The hidden treasure

by Lucy Ellen Guernsey

"How do you know that these saints can hear you? They were, and are, but finite beings like yourself, and cannot possibly be present in all places and at all times at once."

These were but a few of the distractions which beset her night and day, destroying her peace of mind, humbling her pride, and undermining her faith in those things wherein she had made her boast.

But Anne would not listen. She said to herself that they were but temptations of the enemy, such as had beset all eminent saints, and were to be banished by the proper means. So she fasted and scourged herself, and lay on the bare floor, and repeated ten times more prayers than ever. She had been fed upon "Lives of the Saints" from the time she could read, and for years, her cherished ambition had been to become a saint, on the model of Elizabeth of Hungary, or St. Bridget: to be looked up to as a pattern of holiness and austerity; to found a new order of nuns, more self-denying even than the "poor Clares," more contemplative than the Carmelites; to rule them while she lived, to be made a saint, and have miracles worked at her grave, when she was dead and buried.

Father Barnaby had cultivated these notions, seeing in the girl material which might encouraged her to believe made useful, and had believe that in the course of a few years she might be placed at the head of a sisterhood of her own founding. Anne had plenty of imagination, and hundreds of times she had gone over the whole matter in her own mind, arranging the rules and services of her house, and the very dress of the sisters. She fancied herself like St. Hilda, giving counsel and advice to abbots and priests, even to bishops and heads of the Church; as helping to stay the tide of heresy by her prayers and writings; as educating girls to perpetuate the doctrines and ways of her new order.

And was all this to be given up? Was she to abandon all her cherished ambitions and be content with the life of a daughter at home or a mere commonplace mother of a family? Or, still worse, was she to run the risk of open shame and disgrace and punishment, of being despised and held up as a warning, instead of an example, by those over whom she had hoped and expected to rule? Was she to confess that all her righteousness, her prayers and penances and sufferings, were worse than worthless in God's sight, and receive the gift of salvation as a free, wholly undeserved alms? Was her only title to heaven to consist in the fact, not that she was a saint, but a sinner? It could not be true—it should not be true! It was a work of the devil tempting her to abandon her vocation and all the great things she had planned.

And then came the thought—was it not her own fault after all? Had she not by weakly yielding to family affection—those fleshly ties from which she had been told again and again she must tear herself loose—had she not given the Tempter a handle against her? Ought she not to do all in her power to prevent the spread of heresy, and had she not, by yielding to her regard for her only brother, and concealing his fault, made herself a partaker therein? Would not her peace of mind return, if she were once to make the sacrifice? Would not that sacrifice be an additional and most precious jewel in the crown of martyrdom she coveted?

Yes, it must be so, and the sacrifice must be made. Once done, the deed could never be recalled. She would be held up as a bright example of piety, and she should again find her former peace, and satisfaction in prayer and penance and saintly reveries, and the doubts which disturbed her would depart forever.

Then there was Sister Barbara—Sister Barbara whose coming she had expected and prepared for, with so much pleasure, who had been one of the elders of the order, and a pattern of sanctity. There had long existed not even the semblance of confidence between them, but Anne had no doubt she was as bad as Jack, every whit. She had seen a book in her hands which was no prayer-book—she was sure of that—and she was always reading it while her "Hours" and her rosary lay neglected day after day. Sister Barbara and Jack were always talking quietly together and exchanging smiles and glances. Besides, did she not go to hear Father William preach even after he had refused to celebrate masses for the dead, and declared his opinion that it was lawful for priests to marry if they saw fit?

These and other indications convinced Anne that Sister Barbara was as bad as Jack—nay, worse, for was she not a nun, and had she not been a person in authority? Then there was her school! Was she to be allowed to pervert the children under her charge?

The morning that Sister Barbara went away, Anne went to the Priory church, determined, as she said, to decide the matter one way or the other before she came home. The first person she met was Father Barnaby. In her excited state of mind, this encounter seemed a supernatural sign sent for the confirmation of her wavering resolution, and she did not rest till she had told him all. She could not indeed tell the place where Sister Barbara had taken refuge, for she did not know it, but she told all she did know about the matter.