Chapter V: Eve of St. John, May 5th

FATHER FABIAN has set me to work, as he promised, and I like my task very much. I am translating into English the work of a German monk named Thomas à Kempis. The piece is called, "The Imitation of Christ," and is, of course, of a religious character, and is so good, so spiritual, and yet so plain in its teaching, as I think, nothing could be better, unless it were the Holy Gospel itself. There is a great deal of it, and I go on but slowly, for I am desirous of doing my very best therein; and besides I am often impelled to stop and meditate on what I am writing. Besides this, Mother Superior has made me librarian, and I am to keep all the books in order—no very hard task, methinks, when nobody ever touches them but Amice and myself.

Amice still studies the lives of the Saints as diligently as ever. I know not what has come over her, but she seems very much changed the last few days. She is silent and reserved, spends as much of her time alone as she possibly can, eats hardly anything, and only of the plainest and coarsest food. She has always been very open with me, but now even when we are together she says hardly a word. I think I will ask her what is the matter. Maybe I have offended her in some way, though I am sure I don't know how.

This afternoon I had the great pleasure of a visit from my father, who came to consult Father Fabian on the matter of a priest for the chantry he means to build. He looks worn and thin, but says he is well, as are all at home. Alice's babe is a fine boy, at which they are all much pleased, all the Fultons of the second generation so far being maidens. Alice herself is well and happy, and sends me her love and a tiny curl of her boy's hair, of which he has a plenty.

"So he is dark," said I, looking at the pretty tress.

"Aye, black as a Corby," answered my father, smiling more like himself, than I have seen him in a long time. "'Tis a true Corbet brat."

"And yourself, dear father, are you quite well?" I ventured to ask.

"Yes, child, well and over well," he answered, somewhat peevishly, "if this journey to London does not kill me!"

"To London!" I exclaimed. "Dear father, what can take you to London?"

"Even that same need which makes the old wife to trot, chick! I must see my Lord before he goes abroad, concerning certain leases and the like. It is through no good will of mine, I promise thee, for I was never fond either of Court or city in my best days, and now—But how goes it with you, child?" he asked, interrupting himself. "Methinks you are thin and pale."

I told him of my cold, and how I had taken it. I could see he was pleased, though he bade me be careful of my health.

"I would watch a dozen nights myself in the darkest vault under the church if it would do her any good!" he muttered, with so sad a look and such a deep sigh, that I was compelled to speak and tell him how I had been comforted concerning my mother. He listened in silence, and dashed the tears from his eyes when I had done.

"I would—I would I could think so," he said; "but to die without the sacraments—and I was the tempter to lead her from her vocation. But, take comfort, child, if thou canst. It may be thou art right, after all."

"I feel sure of it," said I; and then I reminded him how devout and humble dear mother was—how careful of all those under her government, and how exact in training them to ways of devotion and truth; and I repeated to him sundry verses of the Psalms, on which I had been thinking a great deal of late.

"Well, well, you seem to have thought to good purpose," said he, at last. "Master Ellenwood, at least, would hold with you. He is all for making of my chantry a school for the young maids of the village, where they may learn to spin and sew, and say their prayers, and even to read. He says it would be a better offering to your mother's memory than a useless chapel and a lazy fat priest, such as these chantry clerks often grow to be."

"I am sure mother would be pleased," said I. "You know she always did favor the notion of a school."

"There is something in that," answered my father, ruminating in silence a minute. "Well, child, I must needs go on my way. Hast no word for my Lord and poor Dick, who goes with him to France?"

I sent my humble duty to my Lord, and with Mother Superior's permission, a little book of prayers to Dick, who I know neglects his devotions sometimes. I think he will use the book for my sake. Dear father bestowed on me his blessing, and a beautiful gold and ebony rosary, which had once been mother's, and then rode away. I wondered when I should see him again. It is a very long and not very safe journey to London from these parts.

I showed Mother Superior my rosary, and the little lock of baby's hair. She looked long at the beads, and returned them to me with a sigh.

"I remember them well," said she. "They came from Rome, and have the blessing of our Holy Father the Pope. Did your mother use them?"

"Not often, as I think," I answered. "She liked better a string of beads of carved wood, which she said my father brought her from the East country before she was married."

"Olive wood, belike," said Mother, "though I fear 'twas your father's giving them which made them precious. Your mother's strong and warm natural affections were a snare to her, my child. See that they be not so to you, for you are as like her as one pea is to another."

"But was it not mother's duty to love my father, since she was his wife?" I ventured to ask.

"Surely, child! 'Tis the duty of all wives. The trouble was in her being a wife at all, since she forsook a higher vocation to become one. Nobody can deny that the vocation of a religious is far higher than that of a wife."

"But if there were no wives, there would by-and-by be no religious," said I; whereat dear Mother smiled and patted my cheek, telling me that my tongue ran too fast and far for a good novice, and that she must find means to tame it. However, I do not think she was angry.

Sister Frances says that everything I do is right because I do it, and that I am the favorite both with Mother Superior and Mother Gertrude. If I am—which I don't believe, because I think both the dear Mothers mean to be just to all—I am sure I shall never take any advantage of their kindness.

When I got a chance, I showed my treasures to Amice.

"You wont keep them, will you?" asked Amice.

"Keep them! Of course I shall!" I answered, rather indignantly, I am afraid. "What would you have me do with my dear mother's rosary and the baby's curl?"

"'A good religious will have nothing which she calls her own,'" said Amice, as if quoting something. "She will strive for perfection, and to acquire that she must be wholly detached from all human affections, so that mother or child, husband or brother, shall be no more to her than the rest of the world. Are we not expressly told in the lives of the Saints that St. Francis disregarded the remonstrances and the curses of his father, and that even the tears and prayers of his mother were nothing to him? Did not St. Clare, our blessed founder, fly from her father's house at midnight, and by the advice of St. Francis himself, conceal the step she was about to take from her father and mother, and did not St. Agnes herself shortly do the same, and absolutely refuse to return, though she was but fourteen years old?"

"But Amice, Master Ellenwood told me himself, that, 'Honor thy father and mother,' is one of the chief commandments," I objected. "And besides I am not yet a religious."

"But you mean to be—you have promised to be one," answered Amice. "I don't know about the commandments, but I do know that our order is specially dedicated to holy poverty, and you cannot embrace that, and call anything your own—not so much as your rosary or the clothes you wear. I think you should burn this hair, and offer the rosary on the shrine of our Lady, in the garden."

"I will ask Mother Gertrude about it," said I; and the good Mother entering at that moment, I laid the case before her. She smiled rather sadly, methought, and looked lovingly at the little curl of baby hair, as it lay on her hand.

"So you think it is not right for you to keep these things?" said she.

"Not I, but Amice," I answered. "She says it is not consistent with holy poverty."

"And dost think, child, it is very consistent with holy humility, or holy obedience either, for thee to be giving spiritual council or direction to thy sister?" asked Mother Gertrude, turning somewhat sharply to Amice, who colored, but said nothing.

"I don't think Amice was in fault, Mother," I ventured to say, for I thought she was hard upon Amice. "She only told me what she thought."

"Well, well, maybe not," answered the old nun, relenting as she ever does after the first sharp word; "I did not mean to chide, but I am put past my patience with meddling and tattling, and what not. As to the rosary, you had better ask Father Fabian, or Mother Superior. Come, children, you should be at your work, and not idling here. I wish, Rosamond, that Father Fabian had found some one else to copy his precious manuscripts. I want you to help about ordering the patterns for the new copes, and mending the altar linen. There is nobody in the house can equal you in a pattern or a darn, save Mother Mary Monica, and her eyes and hands are both too far gone, for such work."

"Cannot I help you, Mother?" said Amice, with an evident effort.

"You! No, child, thank you all the same, not till you learn the use of your fingers better than you have it now."

Amice colored, but answered not a word.

"But, dear Mother, I dare say the manuscript can wait," said I. "There is no hurry, I know, for Father Fabian told me I might take my time about it, and I can do it at one time as well as another, even by lamplight; when I cannot work, I can help about the copes, part of the day, or until they are finished."

"That's my good child," said she. "Well, come down to the sacristy in about half an hour, and we will get them all out, and consider them. We want to have everything in apple-pie order, you see." And the good Mother bustled away.

"So I must leave my writing and go to working, it seems." said I, rather pettishly, I fear, for I do love my translating, and I am not devoted to cut-work and darning, though, thanks to dear Mother, I rather excel in both these arts. "However, 'tis to please Mother Gertrude, and 'tis all in the day's work. But what is the matter, Amice?" I added, seeing tears in her eyes; "surely you need not think so much of a word from Mother Gertrude. You know 'tis her way?"

"I know it," answered Amice. "I ought to have knelt at her feet and thanked her for her reproof, instead of feeling hurt. I have lost a chance for exercising holy humility. I can go down to the sacristy and do it when you meet her there."

"I'll tell you a better way," said I. "Get a piece of linen and set yourself to work in earnest to practise the stitches, so that you can help her another time; for you know, dear, you really don't work very neatly, because you won't keep your mind on your work. You are always wool-gathering—maybe I should say meditating—about something else. Come now, that will be the best way. I am sure Mother will be willing to have me teach you, or to show you herself."

"Thank you, sister Rosamond; but really I don't perceive such a great difference between our work as you do!" said Amice, coldly. "It will be time to come to the sacristy when I am asked."

"Just as you please," said I, rather vexed. "I thought you wished a chance for holy humility, that's all."

And I came away without another word, and went down to the sacristy, where Mother Gertrude and the Sacristine had all the vestments spread out in great array. There was one old cambric cope done in cut-work so fine as to resemble lace, but so worn and decayed that it fairly broke with its own weight.

"What a pity!" said the Sacristine. "Do you think you could mend it, Rosamond? There is not such another—no, not at Glastonbury itself, Father Fabian says."

"I don't believe it can be mended!" said I, considering it. "You see the fabric is so old there is nothing to hold the darning thread. But if I had a piece of fine cambric, I think I can work another like it. At any rate, I can try; and if I don't succeed, there will be no great harm done."

The Mothers were both pleased, and Mother Superior coming in, the matter was laid before her.

"Can you accomplish it, daughter?" she asked. "This is a very curious piece of work."

"I can try!" said I. "If I fail, there will be no great loss."

"True, my child, but your translation?"

"Oh, Father Fabian will excuse me, or I can work at it a part of the time. Perhaps that will be the best way!"

So it was settled, and Mother Superior said she would send directly and procure the cambric and thread.