CHAPTER III.

EARLY RECOLLECTIONS.

THERE could hardly be two people more differently constituted than Amabel Leighton and myself, which is perhaps one reason why we have continued such fast friends all through life. I was always well and strong, able to bear fatigue, and caring nothing for any danger that I could see. At the same time, I was dreadfully afraid of all the creatures and powers of darkness, and still more afraid of being found fault with or laughed at, not only by people whom I loved and respected, but by those for whom I didn't care a rush.

Amabel, on the contrary, was delicate in body, shrinking from exertion or exposure. She was very timid. She was afraid, even, of our own petted cows, till she learned to milk that she might help Sister Lazarus; and she was terrified at our big watch dog, which adored her, and would wag his tail at the most distant glimpse of her.

"Why do you pat Arslan when you are so afraid of him?" asked Mother Prudentia one day, when she saw Amabel caressing the dog's great square head, while he licked her hand in an ecstasy.

"Because, dear Mother, he wagged his tail at me, and I don't like to hurt his feelings," answered the dear child, half sobbing. "You know you said we should never hurt people's feeling if we could help it."

Desireè, who was near, laughed her little sneering laugh.

"A dog is not people—he is only a brute beast!" said she.

"Arslan is a great deal more like people than some girls I know!" said I, hotly resentful both for Arslan and Amabel.

"Tut, tut, little pepper pot!" said the mother, smiling at my vehemence. "A dog is not people, but he has affections, and I am glad my little Aimeè regards them. If we thought always as tenderly as thou of the feelings of our friends, it would be all easy world to live in."

This little incident is a good specimen of Amabel. Timid as she was, if she once made up her mind that a certain course was right, she would pursue it through thick and thin. But while no amount of laughing or teasing would make her do what was wrong, she was sometimes led by her affection for me to join in projects which brought us both into trouble and disgrace. I remember one instance in particular, which came near being very serious in its consequences.

I have said that there was an extensive range of unused apartments on one side of the cemetery. They were commonly kept locked up, but one day as we three young ones were playing in the cloister, Mother Bursar came out with a bunch of keys and proceeded to unlock the grand entrance.

We clustered round her and watched with much interest the opening of the great two leaved portal.

"So! I suppose you are all dying of curiosity to see these wonderful rooms," said Mother Bursar, smiling at our eager faces. "Well you may follow me if you will keep close behind me and touch nothing. But mind you do not slip away, for the rooms and passages are many and you might be lost or have a fall. The floors are not as good as they might be."

We eagerly availed ourselves of the permission and with many exclamations of wonder followed Mother Bursar into the great hall and through the apartments opening from it. These rooms had once been splendidly decorated with carving and painting, and enough still remained to show that the subjects of the paintings were not always religious by any means. Some furniture was still standing about, here a great cushioned chair, there a cabinet once gay with inlaid ivory and gilding, or a Persian rug eaten with the moths.

"Why does not dear mother have some of these pretty things in her own room?" I ventured to ask as I paused before a beautiful table with cupids and birds inlaid all over it.

"Dear mother does not care for such things, my child!" answered Mother Bursar. "They are not fit for one who has renounced the world. But we are going to overlook all the hangings and curtains and see if we can make any of them over into bed coverings for some of the poor people, and for our own beds as well. Come now, troop out little ones. I have opened the windows to let in the air and shall leave them for a while, till the place is freshened up."

"Let us stay here and look at the pictures on the walls, dear mother!" begged Amabel, who loved everything beautiful. "We will not go into any other rooms."

"Very well!" said Mother Bursar, who was always indulgent and who knew that Amabel and Dénice at least could be trusted. "Mind you stay here in the hall and go no where else, above all do not venture up the stairs."

Mother Bursar went away and left us and we were busy studying the story of Joseph and his family on the painted wall, when Desireè came stealing in.

"So here are all the good little girls!" said she. "All busy breaking rules. I wonder what Mother Prudentia will say to that."

"We are not breaking rules as it happens," I answered warmly as usual. "Mother Bursar gave us leave to stay here and look at the pictures till she came back. There are much prettier pictures in the other rooms but we must not go there," I added rather regretfully, remembering the beautiful ladies dancing under the trees which I had seen within.

"How do you know about the pictures if you must not go there!" asked Desireè. "Aha, Miss Lucille, I have caught you this time!"

"You have done nothing of the sort," said I. "Mother Bursar let us accompany her through the rooms but she said we must go no where else without her."

Desireè went and looked through the open doors, and even ventured a few steps into the room, but soon returned. I fancy she was afraid.

"And where does this go?" she asked, turning to a little door opening under the great stairs.

"I don't know, I never noticed it!" I answered.

"It does not matter where it goes, since we are not to leave this hall!" said Amabel. "Don't touch it, Desireè."

"I shall not ask your leave, Misè!" returned Desireè, still working at the door.

I suppose the lock was rusted, for it yielded in her hand, and she opened it. Amabel and myself came behind her and looked. The door opened on a stone stair, which led downward. It was dark at first, but gazing steadfastly we could discern a dim light below. A damp, mouldy air blew in our faces. I shuddered, I knew not why, and turned away.

"Look at her. She pretends to fear nothing, and she is scared at the very sight of this old hole!" said Desireè. "Now I will wager anything that she would never dare go down these stairs and walk twenty paces away from them!" And Desireè laughed scornfully.

"Whether she is afraid or not, she must not do it!" said Dénice. "The Mother Bursar has forbidden it."

"She did not forbid it—she said nothing about it!" said I.

"She forbade us to leave the hall, and that is enough!" retorted Dénice.

But Desireè persisted in daring me to descend the stairs, and at last I was just foolish enough to undertake it. Amabel strove with tears in her eyes to dissuade me, but seeing that I was determined, she expressed her intention of going with me.

"Don't go, oh, don't go!" pleaded Dénice; but, seeing us both preparing to descend, she suddenly pulled herself free from Desireè, who was holding her fast, and ran out of the hall.

The stairs were sound enough, but slippery with damp and mould. They landed us in a very small square apartment, lighted by a grating close to the top. From this room, long, dark passages led away in two or three directions. I must confess, I was dreadfully scared, but Desireè's taunts had roused my pride, and I walked firmly on down one of the long alleys. I remember just how soft and velvety the ground felt under my feet, and how our footsteps yet seemed to wake a strange echo, as if some one were coming to meet us.

"There, you have walked twenty steps," said Amabel. "Now let us turn round."

"Just a few more, to be sure," said I.

I took a step or two more, but was checked by a sort of suppressed cry from Amabel.

"O Lucy, I cannot see the light at all!"

I turned round quickly enough at that. Sure enough, no light was to be seen. We were in total darkness.

"The passage must wind a little," said I. "Let us go back. We shall soon see the light from the passage-way."

I took her cold, damp hand in mine, and we turned back. But, alas! when we had taken more than twenty steps, twice told, no light was to be seen.

"Lucy," said Amabel in a whisper, "Lucy, we are lost!"

"Nonsense!" said I, angrily. "How could we be lost? We have taken the wrong turn, that is all! Let us try to go back."

And so we did; but the obscurity was still the same—thick, black darkness, that could be felt.

"We are lost!" repeated Amabel, with a curious kind of coolness. "There is no use in denying it, Lucy. No doubt there are many branching passages, and we took the wrong one."

"I am afraid we are, and it is all the fault of that hateful Desireè!" said I, beginning to cry. "Only for her, we should never have come."

"She could not have made us come," replied Amabel. "No, Lucy, let us blame nobody but ourselves. We have been very naughty, indeed, and we may as well own it."

"You were not naughty. You only came because I did," I sobbed, as we still hurried on, we knew not whither. "And I wouldn't care if it was only myself; though I know I should die, if I were here alone. But what shall we do?"

"We must not go a step more in this way, that is certain!" said Amabel, stopping short at last. "Lucy, don't you feel how wet and soft the ground is getting under our feet? Let us turn exactly round, so as to face the other way."

We did so, and none too soon, for the ground was, indeed, growing very soft; and, as it was, I got out with the loss of one shoe. We walked back till we came to firm ground, and then Amabel stopped again, holding me tightly by the hand, as I would have gone on.

"Do not let us take another step," said she. "We only go farther astray. Let us kneel down and say our prayers, and then keep still till some one comes."

"No one will ever come!" said I despairingly. "Desireè will not tell, for fear of being punished; and we shall perish here alone, unless we are torn in pieces by some of the dreadful creatures that live in such places."

For we children, one and all were firmly persuaded that the cellars were the haunts of all sorts of Bogeys.

"God and the Holy Virgin will take care of us," said Amabel. "Some one is sure to come. Dénice will tell, if no one else does; and, besides Mother Bursar will guess. Come, let us kneel down and say our prayers, and then call as loud as we can."

We said our prayers, and then began to call loudly for help; but none came for a long time, or so it seemed to us. We found afterwards that it was about two hours. The sisters, it seems, were at "obedience," which is the hour when they all meet in the superior's room to give an account of their employments and hear whatever she had to say to them. And Dénice could find no one to whom she could tell her story. It may be guessed that the hours seemed much longer to us poor young things.

"It is of no use," said I, despairingly, at last. "It must be midnight by this time. They are not coming, or they cannot find us."

"They will surely come," said Amabel, firmly. "They can track us by our steps, the ground is so soft." She paused a moment, and then began, in her pure, sweet voice to chant the Miserere.

"Have mercy upon me, O Lord!"

How the words rung and echoed through those dismal vaults, and came back to us multiplied and changed by the echoes, till it seemed as if something or somebody was mocking us. I stopped once or twice; but Amabel sang on, holding my hand fast all the while. She told me afterward her chief fear was that I should break away from her in my terror, and that we should lose one another.

We were just finishing the psalm, when Amabel's grasp on my hand tightened. I opened my eyes, which I had closed for a few moments, and saw a gleam of light. It flickered for a moment, glanced on the moist stones, and vanished.

"What is it?" I whispered. "A death-light!"

"Some one looking for us!" she replied.

And, sure enough, in another moment a well-known voice called, "Children, where are you?"

"Here, mother!" we both cried out at once; and I started to my feet and would have run forward, but Amabel checked me.

"Wait!" said she. "Wait till we see the light, or we may be lost again."

It could have been but a short time, but it seemed endless, till the voice called again, "Children!"

And, joy of joys! We saw the light once more, and two dark figures coming through the gloom.

"Here, dear mother, here we are!" cried Amabel, for I could not make a sound; and in a moment more we were in the arms of the Superior and Mother Prudentia.

"Thank God, they are safe!" said the dear lady. "I feared we should have much more trouble in finding them. Hold the light well up, dear sister, and we will follow you. It will not do to miss our way again."

Mother Prudentia went first with the light, and we followed, each clinging to a hand of Mother Superior. As we passed along, and I saw how many branching passages and alleys there were, I could not wonder that we had missed our way.

At the entrance of one of the broadest of these, Mother Prudentia stopped short and, with a look I shall never forget, pointed out something on the ground to Mother Superior. I looked, but saw only the impress of our own wet and muddy footsteps upon the mouldy floor.

"Holy Virgin!" said Mother Prudentia. "Surely you did not go down there!"

"I don't know. I suppose so," answered Amabel, wearily, for she was not strong, and was growing very tired. "We went somewhere where the ground was all soft, and we began to sink in, and Lucy lost her shoes. Then we turned round and ran, till we came to where you found us."

"Thank Heaven!" said the Superior again; and not another word was spoken till we reached the upper air, where Mother Bursar and the Mother Assistant, with two or three other elders, were waiting.

Never in my life shall I forget how marvellously beautiful everything looked as we came out into the court. And how sweet was the breath of the summer air! It was like a vision of the new Heaven and the new earth to the redeemed soul.

The sisters gathered round us with many exclamations, but we were allowed to speak to no one. We were hurried off to the infirmary and popped into bed, with plenty of blankets, and enjoined to lie still. We were no sooner deposited than Sister Lazarus appeared with a jug of steaming hot soup and two little basins.

"There, drink your soup directly," said she, pouring it out. "You will get your deaths of cold, and so will dear Mother, and how you will feel then, naughty children! There, don't cry, poor dears, but take your soup good and hot."

"But this is meat soup," said Amabel. "Isn't this Friday?"

"No, of course not, child! It is Thursday. Did not you have meat for your dinners?"

"Thursday?" said Amabel, wonderingly. "Why, surely, it is not the same day that we were looking at the pictures in the great hall. Have we been in that place only one day?"

"You have been gone only two or three hours," replied Mother Prudentia. "You followed Mother Bursar into the hall a little while after noon, and it is now just time for vespers. There, eat your soup, and do not talk."

We ate our soup, as we were bid, and then lay down. I soon fell into a troubled sleep, from which I waked many times crying and calling upon Amabel and Mother Prudentia. I took a severe cold, and Amabel was stiff and feverish; so that we were kept in bed for two or three days.

When we were quite well again, Mother Superior sent for us to her room and talked to us kindly, but very gravely, about our fault. Amabel, who was the least to blame of the two, said not a word in her own defence, but tried timidly to excuse me, on the ground that Desireè had dared me to do what I did.

"And do you consider that any excuse, my Aimeè, or does Lucille herself think so?" asked the lady, turning her penetrating eyes upon me. She had the most beautiful eyes I ever saw—clear gray, with very dilating pupils—and I used to believe she could read my very thoughts.

In my heart of hearts, I did think Desireè's conduct formed some excuse for me, but I dared not say so.

"Suppose, my child, that Desireè had dared you to steal something out of Mother Bursar's purse, or to murder her!"

"But that would be impossible, Reverend Mother," I faltered, thinking only of the murder, though I might well have included the other.

"Suppose it possible! Would the fact that you had been dared to do it excuse you?"

"No, Reverend Mother, but—"

"You pride yourself very much on your courage, my child," continued the lady; "but the fact is, that, in some respects, you are an arrant coward, and that cowardice is at the bottom of almost every serious fault you commit."

She had touched me now. I felt my cheek flame, while my lips framed the denial I dared not utter.

"Why did you feel obliged to commit an act of disobedience, to break a promise and run into danger?" asked the lady. "Tell me." Then, as I did not answer—"Speak at once, my Lucille. Was it not because you were afraid that Desireè would laugh at you?"

"Yes, Reverend Mother," I answered, feeling very small indeed in my own eyes.

"Ah, my child, that is the very worst kind of cowardice. 'The fear of man bringeth a snare,' the Scripture saith. How are you to go through life, or what account will you have to give in at the last great day if, even within the shelter of these sacred walls you can be drawn to sin and danger by dread of the laugh of a person whom you neither love nor respect. You will meet many people in this world who will laugh at you for desiring to do right and refusing to go with a multitude to do evil. Such people are the devil's own instruments for the ensnaring of timid souls, and, unless you are prepared to withstand them, there is no telling to what crime or folly you may not be driven. Aimeè erred through her affection to you, and she was very wrong, but I think your fault was the worse of the two."

She paused a little, I fancy to observe the effect of her words.

Amabel was dissolved in tears; but I stood with red cheeks, twisting the corner of my apron and looking, I dare say, as I felt, a very naughty, obstinate little girl indeed.

"I shall say no more at present," said the lady, after a few minutes' silence. "And as you have already suffered severely, I shall lay but one penance upon you, and that is, to go with Mother Prudentia and myself and see the danger you have escaped."

"Please, dear, Reverend Mother, don't make Amabel go!" I ventured to say, feeling how she trembled. In my own heart, I was rather pleased with the idea of seeing the place again.

"I want to go if Lucille does," sobbed Amabel.

"You shall both go," answered the lady. "Have no fear. There is no danger to one who knows the way and how far to go. Stay here till I return."

She left us alone for a few minutes. Amabel fell on her knees before the crucifix. I did the same, and repeated the prayers after her, but my heart was not in them. I was decidedly elated at the prospect of our adventure. It was not long before the lady returned accompanied by Mother Prudentia. Each of the ladies carried a lantern, and Mother Prudentia had our cloaks on her arm.

The Superior led the way, not that we had gone before, but through the upper corridor and several disused apartments, where the shutters were all closed and the air smelt strongly of the wool, the oil, and cheese which were stored in the rooms below. At last we came into the older part of the house, descended the great stairs which Mother Bursar had so strictly forbidden us to go up, and found ourselves in the painted hall, from which we descended the stone stairs to the little vestibule. I observed by the way that a strong new lock had already been put upon this door.

Here we stopped while Mother Prudentia put on our cloaks and gave us each a taper to carry. She then took Amabel by the hand, and Mother Superior did the same by me, and we moved forward without speaking.

I had my wits about me this time, and I saw in what a network of passages and alleys we had been involved. The marks of our footsteps were still to be seen in the thick black mould which covered the ground. The walls, which seemed of solid rock, streamed with moisture and were hung in places with strange unwholesome growths. I felt my courage slipping away from me, as the thought would come into my mind—What if Mother Superior should herself lose her way! How we were guided, I do not know—probably by some marks or signs on the walls.

At last, the Superior stopped and made a sign to Mother Prudentia. The lanterns were trimmed anew, Mother Superior once more took me by the hand, and bidding me hold up my taper and not take one step in advance of her, we moved cautiously on for some yards. Then we stopped again, and the lady held up her lantern, as did the other mother.

"Look, my children!" said she solemnly. "Look and see the danger from which you were preserved."

I looked, and saw a sight I shall never forget,—a black, sullen, horrible pool, stretching far away out of our sight. The border of the pool was edged with slime, which shone with rainbow colors in the light of the lanterns, and the same slime floated in great patches on the surface of the water. We were not very near—not so near as Amabel and I had gone, for I could see our footmarks beyond us—but the ground felt wet and cold, and when I raised my foot something seemed to hold it down. I shuddered. If we had gone but a little farther—

"Look well, my children, and never forget that sight," said the lady, solemnly. "Let that pit represent to you the pit of destruction to which every wilful unrepented sin is a step. See how treacherous are its very shores. A very little farther, and you would have been sucked down into its foul depths, from which nothing ever comes up again. And in this pit, my poor Lucille, you might have been lying at this moment, led thither by what? By the idle laughter of a wicked fool!"

I realized it all then.

"Oh, I have been very, very wicked!" I cried. "I don't care so much about myself, but if I had drowned Aimeè!"

And then I stopped, terrified, and clung to the lady's arm, for my words came back to me from over that dreadful water with a wild tone of mockery.

"Fear nothing. It is but the echo," said the lady.

She picked up a small pebble from the floor and threw it far into the water. Never shall I forget the awful hollow reverberations which followed. I never heard another such sound.

"The water is very high," said Mother Prudentia, sadly looking at the Superior. "I never saw it come so far or rise so high in the well as it does now."

"The will of Heaven be done!" answered the lady. "Come, we must not stay longer here. I think our little ones will never forget this lesson."

We hurried back carefully observing our way, at least the elders did, and were soon once more in the Superior's apartments.

I was humbled enough now. I saw my fault in its true colors, and confessed it. We were forgiven and dismissed and the matter was never alluded to again, for it was not our dear mother's way to return to old troubles.

I think now that the experiment was rather a dangerous one. Some children might have been scared by it into a fever if nothing worse. But I do believe that it was the beginning of all that is good in me. I never lost the vivid impression made on me by the sight of those dark waters, and the lady's solemn words, "That is the pit of destruction and every wilful and unrepented sin is a step toward it."

I saw that the mother's words were true and that while I flattered myself with the idea of my courage, I was in fact a real coward. I made up my mind that I would never again be laughed into doing what I knew was wrong and foolish, and if I have ever done so since, I have at least sinned with my eyes open.

I had of course very imperfect and even false ideas of religion at that time, but I knew enough to know that I must have help from outside of myself to do anything that was good, and I prayed for that help and doubtless received it.

One day when we two were alone with mother Prudentia, helping her with some herbs she was drying, I ventured to ask mother, "What was the use of those great vaults and how they came there?"

"That is more than any one knows, child!" answered the mother, who, as I said, dearly loved to tell a story. "Some say they are the quarries from whence were taken the stones to build the house. Some, our good old Father confessor among them, that they are much older than that, and that they are the remains of a Roman or heathen temple Which used to stand in this place, as are also the bits of old brick wall which cumber our garden. He was a great scholar, was Pere La Roche. As to their use, I don't know that they have any. No body knows how far they extend for no one has ever gone to the end of them. So you see even if you had not fallen into the water, you might have wandered away and never have been found again."

"I should think they would have the door built up!" said Amabel. "Is there any other entrance but by which we went down?"

"Yes, two or three from the vaults under the offices, but they are all securely fastened up. Nobody ever goes into them but the Superior and Mother Assistant or myself once a year."

"And why do you do that?" I asked.

"You ask too many questions, child, you will never do for a nun! I am sure I don't know why, only that it is one of our rules!" said Mother Prudentia, reproving my curiosity and satisfying it at the same time: "A good religious obeys and never asks why."

"I just want one question more!" said Amabel, who had hitherto left the conversation mostly to me. "What did you mean by saying that the water was very high? I know it is high in the well, for I looked this afternoon, and it is nearer the top of the steps than I ever saw it before."

"Is it?" asked Mother Prudentia with a startled look—then once more sinking her voice—

"It is said that the rise of those dark waters portends misfortune to our house. Once—how many years ago I don't know, but it was very many—that well overflowed so that a stream ran down into the brook in the garden and poisoned the water so that everything along its banks died—and that year a fever or plague broke out in the house and every member of the family died, except the abbess and two sisters. But I will not have you looking into the well. There is a very damp unwholesome air rising from it. Now wash your hands and bring your work, and I will tell you a true tale about St. Helena, and if the work is well done—who knows whether there may not be some comfits in a cupboard somewhere?"

I think after the lesson we had received, we should have obeyed Mother Prudentia at any rate, but we had no chance to do otherwise, for the very next day, a heavy wooden covering was placed over the old well, which was never removed while we remained at St. Jean.

I should say that Desireè was as severely punished as Amabel and myself. She flatly denied at first having anything to do with the matter—then she said it was I who had opened the door, and that she had tried to prevent me. But the united testimony of Amabel and Dénise prevailed, and she was put in penitence for two or three days and carefully watched afterward for a long time.

[Illustration]