“There is always,” said Mrs. Fletcher, “a hope that, though they do live in the world, they may reach heaven; and one cannot wonder that a widowed mother should rest on this hope, rather than be severed for life from an only daughter. But what has become of Felicia?”
“I do not know,” said Mary: “I saw Mrs. Haggerston in London, and she did not look happy; so that I dared not make any particular enquiries. But I am afraid Felicia’s was not a mind fitted to be quite happy in a convent.”
“What sort of mind is?” said Mr. Fletcher.
“I should think a really humble, benevolent heart might find much ease and many blessings in the best kind of convent life; not in those where the discipline is very severe, and the whole time must be passed in devotion or idleness; but where the rich, and the poor, and the young, are taken care of, and the hands, as well as the lips, are allowed to praise God and bless mankind.”
“Are you aware that it is more difficult to be humble and benevolent where the sole business of life is to be so, than in the world, where there is a greater variety of objects?”
Mary looked doubtful.
“It is one of the clearest possible proofs,” continued Mr. Fletcher, “that God designed man for a social state—that in all very small communities separated from the world, envy and pride have ever subsisted, and that utter selfishness is the consequence of entire seclusion.”
The girls would not readily believe this in its full extent: they were aware that the intellect must be weakened by unsocial habits, and that, therefore, it was impossible for the best homage of the heart and mind to ascend from monastic retreats; but they could scarcely imagine any scope for pride or envy in a state of such perfect equality; and as for selfishness, how could it consist with perpetual self-mortification?
“Of the first case you shall judge from your own observation by and bye,” said Mr. Fletcher; “and as for the other, you need only read the records which remain of some of the most sainted anchorites to be convinced. But, tell me now, what is your notion of the life of a nun; what picture have you in your mind’s eye of one day of a convent life?”
“The having one’s time and one’s cell to oneself,” said Anna, “is a pleasant idea. The sun shining in through a high window, and one’s own bed and chair, and chafing-dish in winter; and one’s own table with the book and skull and crucifix that nobody touches, and the certainty that nobody will come to interrupt one’s reading or thinking.”