Part 3—- Chapter 5.
Waiting.
“If we could push ajar the gates of life,
And stand within, and all God’s workings see,
We could interpret all this doubt and strife,
And for each mystery could find a key.
“But not to-day. Then be content, poor heart!
God’s plans, like lilies pure and white, unfold:
We must not tear the close-shut leaves apart;
Time will reveal the calyxes of gold.
“And if through patient toil we reach the land
Where tired feet with sandals loose may rest,
When we shall clearly see and understand,
I think that we shall say - ‘God knew the best.’”
When we came out from the chapel after vespers, my Lady commanded Sister Gaillarde to follow her. The rest of us went, of course, to the work-room, where Sister Gaillarde joined us in about half an hour. I saw that she looked as though she had heard something that greatly amused her, but we could know nothing till we reached the recreation-room.
The minute our tongues were loosed, Sister Ada attacked Sister Gaillarde as to what my Lady wanted with her. With one of her grim smiles, Sister Gaillarde replied—
“My Lady is about to resign her office.”
A storm of exclamations greeted the news.
“Why, Sister? Do tell us why.”
“She finds,” said Sister Gaillarde, gravely, “the burden of her official duties too heavy.”
“I marvel what she reckons them to be!” quoth Sister Joan, who, though not sarcastic in the style of Sister Gaillarde, can now and then say a biting thing. “So far as I ever made out, her duties are to sit on cushions and bid other folks work.”
“Exactly: and that is too much labour for her.”
“Which of us will be chosen in her stead, I marvel!” said Sister Ada, briskly. “I trust it may be one who will look better to her house than the present Lady has done.”
“Amen,” said Sister Gaillarde, with a mischievous air. “I hope it will be Sister Joan.”
“Truly, I hope not,” answered the Sister: “for if any such honour came my way (which I expect not), I should feel it my duty to decline it on account of my failing sight.”
“Then you see, my Sisters,” quoth Sister Ada, quickly, “to vote for Mother Joan would be to no good.”
“It would be little good to vote for Mother Ada,” I heard a voice whisper behind me; and another replied, “She thinks we all shall, I warrant.”
I feel little doubt that Sister Gaillarde will be the one chosen. One of us four it is most likely to be: and the sub-Prioress is oftener chosen than the rest. Sister Gaillarde, methinks, would make a good Prioress.
We had scarcely recovered from our surprise, and had not half finished our talk, when the bell rang for compline: and silence fell on all the busy tongues. All the young Sisters, and the postulants, were eager to catch a glimpse of Father Mortimer; and I saw a good deal of talk pass from eyes to eyes, in the few minutes before the service began. He sings full well, and is most seemly in his ordering of matters. If he be as discreet in the confessional as in his outer ministrations, methinks I shall like him well. Howbeit, he made a deal less impression than he would have done before my Lady’s intention was announced. When we filed out of the chapel, and assembled again in the recreation-room, the tongues were set loose, and I could see that the main stream of talk ran on my Lady; only one here and there diverging to Father Mortimer. I sought out Joan, and asked if our new confessor were any kin to her. She could not tell me, beyond saying that she has three uncles and several cousins in the priesthood; but since, saving her uncle Walter, she has never seen any of them, she could not speak certainly without asking himself.
I marvel I have not seen Margaret all this even, now I come to think. I was so taken up with the news concerning my Lady that I never thought to look for her: and in chapel she sits on the Epistle side, as I do, so that I see her not.
This morrow my Lady called us into conclave, and made known her resignation, which she has already tendered to the Master: and bade us all farewell. She will not tarry with us, but goes into the daughter house at Cambridge; this somewhat surprises me, though I see it does not Sister Gaillarde.
“There’ll be more stir there,” said she.
“Think you my Lady likes stir?” said I. “I have always reckoned her one that loved not to be stirred.”
“Soothly,” said Sister Gaillarde: “yet she loveth well to sit on her cushions, and gaze on the stir as a peep-show.”
A few hours later we were all again assembled in conclave, and the Master himself with us, for election of a new Prioress. And after the mass of the Holy Ghost we Mothers went round to gather up the votes. It fell as I looked, and Sister Gaillarde is elected. In all the house there were only nine that voted otherwise, and of these four were for Sister Joan, two for Sister Ismania, and one each for Sisters Ada, Isabel, and myself. I feel sure that mine was Margaret’s: and Joan says she is certain Sister Ada’s was her own. I voted, as before, for Sister Gaillarde, for truly I think her fittest of all for the place. Her ordination fallows next week.
“Verily,” said Sister Ada, the next time we were at recreation, “I do marvel at Sister Gaillarde’s manner of taking her election. Not one word of humility or obedience, but just took it as if it were her right, and she were the most suitable person!”
“Why, that was obedience, was it not?” responded Sister Ismania.
“Obedience it might be, but it was not lowliness!” said Sister Ada, tartly. “If I had been elect—of course I do not mean that I expected such a thing, not for a moment—I should have knelt down and kissed the chapel floor, and protested my sense of utter unworthiness and incapacity for such an office.”
Sister Isabel, who sat by me, said in a low voice,—“Maybe some of your Sisters would have agreed with you.” And though I felt constrained to give her a look of remonstrance, I must say I thought with her. Sister Ada as Prioress would have been a sore infliction.
But now Sister Gaillarde herself came forward. I do not think Sister Ada had known she was there, to judge from her change of colour.
“Sister Ada,” said she, “you are one of those surface observers who always fancy people do not feel what they do not say. Let me answer you once for all, and any who think with you. As a sinner before God, I do feel mine unworthiness, even to the lowest depth: and I am bound to humble myself for all my sins, and not least for the pride which would fain think them few and small. But as for incapacity, I do not feel that; and I shall not say what I do not feel. I think myself quite capable of governing this house—I do not say as well as some might do it, but as well as most would do; and it would be falsehood and affectation to pretend otherwise. I suppose, in condemning hypocrisy, our Lord did not mean that while we must not profess to be better than we are, we may make any number of professions, and tell any number of falsehoods, in order to appear worse than we are. That may be your notion of holiness; but suffer me to say, it is not my notion of honesty. I mean to try and do my duty; and if any of my Sisters thinks I am not doing it, she will confer a favour on me if she will not talk it over with the other Sisters, but come straight to my rooms and tell me so. I promise to consider any such rebukes, honestly, as before God; and if on meditation and prayer I find that I have been wrong, I will confess it to you. But if I think that it was simply done out of spite or impertinence, that Sister will have a penance set her. I hope, now, we understand each other: and I beg the prayers of you all that I may rule in the fear of God, showing neither partiality nor want of sympathy, but walking in the right way, and keeping this house pure from sin.”
Sister Ada made no answer whatever. Sister Ismania said, with much feeling—
“Suffer me, Mother, to answer for the younger Sisters, and I trust the Mothers will pardon me if I am over ready. Sure am I that the majority of my Sisters will consent to my reply. We will indeed pray that you may have the grace of perseverance in good works, and will strive to obey your holy directions in the right path. I ask every Sister who will promise the same to say ‘Placet.’”
There was a storm of Placets in response. But unless I was mistaken, Sister Ada and Sister Roberga were silent.
It was while she was answering “Placet” that I caught sight of Margaret’s face. What had happened to make her look thus white and wan, with the expressive eyes so full of tears behind them, which she could not or would not shed? I sat in pain the whole day until evening, and the more because she seemed rather to avoid me. But at night, when we had parted, and all was quiet in the dormitories, a very faint rap came at the door of my cell. I bade the applicant enter in peace: and Margaret presented herself.
“Annora!” she said, hesitating timidly.
I knew what that meant.
“Come to me, little Sister,” I said.
She came forward at once, closing the door behind her, and knelt down at my feet. Then she buried her face in her hands, and laid face and hands upon my knee.
“Let me weep!” she sobbed. “Oh, let me weep for a few moments in silence, and do not speak to me!”
I kept silence, and she wept till her heart was relieved. When at last her sobs grew quiet, she brushed her tears away, and looked up.
“Bless thee, Annora! That has done me good. It is something to have somebody who will say, ‘Little Sister,’ and give one leave to weep in peace. Dost thou know what troubles me?”
“Not in the least, dear Margaret. That something was troubling thee I had seen, but I cannot guess what it was.”
“I shall get over it now,” she said. “It is only the reopening of the old wound. Thou hast not guessed, then, who Father Mortimer is?”
“Margaret!”
“Ay, God has given my Roland back to me—yet has not given him. It is twenty years since we parted, and we are no longer young—nor, I hope, foolish. We can venture now to journey on, on opposite sides of the way, without being afraid of loving each other more than God. There can hardly be much of the road left now: and when it is over, the children will meet in the safe fellowship of the Father’s Home for ever. Dost thou know, Annora dear, I am almost surprised to find myself quite so childish? I thought I should have borne such a meeting as calmly as any one else,—as calmly as he did.” There was a little break in her voice. “He always had more self-control than I. Only I dare not confess to him, for his own sake. He would be tempted either to partiality, or to too much severity in order to avoid it. I must content myself with Father Benedict: and when I want Roland’s teaching—those blessed words which none ever gave to me but himself—wilt thou give me leave to tell thee, so that thou mayest submit the matter to him in thine own confession?”
I willingly agreed to this: but I am sorry for my poor child. Father Benedict is terribly particular and severe. I think Father Mortimer could scarcely be more so, however hard he was trying not to be partial. And I cannot help a little doubt whether his love has lasted like hers. Sweet Saint Mary! what am I saying? Do I not know that every sister, every priest, in this house would be awfully shocked to know that such a thing could be? It is better it should not. And yet—my poor child!
This house no longer holds a Sister or Mother Gaillarde. She is now Lady Prioress, having been ordained and enthroned this afternoon. I must say the ceremony of vowing obedience felt to me less, not more, than that simple Placet the other day, which seemed to come red-hot from the hearts that spake it.
The Sister chosen to succeed her as Mother is Sister Ismania. I am glad of it, for she is certainly fittest for the place. Mother Joan becomes the senior Mother.
Our new Prioress does not let the grass grow under her feet, and is very different from her predecessor. During the first week after her appointment, such quantities of household articles began to pour in—whereof, in sooth, we stood in grievous need—that we Mothers were at our wits’ end where to put them. I thought the steward’s man would never have done coming to the grating with such announcements as—“Five hundredweight of wax, if you please, ladies; a hundred pounds of candles, ladies; twenty oaks for firewood, ladies; two sacks of seacoal, ladies; ten pieces of nuns’ cloth, ladies; a hundred ells of cloth of linen, ladies; six firkins of speckled Bristol soap, ladies,”—cloth of Sarges (serge), cloth of Blanket (Note 1), cloth of Rennes; mops, bougets, knives, beds; cups, jugs, and amphoras; baskets by the dozen; quarters of wheat, barley, oats, beans, peas, and lentils; stockfish and ling, ginger and almonds, pipes of wine and quarts of oil—nay, I cannot tell what there was not. Sister Ada lost her temper early, and sorely bewailed her hard lot in having first to carry and find room for all these things, and secondly to use them. The old ways had suited her well enough: she could not think what my Lady wanted with all this mopping and scouring. Even Sister Joan said a little sarcastically that she thought my Lady must be preparing for the possibility of our having to stand a siege. My Lady, who heard both behind their backs, smiled her grim smile and went on. She does not keep in her own rooms like the last Prioress, but is here, there, and every where. Those of the Sisters who are indolently inclined dislike her rule exceedingly. For myself, I think in truth we have been going along too easily, and am glad to see the reins tightened and the horse admonished to be somewhat brisker: yet I cannot say that I can always keep pace with my Lady, and at times I am aware of a feeling of being driven on faster than I can go without being out of breath, and perhaps risking a fall. A little occasional rest would certainly be a relief. Howbeit, life is our working-day: and there will be time to rest in Heaven.
Joan tells me that she has had some talk with Father Mortimer, and finds that her mother and he were cousins, he being the only son of her grandfather’s brother, Sir John de Mortimer, who died young in the tilt-yard (Note 2). It is strange, passing strange, that he and Margaret should have been drawn to one another—he the nephew, and she the daughter, of men who were deadly enemies. From what Joan saith, I can gather that this grandfather of hers must have been a very evil man in many ways. I love not to hear of evil things and men, and I do somewhat check her when she speaks on that head. Was it not for eating of the tree of knowledge of good and evil that our first fathers were turned out of Paradise? Yet the Psalmist speaks of God as “He that teacheth man knowledge.” I will ask Father Mortimer to explain it when I confess.
The time is not far off now when my child Joan must leave us, and I shrink from it as it draws near. I would either that she were one of us, or that I could go back to the world. Yet neither can be, seeing she is wedded wife and mother: and for me, is not this the very carnal affection which religious persons are bidden to root out of their hearts? Yet the Apostle Saint John saith we are to love our brethren. How can I do both? Is it lawful to love, only so long as we love not one above another? But our Lord Himself had His beloved disciple: and surely one’s own mother must ever be more to her daughter than some other woman’s mother? This also I will ask Father Mortimer.
Lack-a-day! this world is full of puzzles, or rather it is this life. I would one might see the way a little clearer—might have, as it were, a thread put into one’s hand to guide one out of the labyrinth, like that old Grecian story which we teach the children. Some folks seem to lose their way easier than others; and some scarcely seem to behold any labyrinth at all—they walk right through those matters which are walls and hedges to others, and look as though they never perceived that any such things were there. Is it because of recklessness of right, or of single-heartedness and sincerity?
There are three matters to lay before Father Mortimer. I shall think long till the time come; and I hope he will be patient with me.
So soon as I stepped forth of my cell this morrow, I was aware of a kind of soft sobbing at no great distance. I went towards it, and as I turned the corner of the corridor, I came on a young novice, by name Denise, who sat on the ground with a pail before her, and a flannel and piece of soap on one side of it.
“What is the matter, child?” said I.
“Mother Ismania bade me scrub the boards,” said she.
“Well! wherefore no?”
Denise fell a-sobbing yet more. For a minute or two might I not come at the reason: but at the last I did—she was a kinswoman of Sir Michael de La Pole, and thought it so degrading to be set to scrub boards!
“Why, dear heart,” said I, “we all do work of this fashion.”
“Oh yes, common Sisters may,” quoth she.
“Well,” said I, “we cannot be all uncommon. I ensure thee, Denise, there are here many daughters of better houses than thine. Mother Ismania herself is daughter of an offshoot of the Percys, and Sister Isabel is a Neville by her mother. My Lady is a Fitzhugh of Ravenswath.”
“Well, Sisters!” came from behind us in my Lady’s most sarcastic voice, “you choose a nice time for comparing your pedigrees. Maybe it were as well to leave that interesting amusement for recreation-time, and scrub the corridor just now.”
Sister Denise melted again into tears, and I turned to explain.
“Your pail looks pretty full, Sister,” said my Lady grimly: “much more water will make it overflow.”
“May it please you, Madam,” said I, “Sister Denise is thus distressed because she, being a De La Pole, is set to scrubbing and such like menial work.”
“Oh, is she, indeed?” laughed my Lady. “Sister, do you know what Mother Annora is?”
Sister Denise could only shake her head.
“Her mother was grand-daughter to King Edward of Westminster,” said my Lady. “If we three were in the world, I should be scantly fit to bear her train and you would be little better than her washerwoman. But I never heard her grumble to scour the corridor and she has done it more times than ever you thought about it. Foolish child, to suppose there was any degradation in honest work! Was not our blessed Lord Himself a carpenter? I warrant the holy Virgin kept her boards clean, and did not say she was too good to scrub. No woman alive is too good to do her duty.”
Sister Denise brake forth into fresh sobs.
“A wa—wa—washerwoman! To be called a washerwoman! (Note 3.) Me, kinswoman of Sir Michael de La Pole, and Sir Richard to boot—a washerwo—woman!”
“Don’t be a goose!” said my Lady. “De La Pole, indeed! who be these De La Poles? Why, no more than merchants of Lombard Street, selling towelling at fivepence the ell, and coverchiefs of Cambray (Note 4) at seven shillings the piece. Truly a goodly pedigree to boast of thus loudly!”
“But, Madam!” cries Sister Denise—her tears, methinks, burned up by her vexation—“bethink you, Sir Michael my cousin is a knight, and his wife the Lady Katherine heiress of Wingfield, and the Lady Katherine his mother ’longeth to the knights De Norwich. And look you, his sister is my Lady Scrope, and his cousin wedded the heir of the Lord Cobham of Kent.”
“Nay, tarry not there,” said my Lady; “do go a bit further while thou art about it. Was not my Lady Joan Cobham’s mother daughter to my Lady of Devon, whose mother was daughter unto King Edward of Westminster—so thou art akin to the King himself? I cry thee mercy, my Lady Princess, that I set thee to scrub boards.—Sister Annora, prithee, let this princely damsel go to school for a bit—she’s short of heraldry. The heiress of Wingfield, the Lady Katherine, forsooth! and the daughter of Sir John de Norwich a ‘Lady’ at all! Why, child, we only call the King’s kinswomen the Lord and Lady. As to thy cousin Sir Michael, he is a woolmonger and lindraper (linen draper. The en is a corruption) that the King thought fit to advance, because it pleased him, and maybe he had parts (talents) of some sort. Sure thou hast no need to stick up thy back o’ that count! To-morrow, Sister Denise, thou wilt please to clean the fire-dogs, and carry forth the ashes to the lye-heap.—Come, Sister Annora; I lack you elsewhere.”
Poor little Denise broke into bitterer tears than ever; but I could not stay to comfort her, for I had to follow my Lady.
“I do vow, this world is full of fools!” said she, as we went along the corridor. “We shall have Sister Parnel, next, protesting that she knows not how much oats be a bushel, and denying to rub in the salt to a bacon, lest it should make her fingers sore. And ’tis always those who have small reason that make fusses like this. A King’s daughter, when she takes the veil, looks for no different treatment from the rest; but a squire’s daughter expects to have a round dozen of her Sisters told off to wait upon her.—Sister Egeline, feathers for stuffing are three-farthings a pound; prithee strew not all the floors therewith. (Sister Egeline had dropped no more than one; but my Lady is lynx-eyed.) Truly, it was time some one took this house in hand. Had my sometime Lady ruled it another twelvemonth, there would have been never a bit of discipline left. There’s none so much now. Sister Roberga had better look out. If she gives me many more pert answers, she’ll find herself barred into the penitential cell on bread and water.”
By this time we had reached the kitchen. Sister Philippa was just coming out of it, carrying one hand covered with her veil. My Lady came to a sudden halt.
“What have you there, Sister?”
Sister Philippa looked red and confused.
“I have cut my finger,” she said.
My Lady’s hand went into her pocket.
“Hold it forth,” said she, “and I will bind it up. I always carry linen and emplasture.”
Sister Philippa made half a dozen lame excuses, but at last held out her left hand, having (if I saw rightly) passed something into the other, under cover of her veil.
“Which finger?” said my Lady, who to my surprise took no notice of her action.
“This,” said Sister Philippa, holding out the first.
My Lady studied it closely.
“It must have healed quick,” said she, “for I see never a scratch upon it.”
“Oh, then it is that,” quoth Sister Philippa, holding forth the second finder.
“I rather think, Sister, it is the other hand,” said my Lady. “Let me look at that.”
As my Lady was holding Sister Philippa’s left hand, she had no chance to pass her hidden treasure into it. She held forth her right hand—full unwillingly, as I saw—and something rustled down her gown and dropped with a flop at her feet.
“Pick that up, Sister Annora,” said my Lady.
I obeyed, and unfolding a German coverchief, found therein a flampoynt and three placentae (a pork pie and three cheesecakes).
“What were you going to do with these?” said my Lady.
“It’s always my luck!” cried Sister Philippa. “Nothing ever prospers if I do it. Saint Elizabeth’s loaves turned into roses, but no saint that liveth ever wrought a miracle for me.”
“It is quite as well, Sister, that evil deeds should not prosper,” was my Lady’s answer. “Saint Elizabeth was carrying loaves to feed the poor. Was that your object? If so, you shall be forgiven; but next time, ask leave first.”
Sister Philippa grew redder.
“Was that your intention?” my Lady persisted.
“I am sure I am as poor as any body!” sobbed the Sister. “We never get any thing good. All the nice things we make go to the poor, or to guests. I can’t see why one might not have a bite one’s self.”
“Were you going to eat them yourself?”
“One of them, I was: the others were for Sister Roberga.”
“Sister Roberga shall answer for herself. I will have no tale-telling in my house. This evening at supper, Sister, you will stand at the end of the refectory, with that placenta in your hand, and say in the hearing of all the Sisters—‘I stole this placenta from the kitchen, and I ask pardon of God and the Saints for that theft.’ Then you may eat it, if you choose to do so.”
My Lady confiscated the remainder, leaving the placenta in Sister Philippa’s hand. She looked for a minute as if she would heartily like to throw it down, and stamp on it: but either she feared to bring on herself a heavier punishment, or she did not wish to lose the dainty. She wrapped it in her coverchief, and went upstairs, sobbing as she went.
My Lady despatched Sister Marian at once to fetch Sister Roberga. She came, looking defiant enough, and confessed brazenly that she knew of Sister Philippa’s theft, and had incited her to it.
“I thought as much,” said my Lady sternly, “and therefore I dealt the more lightly with your poor dupe, over whom I have suspected your influence for evil a long while. Sister Annora, do you and Sister Isabel take this sinner to the penitential cell, and I will take counsel how to use her.”
We tried to obey: but Sister Roberga proved so unmanageable that we had to call in three more Sisters ere we could lodge her in the cell. At long last we did it; but my arms ached for some time after.
Sister Philippa performed her penance, looking very shamefaced: but she left the placenta on the table of the refectory, and I liked her all the better for doing so. I think my Lady did the same.
Sister Roberga abode in the penitential cell till evening, when my Lady sent for the four Mothers: and we found there the Master himself, Father Benedict, and Father Mortimer. The case was talked over, and it was agreed that Sister Roberga should be transferred to Shuldham where, as is reported, the Prioress is very strict, and knows how to hold her curb. This is practically a sentence of expulsion. We four all agreed that she was the black sheep in the Abbey, and that several of the younger Sisters—in especial Sister Philippa—would conduct themselves far better if she were removed. Sister Ismania was sent to tell her the sentence. She tossed her head and pretended not to care; but I cannot believe she will not feel the terrible disgrace. Oh, why do women enter into the cloister who have no vocation? and, ah me! why is it forced upon them?
At last I have been to confession to Father Mortimer, and I think I understand better what Margaret means, when she speaks of confessing to Father Benedict such things as he expects to hear. I never could see why it must be a sin to eat a lettuce without making the holy sign over it. Surely, if one thanks God for all He gives us, He will not be angered because one does not repeat the thanksgiving for every little separate thing. Such thoughts of God seem to me to be bringing Him down, and making Him seem full of little foolish details like men—and like the poorest-minded sort of men too. I see that people of high intellect, while they take much care of details that go to make perfection—as every atom of a flower is beautifully finished—take no care at all for mere trivialities—what my Lady calls fads—such as is, I think, making the sign of the cross over every mouthful one eats. Well, I made my confession and was absolved: and I told the priest that I much wished to ask his explanation of various matters that perplexed me. He bade me say on freely.
“Father,” said I, “I pray you, tell me first, is knowledge good or evil?”
“Solomon saith, my daughter, that ‘a wise man is strong;’ and the prophet Osee laments that God’s people are ‘destroyed for lack of knowledge.’ Our Lord chideth the lawyers of the Jews because they took away the key of knowledge: and Paul counted all things but loss for the knowledge of Jesu Christ. Here is wisdom. Why was Adam forbidden to eat of the tree of knowledge, seeing it was knowledge of good no less than evil? Partly, doubtless, to test his obedience: yet partly also, I think, because, though the knowledge might be good in itself, it was not good for him. God never satisfies mere curiosity. He will tell thee how to come to Heaven; but what thou wilt find there, that He will not tell thee, save that He is there, and sin, suffering, and Sathanas, are not there. He will aid thee to overcome thy sins: but how sin first entered into the fair creation which He made so good, thou mayest ask, but He gives no answer. Many things there are, which perhaps we may know with safety and profit in Heaven, that would not be good for us to know here on earth. Knowledge of God thou mayest have,—yea, to the full, so far as thine earthen vessel can hold it, even here. Yet beware, being but an earthen vessel, that thy knowledge puff thee not up. Then shall it work thee ill instead of good. Moreover, have nought to do with knowledge of evil; for that is ill, altogether.”
“Then, how is it, Father,” said I, “that some folks see their way so much plainer than others, and never become tangled in labyrinths? They seem to see in a moment one thing to be done, and that only: not as though they walked along a road which parted in twain, and knew not which turn to take.”
“There may be many reasons. Some have more wit than others, and thus perceive the best way. Some are less readily turned aside by minor considerations. Some let their will conflict with God’s will: and some desire to perceive His only, and to follow it.”
“Those last are perfect men,” said I.
“Ay,” he made answer: “or rather, they are sinners whom Christ first loved, and taught to love Him back. My daughter, love is the great clue to lead thee out of labyrinths. Whom lovest thou—Jesu Christ, or Sister Alianora?”
“Now, Father, you land me in my last puzzle. I have always been taught, ever since I came hither, a little child, that love of God and the holy saints is the only love allowed to a religious woman. All other love is worldly, carnal, and wicked. Tell me, is this true?”
“No.” The word came quick and curt.
“Truly,” said I, “it would give me great relief to be assured of that. The love of our kindred, then, is permitted?”
“‘Whoso loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love God whom he hath not seen? And this mandate we have from God: that he who loveth God, love his brother also.’”
“Father,” said I, fairly enchanted to hear such words, “are those words of some holy doctor, such as Saint Austin?”
“They are the words,” saith he softly, “of the disciple that Jesu loved. He seems to have caught a glimmer of his Master.”
“But,” said I, “doth it mean my mother’s son, or only my brother in religion?”
“It can scarcely exclude thy mother’s son,” saith he somewhat drily. “Daughter, see thou put God first: and love all other as much as ever thou canst.”
“Ha, jolife!” cried I, “if the Church will but allow it.”
“What God commandeth,” said he, “can not His Church disallow.”
Methought I heard a faint stress on the pronoun.
“Father,” said I, “are there more Churches than one?”
“There is one Bride of Christ. There is also a synagogue of Satan.”
“Ah! that, I count, is the Eastern Church, that man saith hath departed from the faith.”
“They that depart from the faith make that Church. I fear they may so do in the West as well as the East.”
“Well, in the most holy universal Church are counted both the holy Roman Church, and our own mother, the Church of England,” said I. “I know not if it include the Eastern schism or no.”
“All these,” saith he, “are names of men, and shall perish. All that is of man must come to nought. The Church Catholic, true and holy, is not of man, but of God. In her is gathered every saved soul, whether he come from the east or from the west, from the north or from the south. She is not Pauline, nor Petrine, nor Johannine, but Christian. The heavenly Bridegroom cannot have two Brides. ‘One is My dove, My perfect one,’ There are many counties in England; there is but one realm. So there are many so-called Churches: there is but one holy Church.”
“But to find her commands,” I answered, “we must, I suppose, hearken each to his own branch of the Church?”
“Her Lord’s commands are hers. ‘Hear thou Him.’ The day is coming, daughter, when the Scriptures of God’s Word shall be all rendered into English tongue, and, I firmly trust, shall be accessible to every man that chooses to know them. Pray thou heartily for that day; and meanwhile, keep thou close following Christ’s steps, to the best of thy knowledge, and entreat Him for pardon of all unknown sins. And when the light of day is fully come, and the blessed lamp of Holy Writ placed in the hands of the people, then come to the light that thou mayest clearly see. For then woe, woe upon him that tarrieth in the shadow! ‘If the light that is in thee be darkness, what darkness can equal it?’”
“Father,” said I, “I thank you, for you have much comforted me. All this while have I been trying not to love folks; and I find it full hard to do.”
“Battle with thy sins, Daughter, and let thy love alone. I counsel thee to beware of one thing, of which many need no warning to beware: I think thou dost. A thing is not sin because it is comfortable and pleasant; it is not good because it is hard or distasteful. Why mortify thy will when it would do good? It is the will to sin which must be mortified. When Christ bade His disciples to ‘love their enemies,’ He did not mean them to hate their friends. True love must needs be true concern for the true welfare of the beloved. How can that be sin? It is not love which will help man to sin! that love cometh of Sathanas, and is ‘earthly, sensual, devilish.’ But the love which would fain keep man from sin,—this is God’s love to man, and man cannot err in bestowing it on his brother.”
“But is it sin, Father, to prefer one in love above another?”
“It is sin to love man more than God. Short of that, love any one, and any how, that ever thou wilt. The day may come—”
He brake off suddenly. I looked up.
“There were wedded priests in England, not an hundred years ago,” (Note 5) he said in a low voice. “And there were no monks nor nuns in the days of the Apostles. The time may come—Fiat voluntas Tua! Filia, pax tibi.”
Thus gently dismissed, I rose up and came back into the illuminating-room, where I found Joan gathering together her brushes and other gear.
“The last time!” she said, sadly—for she returns to her home to-morrow. “Why is it that last times are always something sorrowful? I am going home to my Ralph and the children, and am right glad to do it: and yet I feel very mournful at the thought of leaving you, dear Mother Annora. Must it ever be so in this life, till we come to that last time of all when, setting forth on the voyage to meet Christ our Lord, we yet say ‘farewell’ with a pang to them we leave behind?”
“I reckon so, dear heart,” said I, sighing a little. “But Father Mortimer hath comforted me by words that he saith are from Holy Writ—to wit, that he which loveth God should love his brother likewise. I always wanted to love folks.”
“And always did it, dear Mother,” said Joan with a laugh, casting her arms around my neck, “for all those chains of old rules and dusty superstitions which are ever clanking about you. And I am going to love you, whatever rules be to the contrary, and of whomsoever made. Oh, why did ill folks push you into this convent, when you might have come and dwelt with Ralph and me, and been such a darling grandmother to my little ones? There, now, I did not mean to make you look sorrowful. I will come and see you every year, if it be only for an hour’s talk at the grating; and my Lady, who is soft-hearted as she is rough-tongued, will never forbid it, I know.”
“Never forbid what, thou losenger?” (Flatterer.)
Joan turned round, laughing.
“Dear my Lady, you are ever where man looketh not for you. But I am sure you heard no ill of yourself. You will never forbid me to visit my dear Mother Annora; you love her, and you love me.”
“Truly a pretty tale!” saith my Lady, pretending (as I could see) to look angry.
“Now don’t try to be angered with me,” said Joan, “for I know you cannot. Now I must go and pack my saddle-bags and mails.” (Trunks.)
She went thence with her light foot, and my Lady looked somewhat sadly after her.
“I love thee, do I, child?” saith she in another tone. “Ah, if I do, thou owest it less to anything in thee than to the name they wed thee in. Help us, Mother of Mercy! Time was when I thought I, too, should one day have been a Greystoke. Well, well! God be merciful to us poor dreamers, and poor sinners too!”
Then, with slower step than she is wont, she went after Joan.
My child is gone, and I feel like a bereaved mother. I shall see her again, if it please God, but what a blank she has left! She says when next Lent comes, if God will, she will visit us, and maybe bring with her her little Laurentia, that she named after my lost love, because she had eyes like his. God bless her, my child Joan!
Sister Roberga set forth for Shuldham the same day, in company with Father Benedict, who desired to travel that road, and in charge of two of the brethren and of Sister Willa. I trust she may some day see her errors, and amend her ways: but I cannot felicitate the community at Shuldham on receiving her.
So now we shall slip back into our old ways, so far as can be under a Prioress who assuredly will let none of us suffer the moss to grow upon her, body or soul, so far as she can hinder it. I hear her voice now beneath, in the lower corridor, crying to Sister Sigred, who is in the kitchen to-day—
“Did ever man or woman see the like? Burning seacoal on the kitchen-fire! Dost thou mean to poison us all with that ill smoke? (Note 6.) And wood in the wood-house more than we shall use in half a year! Forty logs came in from the King only yesterday, and ten from my Lord of Lisle the week gone. Sister Sigred, when shall I put any sense in you?”
“I don’t know, Madam, I’m sure!” was poor Sister Sigred’s rather hopeless answer.
I have found out at last what the world is. I am so glad! I asked Father Mortimer, and I told him how puzzled I was about it.
“My daughter,” said he, “thou didst renounce three things at thy baptism—the world, the flesh, and the Devil. The works of the flesh thou wilt find enumerated in Saint Paul’s Epistle to the Galatians (Galatians 5, verses 19-21): and they are not ‘love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance.’ These are the fruits of the Spirit. What the Devil is, thou knowest. Let us then see what is the world. It lies, saith Saint John, in three things: the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life. What are these? The lust of the flesh is not love, for that is a fruit of the Spirit. It is self-love: worshipping thyself, comforting thyself, advantaging thyself, and regarding all others as either toys or slaves for that great idol, thyself. The lust of the eye is not innocent enjoyment of the gifts of God: doth a father give gifts to his child in order that she may not use and delight in them? It lies in valuing His gifts above His will; taking the gift and forgetting the Giver; robbing the altar of God in order to deck thine idol, and that idol thyself. Covetousness, love of gain, pursuit of profit to thyself—these are idolatry, and the lust of the eye. The pride of life—what is this? Once more, decking thyself with the property of God. Show and grandeur, pomp and vanity, revelling and folly—all to show thee, to aggrandise thee, to delight thee. The danger of abiding in the world is lest the world get into thee, and abide in thee. Beware of the thought that there is no such danger in the cloister. The world may be in thee, howsoever thou art out of the world. A queen may wear her velvet robes with a single eye to the glory of God, and a nun may wear her habit with a single eye to the glory of self. Fill thine heart with Christ, and there will be no room left for the world. Fill thine heart with the world, and no room will be left for Christ. They cannot abide together; they are contrary the one to the other. Thou canst not saunter along the path of life, arm-in-arm with the world, in pleasant intercourse. Her face is not toward the City of God: if thine be, ye must go contrary ways. ‘How can two walk together, except they be agreed’ what direction to pursue? And remember, thou art one, and the world is many. She is strong enough to pull thee round; thou art not at all likely to change her course. And the peril of such intercourse is that the pulling round is so gradually effected that thou wilt never see it.”
“But how am I to help it, Father?”
“By keeping thine eye fixed on God. Set the Lord alway before thee. So long as He is at thy right hand, thou shalt not be moved.”
Father Mortimer was silent for a moment; and when he spoke again, it was rather to himself, or to God, than to me.
“Alas for the Church of God!” he said. “The time was when her baptismal robes were white and spotless; when she came out, and was separate, and touched not the unclean thing. Hath God repealed His command thus to do? In no wise. Hath the world become holy, harmless, undefiled—no longer selfish, frivolous, carnal, earth-bound? Nay, for it waxeth worse and worse as the end draws nearer. Woe is me! has the Church stepped down from her high position as the elect and select company of the sons of God, because these daughters of men are so fair and bewitching? Is she slipping back, sliding down, dipping low her once high standard of holiness to the Lord, bringing down her aim to the level of her practice, because it suits not with her easy selfishness to gird up her loins and elevate her practice to what her standard was and ought to be? And she gilds her unfaithfulness, forsooth, with the name of divine charity! saying, Peace, peace! when there is no peace. ‘What peace, so long as the whoredoms of thy mother Jezebel and her witchcrafts are so many?’ They cry, ‘Speak unto us smooth things’—and the Lord hath put none such in our lips. The word that He giveth us, that must we speak. And it is, ‘Come out of her, My people, that ye be not partakers of her sins, and that ye receive not of her plagues.’ Ye cannot remain and not partake the sins; and if ye partake the sins, then shall ye receive the plagues. ‘What God hath joined together, let not man put asunder.’” (Note 7.)
Thank God for this light upon my path! for coming from His Word, it must be light from Heaven. O my Lord, Thou art Love incarnate, and Thou hast bidden us to love each other. Thou hast set us in families, and chosen our relatives, our neighbours, our surroundings. From Thine hand we take them all, and use them, and love them, in Thee, for Thee, to Thee. “We are taught of God to love each other.” We only love too much when we love ourselves, or when we love others above Thee. And “the command we have of Thee is that he who loveth Thee, love his brother also”—the last word we hear from Thee is a promise that Thou wilt come again, and take us—together, all—not to separate stars, but to be with Thee for ever. Amen, Lord Jesu Christ, so let it be!
It is several weeks since I have seen Margaret, otherwise than in community. But to-night I heard the timid little rap on my door, and the equally timid “Annora?” which came after. When Margaret says that word, in that tone, she wants a chat with me, and she means to inquire deprecatingly if she may have it.
“Come in, darling,” I said.
Since Father Mortimer gave me leave to love any one, any how, so long as I put God first, I thought I might say “darling” to Margaret. She smiled,—I fancied she looked a little surprised—and coming forward, she knelt down at my feet, in her favourite attitude, and laid her clasped hands in my lap.
“Is there some trouble, Margaret?”
“No, dear Annora. Only little worries which make one feel tired out: nothing to be properly called trouble. I am working under Mother Ada this week, and—well, you know what she is. I do not wish to speak evil of any one: only—sometimes, one feels tired. So I thought it would help me to have a little talk with my sister Annora. Art thou weary too?”
“I think I am rested, dear,” said I. “Father Mortimer has given me a word of counsel from Holy Writ, and it hath done me good.”
“He hath given me many an one,” she saith, with a smile that seemed half pleasure and half pain. “And I am trying to live by the light of the last I had—I know not if the words were Holy Writ or no, but I think the substance was—‘If Christ possess thee, then shalt thou inherit all things.’”
She was silent for a moment, with a look of far-away thought: and I was thinking that a hundred little worries might be as wearying and wearing as one greater trouble. Suddenly Margaret looked up with a laugh for which her eyes apologised.
“I could not help thinking,” she said, “that I hope ‘all things’ have a limit. To inherit Mother Ada’s temper would scarcely be a boon!”
“All good things,” said I.
“Yes, all good things,” she answered. “That must mean, all things that our Lord sees good for us—which may not be those that we see good for ourselves. But one thing we know—that if we be His, that must be, first of all, Himself—He with us here, we with Him hereafter. And next to that comes the promise that they which are Christ’s, with whom we have to part here, will be brought home with us when He cometh. There is no restriction on the companying of the Father’s children, when they are gathered together in the Father’s House.”
I knew what she saw. And I saw the dear grey eyes of my child Joan; but behind them, other eyes that mine have not beheld for fifty years, and that I shall see next—and then for ever—in the light of the Golden City. Softly I said— (Note 8.)
“‘Hic breve vivitur, hic breve plangitur, hic breve fletur;
Non breve vivitur, non breve plangitur, retribuetur.’”
Margaret’s reply sounded like the other half of an antiphon. (Note 9.)
“‘Plaude, cinis meus! est tua pars Deus; ejus es, et sis.’”
Note 1. The early notices of blanket in the Wardrobe Accounts disprove the tradition that blankets were invented by Edward Blanket, buried in Saint Stephen’s Church, Bristol, the church not having been built until 1470.
Note 2. Father Mortimer is a fictitious person, this Sir John having in reality died unmarried.
Note 3. Laundresses were very much looked down on in the Middle Ages, and were but too often women of bad character.
Note 4. Cambric handkerchiefs. It was then thought very mean to be in trade.
Note 5. Married priests existed in England as late as any where, if not later than in other countries. Walter, Rector of Adlingfleet, married Alice niece of Savarie Abbot of York, about the reign of Richard the First. (Register of John of Gaunt, volume 2, folio 148); “Emma, widow of Henry, the priest of Forlond,” was living in 1284 (Close Roll, 12 Edward the First); and “Denise, daughter of John de Colchester, the chaplain,” is mentioned in 1322 (Ibidem, 16 Edward the Second).
Note 6. Coal smoke was then considered extremely unhealthy, while wood smoke was thought to be a prophylactic against consumption.
Note 7. I would fain add here a word of warning against one of Satan’s wiliest devices, one of the saddest delusions of our time, for a multitude of souls are led astray by it, and in some cases it deceives the very elect. I mean the popular blind terror of “controversy,” so rife in the present day. Let us beware that we suffer not indolence and cowardice to shelter themselves under the insulted name of charity. We are bidden to “strive together for the truth of the Gospel”—“earnestly to contend for the faith” (in both places the Greek word means to wrestle); words which presuppose an antagonist and a controversy. Satan hates controversy; it is the spear of Ithuriel to him. We are often told that controversy is contrary to the Gospel precepts of love to enemies—that it hinders more important work—that it injures spirituality. What says the Apostle to whom to live was Christ—on whom came daily the care of all the Churches—who tells us that “the greatest of these is charity”? “Though we, or an angel from Heaven, preach any other Gospel—let him be accursed!” “To whom we gave place by subjection, no, not for an hour: that the truth of the Gospel might continue with you.” Ten minutes of friendly contact with the world will do more to injure spirituality than ten years of controversy conducted in a Christian spirit—not fighting for victory but for truth, not for ourselves but for Christ. This miserable blunder will be seen in its true colours by those who have to eat its bitter fruit.
Note 8.
“Brief life is here our portion;
Brief sorrow, short-lived care:
The life that hath no ending,
The tearless life, is there.”
Note 9.
“Exult, O dust and ashes!
The Lord shall be thy part:
His only, His for ever,
Thou shalt be, and thou art.”