Part 3—- Chapter 3.
Annora finds it out.
“Peace, peace, poor heart!
Go back and thrill not thus!
Are not the vows of the Lord God 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 glass 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 pricked 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.
“Sister Roberga, oblige me by speaking when you are spoken to,” said Mother Ada, in her icicle manner.
“There is only one will do again,” answered Mother Gaillarde. “Saint Raphael is tolerable; he might serve. But I know the Archangel Michael had one of his wings broken; and the Apostle Saint Peter lost a leg.”
“We had a lovely Satan among those Easter figures,” said Sister Ismania; “and Saint John was so charming, I never saw his equal.”
“Satan may do again if he gets a new tail,” said Mother Gaillarde. “But Pontius Pilate won’t; that careless Sister Jacoba let him drop, and he was mashed all to pieces.”
“Your pardon, Mother, but that was Judas Iscariot.”
“It wasn’t: it was Pontius Pilate.”
“I am sure it was Judas.”
“I tell you it wasn’t.”
“But, Mother, I—”
“Hold your tongue!” said Mother Gaillarde, curtly.
And being bidden by her superior, of course Sister Ismania had to obey. I looked across at Margaret, and met her eyes. And, as Margaret’s eyes always do, they spoke.
“These are holy women, and this is spiritual love!” said Margaret’s eyes, ironically. “We might have spoken thus to our own brethren, without going into a convent to do it.”
I wonder if Margaret be not right, and we bring the world in with us: that it is something inside ourselves. But then, I suppose, outside there are more temptations. Yet do we not, each of us, make a world for herself? Is it not ourselves that we ought to renounce—the earthliness and covetousness of our own desires, rather than the mere outside things? Oh, I do get so tired when I keep thinking!
Yesterday, when Erneburg and Damia were playing at see-saw in the garden, with a long plank balanced on the saddling-stone, I could not help wondering how it is that one’s thoughts play in that way. Each end seems sometimes up, and then the other end comes up, and that goes down. I wish I were wiser, and understood more. Perchance it was better for me that I was sent here. For I never should have been wise or brilliant. And suppose he were, and that he had looked down upon me and disliked me for it! That would have been harder to bear than this.
Ha, chétife! have all religious women such stories as we two? Did Mother Ada ever feel a heart in her? Mother Gaillarde does at times, I believe. As to my Lady, I doubt any such thing of her. She seems to live but to eat and sleep, and if Mother Gaillarde had not more care to govern the house than she, I do—Mother of Mercy, but this is evil speaking, and of my superiors too! Miserere me, Domine!
As we filed out of the oratory last night as usual, Mother Gaillarde stayed me at the door.
“Sister Annora, thou art appointed to the Infirmary to-night.” And in a lower tone she added—“It will be the last time.”
I knew well what last time she meant: never again in life should I see our dear Mother Alianora. I looked up thankfully.
“Well?” said Mother Gaillarde, in her curt way. “Are you a stone image, or do you think I’m one?”
I kissed her hand, made the holy sign, and passed on. No, dear Mother: thou art not a stone.
In the Infirmary I found Sister Philippa on duty.
“O Sister Annora, I am so glad thou art come! I hate this sort of work, and Mother Gaillarde will keep me at it. I believe it is because she knows I detest it.”
“Thou art not just to Mother Gaillarde, Sister,” I said, and went on to the bed by the window.
“Annora, dear child!” said the feeble voice. Ay, she was weaker far than when I last beheld her, “Thank God I have seen thee yet once more.”
I could do little for her—only now and then give her to drink, or raise her a little. And she could not speak much. A few words occasionally appeared to be all she had strength for. Towards morning I thought she seemed to wander and grow light-headed. She called once “Isabel!” and once “Aveline!” We have at present no Sister in the house named Aveline, and when I asked if I should seek permission to call Sister Isabel if she wished for her, she said, “No: she will be gone to Marlborough,” and what she meant I know not. (Note 1.) Then, after she had lain still a while, she said, “Guendolen—is it thou?”
“No, dearest Mother; it is Sister Annora,” said I.
“Guendolen was here,” saith she: “where is she?”
“Perhaps she will come again,” I answered, for I saw that she scarcely had her wits clear.
“She will come again,” she saith, softly. “Ay, He will come again—with clouds—and His saints with Him. And Guendolen will be there—my Sister Guendolen, the Princess (Note 2), whom men cast forth,—Christ shall crown her in His kingdom. The last of the royal line! There are no Princes of Wales any more.”
Then I think she dropped asleep for a time, and when she woke she knew me at first; though she soon grew confused again.
“Christ’s blessing and mine be on thee, mine own Annora!” saith she, tenderly. “Margaret, too—poor Magot! Tell her—tell her—” but her voice died away in indistinct murmurs. “They will soon be here.”
“Who, dearest Mother?”
“Joan and Guendolen. Gladys, perchance. I don’t know about Gladys. White—all in white: no black in that habit. And they sing—No, she never sang on earth. I should like to hear Guendolen sing in Heaven.”
The soft toll of the bell for prime came to her dulled ear.
“Are they ringing in Heaven?” she said. “Is it Guendolen that rings? The bells never rang for her below. They have fairer music up there.”
The door opened, and Mother Ada looked in.
“Sister Annora, you are released. Come to prime.”
Oh, to have tarried only a minute! For a light which never was from sun or moon had broken over the dying face, and she vainly tried to stretch her hands forth with a rapturous cry of—“Guendolen! Did the Master send thee for me?”
“Sister! You forget yourself,” said Mother Ada, when I lingered. “Remember the rule of holy obedience!”
I suppose it was very wicked of me—I am always doing wicked things—but I did wish that holy obedience had been at the bottom of the Red Sea, I kissed the trembling hand of the dear old Mother, and signed the holy cross upon her brow to protect her when she was left alone, and then I followed Mother Ada. After prime I was ordered to the work-room. I looked round, and saw that Sister Roberga and Margaret were missing. I did hope Margaret, and not Sister Roberga, had been sent up to the Infirmary. Of course I could not ask.
For two hours I sewed with my heart in the Infirmary. If the rule of holy obedience had been at the bottom of the Red Sea, I am sure I should not have tarried in that work-room another minute. And then I heard the passing bell. It struck so cold to my heart that I had hard work to keep my broidering in a straight line.
A few minutes later, Margaret appeared at the door. She knelt down in the doorway, and made the sign of the cross, saying, “Peace eternal grant to us, O Lord!”
And we all responded, led by Mother Ada,—“Lord, grant to Thy servant our Sister everlasting peace!”
So then I knew that Mother Alianora had been sent for by the Master of us all.
“Sister Margaret!” said Mother Ada.
Margaret rose, went up to Mother Ada, and knelt again.
“How comes it thou art the messenger? I sent Sister Roberga to the Infirmary this morning.”
“Mother Gaillarde bade me go to the Infirmary,” said Margaret in a low voice, “and sent Sister Roberga down to the laundry.”
“Art thou speaking truth?” asked Mother Ada.
Margaret’s head went up proudly. “King Alfred the Truth-Teller was my forefather,” she said.
“Well! perhaps thou dost,” answered Mother Ada, as if unwilling to admit it. “But it is very strange. I shall speak to Sister Gaillarde.”
“What about?” said Mother Gaillarde, appearing suddenly from the passage to my Lady’s rooms.
“Sister Gaillarde, this is very strange conduct of you!” said Mother Ada. “I ordered Sister Roberga to the Infirmary.”
“You did, Sister, and I altered your order. I am your superior, I believe?”
Mother Ada, who is usually very pale, went red, and murmured something which I could not hear.
“Nonsense!” said Mother Gaillarde.
To my unspeakable astonishment, Mother Ada burst into tears. She has so many times told the children, and not seldom the Sisters, that tears were a sign of weakness, and unworthy of reasonable, not to say religious, women—that they ought to be shed in penitence alone, or in grief at a slight offered to holy Church, that I could only suppose Mother Gaillarde had been guilty of some profanity.
“It is very hard!” sobbed Mother Ada. “That you should set yourself up in that way, when I was professed on the very same day as you—”
“What has that to do with it?” asked Mother Gaillarde.
“And my Lady shows you much more favour than she does me: only to-day you have been in her rooms twice!”
“I wish she would send for you,” said Mother Gaillarde, “for it is commonly to waste time over some sort of fiddle-faddle that I despise. You are heartily welcome to it, I can tell you! Now, come, Sister Ada, don’t be silly and set a bad example. It is all nonsense, and you know it.”
Off marched Mother Gaillarde with a firm step. Mother Ada continued to sob.
“Nobody could bear such treatment!” said she. “The blessed Virgin herself would not have stood it. I am sure Sister Gaillarde is not a bit better than I am—of course I do not speak on my own account, but for the honour of the Order: that is what I am anxious about. It does not matter in the least how people tread me down—I am the humblest-minded Sister in the house; but I am a Mother of the Order, and I feel Sister Gaillarde’s words exceedingly. Pride is one of the seven deadly sins, and I do marvel where Sister Gaillarde thinks she is going. I shall offer my next communion for her, that she may be more humble-minded. I am sure she needs it.”
Mother Ada bit off her thread, as she said this, with a determined snap, as if it had cruelly provoked her. I was lost in amazement, for Mother Ada has always seemed so calm and icy that I thought nothing could move her, and here she was making a fuss about nothing, like one of the children. She had not finished when Mother Gaillarde came back.
“What, not over it yet?” said she, in her usual style. “Dear me, what a storm in a porringer!”
Mother Ada gave a bursting sob and a long wail to end it; but Mother Gaillarde took no more notice of her, only telling us all that Mother Alianora would be buried to-morrow, and that after the funeral we were to assemble in conclave to elect a new Mother. It will be Sister Ismania, I doubt not; for she is eldest of the Sisters, and the one most generally held in respect.
In the evening, at recreation-time, Sister Philippa came up to me.
“So we are to meet to elect a new Mother!” said she, with much satisfaction in her tone. “I always like meeting in conclave. There is something grand about it. For whom will you vote, Sister Annora?”
“I have not thought much about it,” said I, “except that I suppose every body will vote for Sister Ismania.”
“I shall not,” said Mother Joan.
I see so little of Mother Joan that I think I have rarely mentioned her. She is Mistress of the Novices, and seldom comes where I am.
“You will not, Mother? For whom, then?” said Sister Philippa.
“If you should be appointed to collect the votes, Sister, you will know,” was Mother Joan’s reply.
“Now, is that not too bad?” said Sister Philippa, when Mother Joan had passed on. “Of course the Mothers will collect the votes.”
“I fancy Mother Joan meant we Sisters ought not to ask,” I said.
“O Sister! did you not enjoy that quarrel between the Mothers this morning?” cried she.
“Certainly not,” I answered. “I could not enjoy seeing any one either distressed or angry.”
“Oh; but it was so delightful to see Mother Ada let herself down!” cried Philippa. “So proud and stuck-up and like an icicle as she always is! Ha jolife! and she calls herself the humblest Sister in the house!”
Margaret had come up, and stood listening to us.
“Who think you is the humblest, Sister Philippa?”
“I don’t know,” said Sister Philippa. “If you asked me who was the proudest, maybe I could tell—only that I should have to name so many.”
“Well, I should need to name but one,” said I. “I would fain be the humblest; but that surely am I not: and I find so many wicked motions of pride in mine heart that I cannot believe any of us can be worse than myself.”
“I think I know who is the lowliest of us, and the holiest,” said Margaret as she turned away; “and I shall vote for her.”
“Who can she mean?” asked Sister Philippa.
“I do not know at all,” said I; and indeed I do not.
Dear Mother Alianora was buried this afternoon. The mass for the dead was very, very solemn. We laid her down in the Sisters’ graveyard, till the resurrection morn shall come, when we shall all meet without spot of sin in the presence-chamber of Heaven. Till then, O holy and merciful Saviour, suffer us not, now and at our last hour, for any pains of death, to fall from Thee!
We passed directly from the funeral into conclave. My Lady sent word to the Master that we were about to elect a Mother, and he sent us his benediction on our labour. We all filed into our oratory, and sat down in our various stalls. Then, after singing the Litany of the Holy Ghost, Mother Gaillarde passed down the choir on the Gospel side, and Mother Ada on the Epistle side, collecting the votes. When all were collected, the two Mothers went up to my Lady, and she then came out of her stall, and headed them to the altar steps, where they all three knelt for a short space. Then my Lady, turning round to us, and coming forward, announced the numbers.
“Thirty-four votes: for Sister Roberga, one; for Sister Isabel, two; for Sister Ismania, eleven; for Sister Annora, twenty. Our Sister Annora is chosen.”
It was a minute before I was able to understand that such an unintelligible and astounding thing had happened, as that our community had actually chosen me—me, of all people!—to execute the highest office in the house, next to my Lady Prioress herself. Mother Gaillarde and Mother Ada came up to me, to lead me up to the altar.
“But it cannot be,” said I. I felt completely confused.
“Thou art our Sister Annora, I believe,” saith Mother Gaillarde, looking rather amused; “and I marvel the less at the choice since I helped to make it.”
“I!” I said again, feeling more amazed than ever at what she said; “but I’m not a bit fit for such a place as that! Oh, do choose again, and fix on somebody more worthy than I am!”
“The choice of the community, guided by the Holy Spirit, has fallen on you, Sister,” said Mother Ada, in a cold, hollow voice.
“Come along, and don’t be silly!” whispered Mother Gaillarde, taking my right arm.
I really think Mother Gaillarde’s words helped to rouse me from my stupor of astonishment, better than any thing else. Of course, if God called me to a certain work, He could put grace and wisdom into me as easily as into any one else; and I had only to bow to His will. But I did so wish it had been another who was chosen. Sister Ismania would have made a far better officer than I. And to think of such a poor, stupid, confused thing as I am, being put over her head! But, if it were God’s will—that settled the matter.
It all felt so dreamy that I can scarcely tell what happened afterwards. I remember that I knelt before my Lady, and before the altar—but I felt too confused for prayer, and could only say, “Domine, miserere me!” for no other words would come: and then the Master came and blessed me, and made a short address to me (of which I believe I hardly took in a word), and appointed the next day for the service of ordination.
I am an ordained Mother of the Order of Saint Gilbert. And I do not feel any difference. I thought I should have done. The Master himself sang the holy mass, and we sang Veni Creator Spiritus, and he said in his address afterwards, that when his hands were laid on my head, the Holy Ghost came down and filled me with His presence—and I did not feel that He did. Of course it was all very solemn, and I did most earnestly desire the influences of the blessed Spirit, for I shall never be able to do any thing without them: but really I felt our Lord nearer me in the evening, when I knelt by my bed for a minute, and asked Him, in my own poor words, to keep me in the right way, and teach me to do His will. I think I shall try that again. Now that I have a cell to myself, I can do it. And I sleep in dear Mother Alianora’s cell, where I am sure the blessed Lord has been wont to come. Oh, I hope He will not tarry away because I am come into it—I, who am so worthless, and so weak, and need His gracious aid so much more than she did!
I do wish, if so great a favour could possibly be vouchsafed to me, that I might speak to our Lord just once. He has ere this held converse with the holy saints. Of course I am not holy, nor a saint, nor in the least merit any such grace from Him: but I need it more than those who merit it. Oh, if I could know,—once, certainly, and for ever—whether it is earthly, and carnal, and wicked, as people say it is, for me to grieve over that lost love of mine! Sister Ismania says it is all folly and imagination on my part, because, having been parted when we were only six years old, I cannot possibly (she says) feel any real, womanly love for him. But I do not see why it must be grown-up to be real. And I never knew any thing better or more real. It may not be like what others have, but it was all I had. I wish sometimes that I knew if he still lives, and whether that other wife lives to whom I suppose somebody must have married him after I was thrust in here. I cannot feel as if he did not still, somehow, belong to me. If I only knew whether it was wrong!
I have been appointed mistress of the work-room, and I ought to keep it in order. How I can ever do it, I cannot think. I shall never be able to chide the Sisters like the other Mothers: and to have them coming up to me, when they are chidden, and kissing the floor at my feet—I do not know how I can stand it. I am sure it will give me a dreadful feeling. However, I hope nothing will ever happen of that kind, for a long, long while.
What is the good of hoping any thing? Mother Gaillarde says that hopes, promises, and pie-crust are made to be broken. Certainly hopes seem to be. After all my wishes, if something did not happen the very first day!
When I got down to the work-room, what should I find but Sisters Roberga and Philippa having a violent quarrel. They were not only breaking the rule of silence, which in itself was bad enough, but they were calling each other all manner of names.
I was astonished those two should quarrel, for they have always been such friends that they had to be constantly reminded of the prohibition of particular friendships among the religious: but when they did, it reminded me of the adage that vernage makes the best vinegar.
Sister Isabel cast an imploring look at me, as I entered, which seemed to say, “Do stop them!” and I had not a notion how to set about it, except by saying—
“My dear Sisters, our rule enjoins silence.”
On my saying this (which I did with much reluctance and some trembling) both of them turned round and appealed to me.
“She promised to vote for me, and she did not!” cried Sister Roberga.
“I did!” said Sister Philippa. “I kept my word.”
“There was only one vote for me,” answered Sister Roberga.
“Well, and I gave it,” replied Sister Philippa.
“You couldn’t have done! There must have been more than one.”
“Why should there?”
“I know there was.”
“How do you know?”
“I do know.”
“You must have voted for yourself, then: you can’t know otherwise,” said Sister Philippa, scornfully.
Sister Roberga fairly screamed, “I didn’t, you vile wretch!” and went exceedingly red in the face.
“Sister Roberga,” said I—
“Don’t you interfere!” shrieked Sister Roberga, turning fiercely on me. “You want a chance to show your power, of course. You poor, white-faced, sanctimonious creature, only just promoted, and that because every body voted for you, thinking you would be easily managed—just like a bit of putty in any body’s fingers! And making such a fuss, as if you were so humble and holy, professing not to wish for it! Faugh! how I hate a hypocrite!”
I stood silent, feeling as if my breath were taken away.
“Yes, isn’t she?” cried Sister Philippa. “Wanting Sister Ismania to be preferred, instead of her, after all her plotting with Mother Gaillarde and Sister Margaret! I can’t bear folks who look one way and walk another, as she does. I shouldn’t wonder if the election were vitiated,—not a bit!—and then where will you be, Mother Annora?”
“Where you will be, Sister Philippa, until compline,” said a voice behind me, “is prostrate on the chapel floor: and after compline, you will kiss the floor at Mother Annora’s feet, and ask her to forgive you. Sister Roberta, go to the laundry—there is nobody there—and do not come forth till I fetch you. You also, after compline, will ask the Mother’s forgiveness.”
Oh, how thankful I felt to Mother Gaillarde for coming in just then! She said no more at that time; but at night she came to my cell.
“Sister Annora,” said she, “you must not let those saucy girls ride rough-shod over you. You should let them see you mean it.”
“But,” said I, “I am afraid I don’t mean it.”
Mother Gaillarde laughed. “Then make haste and do,” said she. “You’ll have a bear-garden in the work-room if you don’t pull your curb a little tighter. You may always rely on Sister Ismania, Sister Isabel, and Sister Margaret to uphold your authority. It is those silly young things that have to be kept in order. I wish you joy of your new post: it is not all flowers and music, I can tell you.”
“Oh dear, I feel so unfit for it!” I sighed.
Mother Gaillarde smiled. “Sister, I am a bad hand at paying compliments,” she said. “But one thing I will say—you are the fittest of us all for the office, if you will only stand firm. Give your orders promptly, and stick to them. Pax tibi!”
I have put Mother Gaillarde’s advice into action—or rather, I have tried to put it—and have brought a storm on my head. Oh dear, why cannot folks do right without all this trouble?
Sisters Amie and Catherine began to cast black looks at one another yesterday evening in the work-room, and when recreation-time came the looks blossomed into words. I told them both to be silent at once. This morning I was sent for by my Lady, who said that she had not expected me to prove a tyrant. I do not think tyrants feel their hearts go pitter-patter, as mine did, both last night and this morning. Of course I knelt and kissed her hand, and said how sorry I was to have displeased her.
“But, indeed, my Lady,” said I, “I spoke as I did because I was afraid I had not been sufficiently firm before.”
“Oh, I dare say it was all right,” said my Lady, closing her eyes, as if she felt worried with the whole affair. “Only Sister Ada thought—I think somebody spoke to her—do as you think best, Sister. I dare say it will all come right.”
I wish things would all come right, but it seems rather as if they all went wrong. And I do not quite see what business it is of Mother Ada’s. But I ought not to be censorious.
Just as I was leaving the room, my Lady called me back. It does feel so new and strange to me, to have to go to my Lady herself about things, instead of to one of the Mothers! And it is not nearly so satisfactory; for where Mother Gaillarde used to say, “Do so, of course”—my Lady says, “Do as you like.” I cannot even get accustomed to calling them Sister Gaillarde and Sister Ada, as, being a Mother myself, I ought to do now. Oh, how I miss our dear Mother Alianora! It frightens me to think of being in her place. Well, my Lady called me back to tell me that the Lady Joan de Greystoke desired to make retreat with us, and that we must prepare to receive her next Saturday. She is to have the little chamber next to the linen-wardrobe. My Lady says she is of good lineage, but she did not say of what family she came. She commanded me to tell the Mothers.
“Miserere!” said Mother—no, Sister Ada. “What an annoyance it is, to be sure, when externs come for retreat! She will unsettle half the young Sisters, and turn the heads of half the others. I know what a worry they are!”
“Humph!” said Sister Gaillarde. “Of good lineage, is she? That means, I suppose, that she’ll think herself a princess, and look on all of us as her maid-servants. She may clean her own shoes so far as I’m concerned. Do her good. I’ll be bound she never touched a brush before.”
“Some idle young baggage, I’ve no doubt,” said Sister Ada.
“Marry, she may be a grandmother,” said Mo—Sister Gaillarde. “If she’s eighty, she’ll think she has a right to lecture us; and if she’s only eighteen, she’ll think so ten times more. You may depend upon it, she will reckon we know nought of the world, and that all the wisdom in it has got into her brains. These externs do amuse me.”
“It is all very well for you to make fun of it, Sister Gaillarde,” said Sister Ada, peevishly, “but I can tell you, it will be any thing but fun for you and me, if she set half the young Sisters, not to speak of the novices and pupils, coveting all manner of worldly pomps and dainties. And she will, as sure as my name is Ada.”
“Thanks for your warning,” said Mother Gaillarde. “I’ll put a rod or two in pickle.”
The Lady Joan’s chamber is ready at last: and I am dad. Such a business I have had of it! I had no idea Sister Philippa was so difficult to manage: and as to Sister Roberga, I pity any one who tries to do it.
“You see, Sister Annora,” said Sister Gaillarde, smiling rather grimly, “official life is not all flowers and sunshine. I don’t pity my Lady, just because she shirks her duties: she merely reigns, and leaves us to govern; but I can tell you, no Prioress of this convent would have an easy life, if she did her duty. I remember once, when I was in the world, I saw a mountebank driving ten horses at once. I dare say he hadn’t an easy time of it. But, lack-a-day! we have to drive thirty: and skittish fillies some of them are. I don’t know what Sister Roberga has done with her vocation: but I never saw the corner of it since she came.”
“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. Nobody 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—God 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 assented.
“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!
I felt as though my tongue refused to speak. Something was coming—what, I did not know.
Margaret answered for me, and the Lady Joan’s hand fell softly on mine.
“Did you love each other,” she said, “when you were little children? If so, we ought to love each other, for he was very dear to me. Mother Annora, he was my father.”
“You!” I just managed to say.
“Ah, you did, I think,” she said, quietly. “He died a young man, in the first great visitation of the Black Death, over twenty years ago: and my mother survived him twenty years. She married again, and died three years since.”
Margaret asked what I wanted to hear. I was very glad, for I felt as if I could ask nothing. It was strange how Margaret seemed to know just what I wished.
“Who was your mother, my Lady?”
The Lady Joan coloured, and did not answer for a moment. Then she said,—“I fear you will not like to know it: yet it was not her fault, nor his. Queen Isabel arranged it all: and she hath answered for her own sins at the Judgment Bar. My mother was Agnes de Mortimer, daughter of the Earl of March.”
“Why not?” said Margaret.
“Ah, then you know not. I scarce expected a Despenser to hear his name with patience. But I suppose you were so young—Sisters, he was the great enemy of your father.”
So they wedded my lost love to the daughter of my enemy! Almost before the indignation rose up within me, there came to counteract it a vision of the cross of Calvary, and of Him who said, “Father, forgive them!” The momentary feeling of anger died away. Another feeling took its place: the thought that the after-bond was dissolved now, and death had made him mine again.
“Mother Annora,” said the Lady Joan’s soft voice, “will you reject me, and look coldly on me, if I ask whether you can love me a little? He used to love to talk to me of you, whom he remembered tenderly, as he might have remembered a little sister that God had taken. He often wondered where you were, and whether you were happy. And when I was a little child, I always wanted to hear of that other child—you lived, eternal, a little child, for me. Many a time I have fancied that I would make retreat here, and try to find you out, if you were still alive. Do you think it sinful to love any thing?—some nuns do. But if not, I should like you to love the favourite child of your lost love.”
“Methinks,” said Margaret, quietly, “it is true in earthly as in heavenly things, and to carnal no less than spiritual persons, ‘Major horum est caritas.’” (First Corinthians 13, verse 13.)
I hardly know what I said. But I think Joan was satisfied.
Note 1. Her thoughts wandered to her married sister, Isabel Lady Hastings and Monthermer, who lived at Marlborough Castle.
Note 2. The last native Princess of Wales, being the only (certainly proved) child of the last Prince Llywelyn, and Alianora de Montfort. She was thrust into the convent at Sempringham with her cousin Gladys.