Chapter IV: Feast of St. Catherine, April 29

THIS is the first time I have been able to write since my watching at our Lady's shrine, at which time I took such a chill and rheum as have kept me laid up ever since. Mother Gertrude was much opposed thereto, but could say nothing against it, seeing that Mother Superior had given her consent.

"If she wants to send the child after her mother, she has taken the next way to do it," I heard her mutter to herself.

"Why, dear Mother, should you have such fears for me," I asked. "I have lately confessed (and so I had the day before), and I am sure I am not false to my vows, because I have never taken any. Why, then, should the demon have power over me?"

"I was not thinking of the demon, child, but of the damp," answered Mother Gertrude, in her matter-of-fact way. "However I say no more. I know how to be obedient, after all these years. And nobody can deny but it is a good daughter's heart which moves thee, my child, and so God and all the Saints bless thee."

Amice would have shared my watch, only it was needful one should go alone; but she promised to watch in her cell. She went with me to the chapel door, as did Mother Gertrude, and we said some prayers together. Then, as the hour of nine tolled, they kissed me and went their way, leaving me to my solitary watch and ward.

Oh, what a lone and long night it was! I did not mind it so much before midnight, for the moon shone fair into the great east window, and two nightingales, in the garden outside, answered each other most melodiously from side to side. My mother ever loved the nightingale above all other birds, because she said its song reminded her of her young days in the midland of England. They are rare visitors with us. But, as I said, dear mother ever loved this bird's song, and now their voices seemed to come as a message from herself, in approval of what I was doing. I knelt on the cold stones, before our Lady's shrine, saying my rosary, and repeating of Psalms, and the first two hours did not seem so very long. But the birds stopped singing. The moon moved on her course, so that the chapel was left almost in darkness. The south-west wind rose and brought with it all kinds of dismal sounds, now moaning and sobbing at the casement, and shaking it as if to gain an entrance; now, as it seemed, whispering in the vaults under my feet, as if the ghosts might be holding a consultation as to the best way of surprising me. Anon, the great heavy door of which I have before spoken, did a little jar on its hinges, and from behind it came, as it seemed, the rustling of wings, and then a thrilling cry as of a soul in pain.

I felt my blood grow cold, and my flesh creep, and my head swim. But 'tis not the custom of our house for the women more than the men to give way to fear, and I was determined I would not be overcome. I said stoutly to myself, "That sobbing and whispering is of the wind—those wings are the wings of bats or owls, which have found refuge in the old tower—that is the cry of the little white owl, which I have heard a hundred times at home—that low roar is the rote of the surf which we ever hear at night when the wind is south-west."

So I reasoned with myself, and then to calm myself still farther, I began to repeat the Psalms, of which I know the greater part by heart, thanks to Master Ellenwood, beginning with the Psalm, "Beati, quorum." And here a strange thing happened to me, for no sooner had I repeated the words, "Whoso putteth his trust in the Lord, mercy embraceth him on every side," than there came over me such a wonderful sweetness and confidence as I am not able to describe. I seemed to feel that I was in the very house of God, where no harm could come to me, nor any evil thing hurt me. And 'twas not only for myself that I felt this assurance, but for my dear mother also. "If ever woman did put her trust in God, I am sure she did so," I said to myself, "and therefore, wherever she is, I have His own word for believing her to be embraced in the arms of His mercy."

And with that I went to prayer again, for my father and brother, and for Alice and her husband, and her young babe, and then for poor Dick. And (I know not if right or wrong) I used no form of words, but did pour out my soul almost as freely as if I had been talking alone with mother in her closet, when kneeling beside her, with my arms on her lap, she used graciously to encourage me to pour out all my thoughts and fancies.

If that had been all, there had been no great harm done, mayhap; but from praying for Dick, I fell to thinking of him, and recalling all our passages together, from the early days when my father used to set me behind him on the old pony, and when we used to build forts and castles on the sand of the shore, to our last sad parting, almost a year ago.

'Twas very wrong to indulge such thoughts in such a sacred place, and that I knew, and did constantly strive to bring my mind into a better frame. But the more I tried the more I wandered, and at last I believe I dropped asleep. I could not have slept long, when I was waked by the most horrid screams and cries—now like those of a young child, now like a woman in fits, now like the ravings of a madman, all seemingly in the chapel itself. I fell prostrate on my face, at the same moment that something rushed by me with a great noise, closely pursued by something else, which brushed me as it passed.

Now, though terribly scared, I yet felt my spirit rise as I discovered that the thing had a material existence; and though the cold sweat stood on my forehead, and my heart seemed all but to stop beating, I raised myself once more on my knees and looked around. My eyes had by this time grown used to the dim light, and I could see, crouched on the very step of the altar, a dark creature, which looked at me with green fiery eyes. Then it came to me, and I all but laughed aloud.

"Puss, Puss!" said I.

"Mieeo!" answered a friendly voice, and poor old Tom, our convent cat, came to me, rubbing his head, and purring in quite an ecstasy of joyful surprise.

I saw in a moment how it was. Tom is a regular Lollard of a cat, and cares no more for the Church than the cowhouse—indeed Sister Catherine once found him sitting on the high altar, and would have slain him, had not Mother Superior interfered. He had been entertaining a select party of his own friends in the Lady Chapel, and some cause of dispute arising, he had chased them all out, and remained master of the field.

I took the old fellow in my arms, and caressed him, and he bumped his head against my face, making his prettiest noises. Then I rose and walked to and fro to warm myself a little, for it was very chill, and tried once more to bring my thoughts in order by repeating my favorite Psalm, though not with as much comfort: as before, because of the sin I had committed by thinking of Dick when I should have been praying. However, at the words, "I said I will confess my sins unto the Lord," I found consolation, for I thought, "then I need not wait to confess to Father Fabian, but can make my confession now, in this place."

So I did, and then once more repeating my rosary, I sat down on a rude bench which was there, to rest a few moments. That was the last of my meditations and prayers, for I fell fast asleep, with Puss in my lap, and slept till I was waked by the sun shining into the great east window. I was very sleepy, and could hardly make out where I was; but, however, I said my prayers once more, and then Mother Gertrude came to seek me, and make me go to bed.

Ever since then, my mind has been wonderfully calmed and comforted about my mother. I seem to see her, embraced by mercy on every side, and entered into her rest. So I do not grudge my cold, though it has kept me in bed ten days, during which time Mother Gertrude has fed me with possets and sirups, and good things more than I can eat.

This morning I made a full confession to Father Fabian of my wandering thoughts during my night watch, and the rest. The good old man was very kind, and gave me light penance. I asked him what I must do to prevent such wanderings in future.

"I will consider of that," said he. "You are a Latin scholar, and can write a good hand, they tell me."

I assured him that I could write fair and plain, and had a good knowledge of Latin, so that I could read and write it with ease.

"Ah, well!" said he. "We must find some way to turn these gifts to account. Meantime, daughter, be busy in whatever you find to do whereby you can help others; say your psalms, and meditate on them, and never trouble thyself about the devil."

'Twas an odd saying, methought, for a priest. I told Amice all about my night watch, as I do tell her everything.

"Do you really think—" said she, and then she stopped.

"Well, do I really think what?" I asked, seeing she did not continue.

"Do you think you have any ground for your confidence about your mother, from that verse in the Psalm?"

I felt hurt for a minute, and I suppose my face showed it, for Amice added, "Don't be displeased, Rosamond. I only ask because it seems almost too good to be true. If you should find what seemed to be a precious pearl, you would wish to know whether it really was a pearl, or only an imitation, wouldn't you?"

"To be sure," I answered, and then I considered a little.

"Yes, I do think I have ground for my confidence, though I am not quite sure I can explain it. You know, Amice, the Psalms are inspired—a part of the word of God, and therefore, surely, their promises are to be taken as true. The Psalm says, 'Whoso putteth his trust in the Lord, mercy embraceth him on every side.' Now, I know my dear mother did put her trust in the Lord, if woman ever did in this world, and, therefore, I am at ease for her, though she died without the Sacraments, which was not her fault."

"You used your night watch to good purpose, if you thought out all this," said Amice.

"I did not think it out—it came to me," said I.

"Came to you—how?" asked Amice.

"I can't tell you," I answered, I am afraid, a little impatiently. "I am not used to taking all my thoughts and feelings to pieces, as you do. I only know that it seemed to come to me from outside my own mind—to be breathed into my heart, as somebody might whisper in my ear."

"It is very lovely," said Amice, with a sigh. "It is like some of the visions of the Saints. I think, Rosamond, you will be a Saint, like St. Clare or St. Catherine."

"I don't believe it," said I. "It is a great deal more in your way than mine."

We were busy in the garden while we were talking, gathering rosemary and violets for Mother Gertrude to distil. Amice had her lap full of rosemary, and she sat down and began pulling it into little bits.

"Rosamond," said she, presently, looking about her, and speaking in a low tone, "do you really like the notion of being a nun?"

"To tell you the truth, I never ask myself whether I like it or not," I answered her. "What is the use? I had no choice in the matter myself. Here I am, and I must needs make the best of it. There would be little profit in my asking myself whether I really liked to be a woman instead of a man. I like being here in the garden, pulling flowers for Mother Gertrude, and I like taking care of the books, dusting them and reading a bit here and there, and I like singing in the church, and working for the poor folk, though I should like still better to teach them to work for themselves."

"I suppose, of course, it is the highest life to which one can obtain!" said Amice, thoughtfully. "And yet I suppose it must have been meant that some people should marry and bring up families."

"I suppose it must, since without some such arrangement, the race of religious must come to an end before long," said I.

"Of course!" continued Amice, in the same musing tone. "You know St. Augustine had a mother, and so did St. Frances!"

"Did you ever hear of any one who had not?" said I, laughing. "But to return your question upon yourself, Amice, how do you like the notion of being a nun?"

"Not one bit!" said Amice, with emphasis.

I never was more surprised in my life, for I had always thought that if any one ever had a vocation it was Amice Crocker.

"The life is so narrow!" she continued, with vehemence, pulling so impatiently at her rosemary that she scratched her fingers. "Just look at the most of our sisters."

"Well, what of them?" I asked. "They are very well, I am sure. Sister Catherine is rather prying and meddling, and Sister Bridget is silly, and a good many of them are rather fond of good eating, and of gossip, but they are kindly souls, after all. And where will you find better women than dear Mother Superior, or Mother Gertrude, or a pleasanter companion than Mother Mary Monica, when she is in the mood of telling her old tales?"

"That may be all so, but what does it amount to, after all?" said Amice. "Look at that same Mother Mary Monica. She has been a nun in this and the other house sixty years, and what have those sixty years brought to pass? What has she to show for them?"

"Well, a good deal of embroidery," said I, considering. "She worked that superb altar cloth, and those copes that we use still on grand occasions, and she has made hundreds of pounds of sweetmeats, and gallons on gallons of cordials."

"And the sweetmeats are eaten, and the cordials drank, and in a few years the embroidery—what remains of it—will be rags and dust! Old Dame Lee in the village has ten sons, and I know not how many grandsons and daughters, all good and useful folk."

"And Roger Smith has a dozen children, each one more useless and idle than the other," said I.

"I can't endure the thought of such a life," continued Amice. "It sickens me—it frightens me. I would not be a religious unless I could be a great saint, like St. Clare or St. Catherine.'

"Why don't you, then?" I asked.

She looked strangely at me, methought, but made no reply, and Mother Gertrude calling us, we talked no more at that time. But I have been considering the matter, and I can't but think Amice was wrong. I have seen more of home life than she, and I know that of very necessity a great part of any woman's life—yea, and of almost any man's—must needs be spent in doing the same things over and over again; in making garments to be worn out, and preparing food to be eaten, and hushing children, and ordering the household. All these things have to be done, or there would be no such thing as family life—nay, there could be no convent life—and so long as they are necessary, I think there must be some way of hallowing them and making them acceptable offerings to Heaven, as well as prayers, and watching, and penance. I mean to ask Mother Gertrude.