“You were going to ask where my mother was,” said the lady. “I feel that I was wrong in stopping you as I did just, now—for you might fancy that my mother was in some way to blame. She was a good mother to me—full of kindness; but I did not make her happy.”
“You did not?”
“Indeed I did not. I crossed her in the thing she desired most of all—that we should live together. I believed it my duty to become a nun, and I left her. She returned to France, being a widow, and having no other child; and there she died, among distant relations.”
“Was she angry with you?”
“She never said or showed that she was. But I know that she was grieved to the very soul, and for life. This, my dear, has been the greatest affliction I have ever known. I did not feel it so at the time, having no doubt of my vocation; but what I have suffered since from the thought that an only child and only parent, who ought to have made each other happy, were both miserable, God only knows.”
“Yet you did what you thought was your duty to God. I wonder whether you were right?”
“If you knew how many times—but,” said the lady, interrupting herself, “we shall know all when our hearts are laid open; and may minister to my mother yet. If I erred, and there be further punishment yet for my error, I am ready to bear it. You see, my child, how much you have to be thankful for, that your difficulty is not from having failed in duty to your parent. For the future, fear not but that your duty will be made clear to you. I am sure this is all you desire.”
“Shall we have any more such conversations as this when I come to live here? If we can—”
“We shall see,” replied the lady, smiling. “Father Gabriel says there may easily be too much talk, even about our duties; but occasions may arise.”
“I hope so,” said Euphrosyne, rising, as she perceived that the lady thought it was time for her to go. “I dare say Pierre is here.”