Part 37 (1/2)
”And yet he loved you, Alex--he wanted you for his wife. But the closest of human intercourse, the warmest and dearest of human sympathy, will never be enough for a temperament like yours.” She spoke with such authority in her voice that Alex was almost frightened.
”Shall I always be lonely, then?” she asked, feeling that whatever the answer she must accept it unquestioningly for truth.
”Until you have learnt the lesson which I think is before you,” said the nun slowly.
”I am not lonely now that I have you,” Alex a.s.serted, clinging pa.s.sionately to her hand.
Mother Gertrude did not answer--she never contradicted such a.s.sertions--but her steady, light eyes gazed outward with a strange pale flame, as though at some unseen bourne destined both to be her goal and that of Alex.
”No one has ever understood me like you do.”
”Poor little child, I think I understand you. You have told me a great deal, and your confidence has meant very much to me. Besides--” The Superior paused. ”A nun does not often tell her own story, but I am going to tell you a little of mine. It is not so very unlike your own.
”When I was seventeen I wanted to be a nun. I told my parents so, and they refused their permission. They loved me very, very dearly, and I was the only child. My father told me that it would break his heart if I left them, and my mother was delicate--almost an invalid. I held out for a little time, but their grief nearly broke my heart, and I persuaded myself that it was my duty to listen to them, and to stay at home. So I stifled the voice of G.o.d in my heart, and when I was two-and-twenty, a man much older than I was, whom I had known all my life, asked me to marry him.” The nun spoke with difficulty. ”I have not spoken of this to any human being for over twenty years, but I believe that I am right in telling you a little of what I went through. I will gladly bring myself to speak of it, if it is going to be of any help to you. I hesitated for a long while. He told me that he loved me dearly and I knew it was true.
I knew that his wife would have the happiest of homes and the most faithful and devoted of husbands. A hundred times, Alex, I was on the verge of telling him that I would marry him. It would have been the greatest happiness to my father and mother, and it would have done away, once and for all, with that lurking dread of a convent which I knew was always at the back of their minds. They were growing old, too--they had neither of them been young people when I was born--and I knew that a time would come when I should find myself all alone. I had no very great friends, and very few relations--none with whom I could have found a home; and in those days a woman left by herself had very little freedom, very few outlets indeed. I had given up the thought of being a nun altogether. I thought that G.o.d had taken away the gift of my vocation because I had wilfully neglected it. Even at my blindest I could never persuade myself that it had never existed--that vocation which I had tried so long to ignore. And then, Alex, G.o.d in His great love, again took pity on me, and showed me where my treasure really was. I had tried hard to cling to human love and happiness, to find my comfort there, but--just think of it, Alex--a Divine Love was waiting for me.... It was a very hard struggle, Alex. I knew that he wanted _all_ of me, unworthy as I was. And I was so weak and so cowardly and so selfish--that I shrank from giving all. I knew that no half measures would be possible.
Like you, I knew that it would have to be, with me, all or none--to whom much is given, from him will much be asked, Alex--and one night I could hold out no longer. I resolved that it should be all. After that, there was no drawing back. I wrote and said that I should never marry--that my mind was made up. Less than a year afterwards I was in the convent. But it was a terrible year. It was not for a long, long while that G.o.d let me feel any consolation. Time after time, I felt that He had forsaken me, and I could only cling to the remembrance of the certainty that I had felt at the time, of following His will for me. But He spared me the greatest sacrifice of all, knowing, perhaps, that I should have failed again in courage. My father and mother died within three months of one another that same year, and when my father lay dying, he gave me his blessing and consent, and after he died I went straight to the Mother-house in Paris, where it was then, and a few months after I became an orphan they received me into the novitiate there.”
The Superior had flushed very deeply, and her voice was shaken, but there were no tears in her steady eyes. Alex, trembling with pa.s.sionate sympathy, and with a grat.i.tude so intense as to be almost painful, for the confidence bestowed upon her, asked the inevitable question of youth:
”Have you been happy?--haven't you ever regretted it? Oh, tell me if you are really and truly _happy_.”
”Absolutely,” said Mother Gertrude unhesitatingly. ”But not with happiness such as the world knows. The word has acquired a different meaning. I hardly know how to convey what I mean. 'Grief' and 'Joy' mean something so utterly different to the soul in religious life, and to the soul still in the world. But this much I can say--that I have never known one instant of regret--never anything but the deepest, most intense grat.i.tude that I was given strength to follow my vocation.”
There was a long silence, Alex watching the nun's fervent, flame-like gaze, in which her young idolatry detected none of the resolute fanaticism built up in instinctive self-protection from a temperament no less ardent than her own.
”So you have the story of G.o.d's great mercy to one poor soul,” said the nun at last. ”And the story of every vocation is equally wonderful. The more I see of souls, Alex--and a Superior hears many things--the more I marvel at the ways of G.o.d's love. As for the paths by which He led me to the shelter of His own house, I shall only know the full wonder of it all when I see Him face to face. I have only given you the barest outlines, but you understand a little?”
”Yes,” breathed Alex, her whole being shaken by an emotion to the real danger of which she was entirely blind.
She went home that day in a state of exaltation, and could not have told, had she been obliged to a.n.a.lyse it, how far her uplifted condition was due to the awakening of religious perceptions. .h.i.therto undreamed of, to her increasing wors.h.i.+p of the woman who had roused those perceptions, or to her exultant sense of having been made the repository of a confidence shared with no other human being. It was small wonder that Lady Isabel traced the rapt look on Alex' face to its source.
”But most girls go through this sort of thing at school,” she said hopelessly. ”Of course, I know it is only a phase, Alex, whatever you may think now. But _why_ can't you be more like other people? Why insist all of a sudden on makin' poor Holland get up early and go out to church with you on Sunday, when I always like the maids to have a rest?”
”Holland doesn't mind,” said Alex sulkily. She could not explain to her mother that the Superior had asked a promise of her that she would not again willingly miss going to Ma.s.s on Sundays.
”If it was a reasonable hour I shouldn't object so much--I know heaps of very devout Catholics who always do go to Farm Street or somewhere every Sunday, and I wouldn't forbid that, Alex--though _why_ you should suddenly get frantic about religion I can't imagine. I suppose it is the influence of that woman you have been seein' at the convent.”
Alex grew scarlet, to her own dismay.
”I thought so,” said Lady Isabel, looking annoyed. ”I don't want to prevent your doing anything that _does_ give you pleasure--Heaven knows it's difficult enough to find anything you seem to care about in the very least--but I am not goin' to let you infect Barbara.”
”Oh, no!” said Alex, with sincere horror in her voice. The last thing she wanted was to take Barbara to the convent. She instinctively dreaded both her sister's shrewd, cynical judgment, and the misrepresentations that she always somehow contrived to make of all Alex' motives and actions. Alex clung to the thought of her exclusive claim on Mother Gertrude's interest and sympathy as she had never yet clung to any other possession.
”Well, we shall be leavin' town next week, and there'll be an end of it.
When I said you might go to the convent, Alex, I never meant you to rush off there three or four times a week, as you know. But if you have taken a fancy to this nun, I suppose nothing will stop you.”
Lady Isabel sighed, and Alex, from the glow of contentment that possessed her, felt able to speak more warmly and natural than usual.
”I don't want to do anything to vex you, mother, truly, I don't, but the Superior is very kind to me, and I do like going to see her. You know you always say you want me to do whatever makes me happiest.” She spoke urgently and coaxingly, like the impulsive, impetuous child Alex, who had been used to beg for favours and privileges with all the confidence of a favourite.