nora. We had likewise in thisconvent an Aunt Joan, but she deceased over twenty years gone. Margaretwas professed in the Order when I was, but not at this house; and shehath been transferred hither but a few weeks [Note 2], so that her mindand heart are untravelled ground to me. She was a Sister at Watton: andsince I can but just remember her before our profession, it seemsmarvellous strange that we should now come to know one another, afternearly fifty years' cloistered life. There is yet another Sister namedMargaret, but being younger in profession we call her Sister Magota.

  When Mother Alianora spoke, Margaret turned back from the window, as sheought when addressed by a superior.

  "I mean, Mother, that he never hath any change of work," she said."Every morrow he has to rise, and every night must he set: and alwaysthe one in east and the other in west. I think he must be sore, soreweary, for he hath been at it over five thousand years."

  Sister Roberga and Sister Philippa laughed. Mother Alianora did notlaugh. A soft, rather sorrowful, sort of smile came on her aged face.

  "Art thou so weary, my daughter, that the thought grew therefore?" saithshe.

  Something came into Margaret's eyes for a moment, but it was out again,almost before I could see it. I knew not what it was; Margaret's eyesare yet a puzzle to me. They are very dark eyes, but they are differentin their look from all the other dark eyes in the house. Sister Olivehas eyes quite as dark; but they say nothing. Margaret's eyes talk somuch that she might do very well without her tongue. Not that I alwaysunderstand what they say; the language in which they speak is generallya foreign one to me. I fancy Mother Alianora can read it better. Ilistened for Margaret's reply.

  "Dear Mother, is not weariness the lot of all humanity, and moreespecially of women?"

  "Mary love us!" cries Philippa. "What gibberish you talk, SisterMargaret!"

  "Sister Philippa will come here and ask Sister Margaret's forgiveness atonce," saith Mother Gaillarde, the sub-Prioress.

  Sister Philippa banged down her battledore on the table, and marchingup, knelt before Margaret and asked forgiveness, making a face behindher back as soon as she had turned.

  "Sister Philippa will take no cheese at supper," added the sub-Prioress.

  Sister Philippa pulled another face--a very ugly one; it reminded mesomewhat too much of the carved figure of the Devil with his mouthgaping on the Prior's stall in our Abbey Church. That and SisterPhilippa's faces are the ugliest things I ever saw, except the Cellarer,and he looks so good-tempered that one forgets his ugliness.

  "Sister Philippa is not weary, as it should seem," saith MotherAlianora, again with her quiet smile. "Otherwise, to speak thereofshould scarcely seem gibberish to her."

  I spoke not, but I thought it was in no wise gibberish to me. For Inever had that vocation which alone should make nuns. Not God, but man,forced this veil upon me; for, ah me! I was meant for another life.And that other life, that should have been mine, I never cease to longfor and to mourn over.

  Only six years old was I--for though my seventh birthday was near, itwas not past--when I was thrust into this house of religion. Myvocation and my will were never asked. We--Margaret and I--were inQueen Isabel's way; and she plucked us and flung us over the hedge likeweeds that cumbered her garden. It was all by reason she hated ourfather: but what he had done to make her thus hate him, that I neverknew. And I was an affianced bride when I was torn away from all thatshould have made life glad, and prisoned here for ever more. How myheart keeps whispering to me, "It might have been!" There is a womanwho comes for doles to the convent gate, and at times she hath with herthe loveliest little child I ever saw; and they smile on each other,mother and child, and look so happy when they smile. Why was I cut offthus from all that makes other women happy? Nobody belongs to me;nobody loves me. The very thought of being loved, the very wish to beso, is sin in _me_, who am a veiled nun. But why was it made sin? Itwas not sin aforetime. _He_ might have loved me, he whom I never sawafter I was flung over the convent wall--he who was mine and not hers towhom I suppose they will have wedded him. But I know nothing: I shallnever know. And they say it is sin to think of him. Every thing seemsto be sin; and loving people more especially. Mother Ada told me oneday that she saw in me an inclination to be too much drawn to MotherAlianora, and warned me to mortify it, because she was my father'ssister, and therefore there was cause to fear it might be an indulgenceof the flesh. And now, these weeks past, my poor, dry, withered heartseems to have a little faint pulsation in it, and goes out to Margaret--my sister Margaret with the strange dark eyes, my own sister who is anutter stranger to me. Must I crush the poor dry thing back, and hurtall that is left to hurt of it? Oh, will no saint in Heaven tell me whyit is, that God, who loveth men, will not have monks and nuns to loveeach other? The Lord Prior saith He is a jealous God, and demands thatwe give all our love to Him. Yet I may love the blessed saints withoutany derogation to Him--but I must not love mine own sister. It is veryperplexing. Do earthly fathers forbid their children to love oneanother, lest they should not be loved themselves sufficiently? Ishould have thought that love, like other things, increased by exercise,and that loving my sister would rather help me to love God. But theysay not. I suppose they know.

  Ah me, if I should find out at last that they mistook God's meaning!--that I might have had His love and Margaret's too!--nay, even that Imight have had His love and that other, of which it is so wicked in meto think, and yet something is in me that will keep ever thinking! Oholy and immaculate Virgin, O Saint Margaret, Saint Agnes, and all yeblessed maidens that dwell in Heaven, have mercy on me, miserablesinner! My soul is earth-bound, and I cannot rise. I am the bride ofChrist, and I cannot cease lamenting my lost earthly bridal.

  But hath Christ a thousand brides? They say holy Church is His Bride,and she is one. Then how can all the vestals in all the convents beeach of them His bride? I suppose I cannot understand as I ought to do.Perhaps I should have understood better if that _might have been_ hadbeen--if I had not stood withering all these years, taught to crush downthis poor dried heart of mine. They will not let me have any thing tolove. When Mother Ada thought I was growing too fond of littleErneburg, she took her away from me and gave her to Sister Roberga toteach. Yet the child seemed to soften my heart and do it good.

  "Are the holy Mother and the blessed saints not enough for thee?" shesaid.

  But the blessed saints do not look at me and smile, as Erneburg did.She doth it even now, across the schoolroom--though I have never beenpermitted to speak word to her since Mother Ada took her from me. And Imust s
mile back again,--ay, however many times I have to lick a cross onthe oratory floor for doing it. Why ought I not? Did not our LordHimself take the little children into His arms? I am sure He must havesmiled on them--they would have been frightened if He had not done so.

  They say I have but a poor wit, and am fit to teach only babes.

  "And not fit to teach them," saith Mother Ada--in a tone which I am surepeople would call cross and snappish if she were an extern--"for herfancy all runs to playing with them, rather than teaching them any thingworth knowing."

  Ah, Mother Ada, but is not love worth knowing? or must they have thatonly from their happy mothers, who not being holy women are permitted tolove, and not from a poor, crushed, hopeless heart like mine?

  There is nothing in our life to look forward to. "Till death" is thevow of the Sisterhood. And death seems a poor hope.

  I know, of course, what Mother Ada would say: that I have no vocation,and my heart is in the world and of the world. But God sent me to theworld: and man--or rather woman--thrust me against my will into thisSisterhood.

  "Not a bit better than Lot's wife!" says Mother Ada. "She was struck toa pillar of salt for looking back, and so shalt thou be, Sister Annora,with thy worldly fancies and carnal longings."

  Well, if I were, I am not sure I should feel much different. SometimesI seem to myself to be hardening into stone, body and soul. Soul! ah,that is the worst of it.

  Now and then, in the dead of night, when I lie awake--and for an hour ormore after lauds, I can seldom sleep--one awful thought harrieth andweareth me, at times almost to madness. I never knew till a year ago,when I heard the Lord Prior speaking to Mother Gaillarde thereanent,that holy Church held the contract of marriage for the true canonicaltie. And if it be thus, and we were never divorced--and I never heardword thereof--what then? Am I his true wife--I, not she? Is he happywith her? Who is she, and what is she? Doth she care for him, and makehim her first thought, and give all her heart to him, as I would havedone, if--

  How the convent bell startled me! Miserable me! I am vowed to God, andI am His for ever. But the vow that came first, if it were neverundone--_Mater purissima, Sancta Virgo virginum, ora pro me_!

  Is there some tale, some sad, strange story, lying behind those darkeyes, in that shut-up heart of my sister Margaret? Not like mine; shewas never betrothed. But her eyes seem to me to tell a story.

  Margaret never speaks to me, unless I do it first: and I dare not,except about some work, when Mother Gaillarde or Mother Ada is present.Yet once or twice I have caught those dark eyes scanning my face, with awistful look. Maybe she too is trying to crush down her heart, as Ihave done. But I cannot help thinking that the heart behind those eyeswill take a great deal of crushing.

  Mother Alianora is so different from the two I named just now, I am surethere is not a better nor holier woman in all the Order. But she isalways gentle and tender; never cold like Mother Ada, nor hard andsarcastic like Mother Gaillarde. I am glad my Lady Prioress rules withan easy hand--("sadly too slack!" saith Mother Gaillarde)--so that dearMother Alianora doth not get chidden for what is the best part of her.I should not be afraid of speaking to Margaret if only she were presentof our superiors.

  At recreation-time, this afternoon, Sister Amphyllis asked MotherAlianora how long she had been professed.

  "Forty-nine years," saith she, with her gentle smile.

  I was surprised to hear it. She hath then been in the Order only fiveyears longer than I have.

  "And how old were you, Mother?" saith Sister Amphyllis.

  "Nineteen years," saith she.

  "There must many an one have died since you came here, Mother?"

  "Ay," quoth Mother Alianora, with a far-away look at the trees without."The oldest nun in all the Abbey, Sister Margery de Burgh, died themonth after I came hither. She remembered a Sister that was nearly anhundred years old, and that had received the holy veil from the hand ofSaint Gilbert himself."

  Sister Amphyllis crossed herself.

  "Annora," saith Mother Alianora, "canst thou remember Mother Guendolen?"

  What did I know about Mother Guendolen? Some faint, vague, mistymemories seemed to awake within me--an odd, incongruous mixture like adream--dark eyes like Margaret's, which told a tale, but this seemed atale of terror; and an enamelled cross, which had somewhat to do with abattle and a queen.

  "I scarcely know, Mother," said I. "Somewhat do I recall, yet what itis I hardly know. Were her eyes dark, with an affrighted look in them?"

  "They were dark," said Mother Alianora, "but the very peace of God wasin them. Ah, thou art mixing up two persons--herself and her cousin,Mother Gladys. They were near of an age, and Mother Guendolen onlyoutlived Mother Gladys by one year: but they were full diverse manner ofwomen. Thou shouldst remember her, Annora. Thou wert a maiden offifteen when she died."

  All at once she seemed to flash up before me.

  "I do remember her, Mother, if it please you. She was tall, and hadvery black hair, and dark flashing eyes, and she moved like a queen."

  "I think of her," saith Mother Alianora, "rather as she was in her lastdays, when those flashing eyes flashed no longer, and the queen was lostin the saint."

  "If it please you, Mother," I said, "had she not an enamelled cross thatshe wore? I recollect something about it."

  Mother Alianora smiled, somewhat amusedly.

  "She had; and perchance thy memory runneth back to a battle over thatcross betwixt her and Sister Sayena, who laid plaint afore my LadyPrioress that Mother Guendolen kept to herself an article of privateproperty, which should have gone into the treasury. It had been hermother's, a marriage-gift from the Queen that then was. Well I rememberMother Guendolen's words--`I sware to part from this cross alone withlife, and the Master granted me to keep it when I entered the Order.'Then the fire died out of her eyes, and her voice fell low, and sheadded--`ah, my sister! dost thou envy me Christ's cross?' Ay, she hadcarried more of that cross than most. She came here about the age thoudidst, 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 tosee 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 thisworld, and was not."

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

  I want to know what `carnal' and `worldly' mean. They are words which Ihear very often, and always with condemnation: but they seem to meanquite different things, in the lips of different speakers. When MotherAda 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 Gaillardespeaks them, they mean caring for any thing that she does not care for--and that includes everything except power, and grandeur, and the Orderof Saint Gilbert. And when Mother Alianora says them, they fall softlyon the ear, as if they meant not love, nor happiness, nor any thing goodand innocent, but simply all that could grieve our Lord and hurt a soulthat 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 havegone on pilgrimage to the place where He was! If I could have asked Himall the questions that perplex me, and laid at His feet all the sorrowsthat trouble me! For I do not think He would have commanded the saintsto chase me away because I maybe have poorer wits than other women,--Hewho let the mothers bring the babes to Him: I fancy He would have beenpatient and gentle, even with me. I scarce think He would have treatedsorrow--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. Isuppose He would have told me wherein I sinned, but I think He wouldhave done it gently, so as not to hurt more than could be helped--notlike some, who seem to think that nothing they say or d
o can possiblyhurt any one.

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

  "Sister Annora, you are scarce better than an idiot! Know you not thatconfession 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 thepriest is not the same thing. If I were a young mother with littlebabes, I could never bring them to any priest I have known save one, andthat was a stranger who confessed us but for a week, some five yearsgone, when the Lord Prior was ill. He was quite different from theothers: there was a soul behind his eyes--something human, not merely asort of metallic box which sounded when you rang it with another bit ofmetal.

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

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

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

  Well, some folks' relations are thorns in the flesh, I can quitesuppose. I should think Mother Gaillarde was, and that her being a nunwas a mercy to some man, so that she was told off to prick us and nothim. But is every body so? and are we all called to be thorns in theflesh 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 begood 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 eachother questions about our past lives. She says curiosity is a sin; itwas curiosity which led Eve to listen to the serpent. But I do notthink Mother Ada's soul has any wings, and I always feel as if minehad--something that, if only I were at liberty, would spread itself andcarry me away, far, far from here, right up into the very stars, foraught I know. Poor caged bird as I am! how can my wings unfoldthemselves? I fancy Margaret has wings--very likely, stronger thanmine. She seems to have altogether a stronger nature.

  Mother Alianora will let us ask questions: she sometimes asks themherself. Well, so does Mother Gaillarde, more than any body; but insuch a different way! Mother Alianora asks as if she were comfortingand helping you: Mother Gaillarde as though you were a piece ofembroidery that had been done wrong, and she were looking to see wherethe stitches had begun to go crooked. If I were a piece of lawn, Ishould not at all like Mother Gaillarde to pull the crooked stitches outof 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 Sistersdo 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 curiouseyes--eyes that say every thing and don't tell any thing--it is sofunny! (So other folks than I had seen those eyes.) But what was thematter 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 tellyou about Sister Margaret. It was just when the holy mass began.Father Hamon had said `_Judica me_' and then, you know, the people hadto reply, `_Quia Tu es_.' And when they began the response, SisterMargaret'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 likethat. Then, in another minute, they came back, looking so sorry, andso, _so_ tired! If you will look at her, you will see how tired shelooks, and has done ever since. I thought her soul had been to look forsomething 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 livelyimagination, 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 supposewould do so if I were perfect, I kept wondering if Damia had seenrightly, and if Margaret's soul had been to look for something, and wasdisappointed in not finding it. I looked at her--she was just acrossthe room,--and as Damia said, there was a very sorrowful, weary look onher face--a look as if some thought, or memory, or hope, had beenawakened in her, only to be sent back, sorely disappointed anddisheartened. Somebody else noticed it too.

  My Lady Prioress was rather late last night in dismissing us. SisterRoberga said she was sure there had been some altercation between herand Mother Gaillarde: and certainly Mother Gaillarde, as she stood atthe top of the room by my Lady, did not look exactly an incarnation ofsweetness. But my Lady gave the word at last: and as she said--"_Paxvobiscum, Sorores_!" every Sister went up to her, knelt to kiss herhand, took her own lamp from the lamp-stand, and glided softly from therecreation-room. Half-way down stood Mother Alianora, and at the doorMother Ada. Margaret was just behind me: and as I passed MotherAlianora, I heard her ask--

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

  I listened for Margaret's answer. There was a moment's hesitationbefore 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 whohath 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 passed on, in a low voice, as if shescarce desired to be heard--"For some diseases there is no remedy butdeath."

  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 ourplaces. 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 theback 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 ourfather's castle, and we could have talked to each other, and told oursecrets if we wished, and have comforted one another when our heartswere sad. And I do not understand why it should please our Lord so muchmore to have us shut up here, making believe to be one family withthirty other women who are not our sisters, except in the sense that allChristian women are children of God. I wonder where it is in theGospels, that our Lord commanded it to be done. I cannot find it in myEvangelisterium. I dare say the holy Apostles ordered it afterwards: orperhaps it is in some Gospel I have never seen. There are only four inmy book.

  If that strange pr
iest would come again to confess us, I should likevery much to ask him several questions of that sort. I never saw anyother priest that I could speak to freely, as I could to him. FatherHamon would not understand me, I am sure: and Father Benedict wouldrebuke me sharply whether he understood or not; telling me for thefiftieth time that I ought to humble myself to the dust because myvocation is so imperfect. Well, I know I have no vocation. But whythen was I shut up here when God had not called me? I had no choiceallowed me. Or why, seeing things are thus, cannot the Master or someone else loose me from my vow, and let me go back to the world whichthey 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 andsisters, 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 heused to take my part when the others teased me: but as to my youngerbrothers, I only know there were some; I forget even their names. Ithink one was Hubert, or Robert, or something that ended in _bert_. Andmy sisters--I remember Isabel; she was three years elder than I. And--was one Elizabeth? I think so. But wherever they are, I suppose theywould feel me a stranger among them--an intruder who was not wanted, andwho had no business to be there. I am unfit both for Heaven and earth.Nobody wants me--least of all God.

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

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

  I found the child crying bitterly when she came into the children'ssouth 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.

  "Erneburg! But Erneburg and thou art friends!"

  "Oh yes, we're friends enough! only Mother Gaillarde won't let me giveher the tig."

  And little Damia indulged in a fresh burst of tears.

  "Give her what?" I said.

  "My tig! The tig she gave me. And now I must carry it all night long!She might have let me just give it her!"

  I thought I saw how matters stood.

  "You have been playing?"

  "Yes, playing at

  "`Carry my tig To Poynton Brig--'

  "and Erneburg gave me a tig, and I can't give it back. Mo--otherGaillarde won't le-et me!" with a fresh burst of sobs.

  "Now, whatever is all this fuss?" asked Mother Gaillarde, from the otherend of the room. "Sister, do keep these children quiet."

  But Mother Ada came to us.

  "What is the matter?" she said in her icicle voice.

  Little Damia was crying too much to speak, and I had to tell her thatthe children had been playing at a game in which they touched oneanother if they could, and it was deemed a terrible disgrace to betouched without being able to return it.

  "What nonsense!" said Mother Ada. "They had better not be allowed toplay at such silly games. Go to sleep immediately, Damia: do you hear?Give over crying this minute."

  I wondered whether Mother Ada thought that joy and sorrow could aseasily be stopped as a tap could be turned to stop water. Little Damiacould not stop crying so instantly as this: and Mother Ada told her ifshe did not, she should have no fruit to-morrow: which made her cry allthe more. Mother Gaillarde then marched up, and gave the poor child anangry shake: and that produced screams instead of sobbing.

  "Blessed saints, these children!" said Mother Gaillarde. "I wish therenever were any! With all reverence I say it, I do think if the Almightycould have created men and women grown-up, it would have saved a worldof trouble. But I suppose He knows best.--Damia, stop that noise! Ifnot, I'll give thee another shake."

  Little Damia burrowed down beneath the bed-clothes, from whichlong-drawn sobs shook the bed at intervals: but she did contrive to stopscreaming. Mother Gaillard left the dormitory, with another sarcasticremark on the dear delight of looking after children: and the minuteafter, Mother Alianora entered it from the other end. She came up towhere I stood, by Damia's bed.

  "Not all peace here?" she said, with her tranquil smile. "Little Damia,what aileth thee?"

  As soon as her voice was heard, little Damia's head came up, and in avoice broken by sobs, she told her tale.

  "Come, I think that can be put right," saith the Mother, kindly. "Liestill, my child, till I come to thee again."

  She went away, and in a few minutes returned, with Erneburg. Of courseMother Alianora can go where the Sisters cannot.

  "Little Damia," she said, smiling, as she laid her hand on the child'shead, "I bring Erneburg to return thee thy `tig.' Now canst thou go tosleep in peace?"

  "Yes, thank you, Mother. You are good!" said little Damia gratefully,looking quite relieved, as Erneburg kissed her.

  "Such a little thing!" said Mother Alianora, with a smile. "Yet thouart but a little thing thyself."

  They went away, and I tarried a moment to light the blessed Mother'slamp, and to say the Hail Mary with the children. When I camedown-stairs, the first voice I heard in the recreation-room was MotherGaillarde's.

  "Well, if ever I did hear such a story! Sister, you ruin thosechildren!"

  "Nay," saith Mother Alianora's gentle voice, "surely not, my Sister, bya little kindness such as that."

  "Kindness, indeed! Before I'd have given in to such nonsense!"

  "Sister Gaillarde, maybe some matters that you and I would weep over mayseem full as foolish to the angels and to God. And to Him it may be ofmore import to comfort a little child in its trouble than to pass astatute of Parliament. Ah, me! if God waited to comfort us till we werewise, little comforting should any of us have. But it is written, `Likewhom his mother blandisheth, thus I will comfort you,'--and mothers donot wait for children to be discreet before they comfort them. Atleast, my mother did not."

  Such a soft, sweet, tender light came into her eyes as made my heartache. My mother might have comforted me so.

  Just then I caught Margaret's look. I do not know what it was like: butquite different from Mother Alianora's. Something strained andstretched, as it were, like a piece of canvas when you strain it on aframe for tapestry-work. Then, all at once, the strain gave way andbroke up, and calm, holy peace came instead. If I might talk withMargaret!

  Mother Alianora is ill in the Infirmary. And I may not go to her.

  I pleaded hard with Mother Ada to appoint me nurse for this week.

  "Why?" she said in her coldest voice.

  I could not answer.

  "Either thou deceivest thyself, Sister," she added, "which is illenough, or thou wouldst fain deceive me. Knowest thou not that toattempt to deceive thy superiors is to lie to the Holy Ghost as Ananiasand Sapphira did? How then dost thou dare to do it? I see plainlyenough what motive prompts thee: not holy obedience--that is thoroughlyinconsistent with such fervent entreaties--nor a desire to mortify thywill, but simply a wish for the carnal indulgence of the flesh. Thouknowest full well that particular friendships are not permitted to thereligious, it is only the lust of the flesh which prompts a fancy forone above another: if not, every Sister would have an equal share in thyregard. It is a carnal, worldly heart in which such thoughts dwell aseven a wish for the company of any Sister in especial. And hast thouforgotten that the very purpose for which we were sent here was tomortify our wills?"

  I thought I was not likely to forget it, so long as nothing was allowedme save opportunities for mortifying mine. But one more word did I
dareto utter.

  "Is obedience so much better than love, Mother?"

  "What hast thou to do with love, save the love of God and the blessedMother and the holy saints? The very word savoureth of the world. Allthe love thou givest to the creature is love taken from God."

  "Is love, then, a thing that can be measured and cut in lengths, Mother?The more you tend a plant, the better it flourishes. If I am to lovenone save God, will not my heart dry and wither, so that I shall not beable to love Him? Sometimes I think it is doing so."

  "You think!" she said. "What right have you to think? Leave yoursuperiors to think for you; and you, cultivate holy obedience, as youought. All the heresies and schisms that ever vexed the Church havearisen from men setting themselves up to _think_ when they should simplyhave obeyed."

  "But, Mother, forgive me! I cannot help thinking."

  "That shows how far you are from perfection, Sister. A religious whoaims at perfection should never allow herself to think, except only howshe can best obey. Beware of pride and presumption, the instant youallow yourself to depart from the perfection of obedience."

  "But, Mother, that is the perfection of a thing. And I am a woman."

  "Sister Annora, you are reasoning, when your duty is to obey."

  If holy obedience means to obey without thinking, I am afraid I shallnever be perfect in it! I do not know how people manage to compressthemselves into stones like that.

  I tried Mother Gaillarde next, since I had only found an icicle clad inMother Ada's habit. I was afraid of her, I confess, for I knew shewould bite: and she did so. I begged yet harder, for I had heard thatMother Alianora was worse. Was I not even to see her before she died?

  "What on earth does it matter?" said Mother Gaillarde. "Aren't you bothgoing to Heaven? You can talk there--without fear of disobedience."

  "My Lord Prior said. Mother, in his last charge, that a convent oughtto be a little heaven. If that be so, why should we not talk now?"

  Mother Gaillarde's laugh positively frightened me. It was the hardest,driest, most metallic sound I ever heard.

  "Sister Annora, you must be a baby! You have lived in a convent nearlyfifty years, and you ask if it be a little heaven!"

  "I cry you mercy, Mother. I asked if it should not be so."

  "That's another matter," said she, with a second laugh, but it did notstartle me like the first. "We should all be perfect, of course. Pitywe aren't!"

  As she worked away at the plums she was stoning without saying eitheryes or no, I ventured to repeat my question.

  "You may do as you are told!" was Mother Gaillarde's answer. "Can't youlet things alone?"

  Snappishly as she spoke, yet--I hardly know why,--I did not feel theappeal to her as hopeless as to Mother Ada. To entreat the latter waslike beseeching a stone wall. Mother Gaillarde's very peevishness (if Idare call it so) showed that she was a woman, and not an image.

  "Mother Gaillarde," I said, suddenly--for something seemed to bid mespeak out--"be not angry with me, I pray you. I am afraid of lettingthings alone. My heart seems to be like a dry bough, and my soulwithering up, and I want to keep them alive and warm. Surely death isnot perfection!"

  I was going on, but something which I saw made me stop suddenly. Twowarriors were fighting together in Mother Gaillarde's face. All at onceshe dropped the knife, and hiding her face in her veil, she sobbed for aminute as if her heart were breaking. Then, all at once, she brushedaway her tears and stood up again.

  "Child!" she said, in a voice very unlike her usual one, "you are tooyoung for your years. Do not think that dried-up hearts are the samething as no hearts. Women who seem as though they could not love anything may have loved once too well, and when they awoke from the dreammay never have been able to dream again. Ay, thou art right: death isnot perfection. Some of us, maybe, are very far off perfection--furtherthan others think us; furthest of all from what we think ourselves.There have been times when I seemed to see for a moment what perfectionis--and it was far, far from all we call it here. God forgive us all!Go to the Infirmary: and if any chide thee for being there, say thouearnest in obedience to me."

  She turned back to her plum-stoning with a resolute face which mighthave been a mask of iron: and I, after offering lowly thanks, took theway to the Infirmary.

  I fear I have been unjust to Mother Gaillarde, and I am sorry for it. Iseem to see now, that her hard, snappish speeches (for she does snapsometimes) are not from absence of heart, but are simply a veil to hidethe heart. Ah me! how little we human creatures know of each others'hidden feelings! But I shall never think Mother Gaillarde without heartagain.

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

  Note 1. The rule of silence varied considerably in different Orders,but in all, except the very strict, nuns were at liberty to converseduring some period of the day.

  Note 2. This transferring of Margaret from Watton is purely imaginary.