CHAPTER IV.

TROUBLES.

IT was I think, about a year after our adventures in the caverns, that Dénise died. She was the only pupil left except Amabel, Desireè and myself—Desireè affected great devotion about that time, and Mother Prudentia rejoiced over her as a brand plucked from the burning; but I think Mother Superior considered her a brand that would bear watching—as indeed she was, and one that was destined to kindle a great fire.

Dénise had always been a delicate girl, more so even than Amabel herself. She would never allow that she was ill, however, and used to join in all our sports and latterly made herself very useful in the house and garden. She was one of those people for whom everything will grow, and she loved flowers with an absolute passion. But by and by, she began to grow thin and to have a very little cough. She had a lovely complexion which seemed to grow more beautiful day by day, and her eyes were brighter than ever. We noticed that she became rather silent, though she was always cheerful—and we were sometimes inclined to murmur when Mother Prudentia excused her from one duty after another, and Sister Lazarus cooked all sorts of nice things for her, whereas our own table grew plainer all the time.

But at last we found out the truth. Dénise was taken suddenly ill in chapel. She fainted and was carried out by Mother Prudentia. She did not come to her own bed that night, and in the morning Mother told us with solemnity that Dénise would never sleep in that bed again—that she had been taken with bleeding at the lungs and might indeed be considered a dying person.

"If she lives to see the snowdrops come, it will be a wonder!" said the dear Mother, wiping her eyes. "I have long known that death had set his seal on her, but I did not think the end would come so soon. God's will be done."

"Will her friends come to see her, Mother?" I asked.

"She has no friends except those in these walls, child, not a relation alive that I know of!" answered the Mother. Adding in a lower tone—"So much the better for her. It will be all the easier for her to leave this world."

The Mother turned away and we finished dressing and began to make our beds by the light of the lamp Mother had left us, for it was mid-winter and the mornings were dark and cold.

"Lucy, do you suppose that Dénise's friends were Protestants?" asked Amabel in a low tone.

She always called me Lucy in English fashion—never Lucille, as the others did.

"I don't know!" I answered. "Why should you think so?"

"Partly from something Mother said once—that she was at least one brand plucked from the burning, and partly from some things Dénise herself told me. We were talking about what we could remember before we came here, and Dénise said, 'My father used to read the Holy Scriptures—I know that! I often repeat to myself little bits that I remember. He said prayers that are not in any of our books, and he and my mother used to sing sweet songs about holy things!' And then she repeated one about the Lord being a Shepherd."

"That is in the twenty-third Psalm!" said I.

"Yes, but this was in rhyme and had a sweet tune to it!" persisted Amabel. "I think I could sing it. It makes me think of the time before we came here. How much can you remember of that time, Lucy?"

"Very little indeed!" said I. "I don't remember my mother at all, though I often try to do so."

"I recollect exactly how she looked!" said Amabel musingly. "You are very much like her at times, only you are not so quiet. And I remember my father too—I am sure I should know him in a moment."

"I suppose if Dénise's friends were Protestants, it is just as well that they are out of the way," I remarked. And then, struck with a sudden thought—"But Amabel, I suppose your father and all your friends are Protestants, because all English people are so. What should we do if he were to send for us to come back to England?"

"We should go I suppose!" answered Amabel.

"And then should we have to become Protestants?"

"I don't know. They would not make us Protestants if we did not choose whatever they might do."

"Perhaps your father is a Catholic!" I suggested.

"I have sometimes thought he must be, or he would not have left us here to be educated!" replied Amabel. "But we need not borrow trouble, Lucy. Perhaps he may never send for us. I should like that best—to live here always and become a religious, would not you?"

"I should like to do so if you did!" I answered truly enough, for imagination was not strong enough to picture for myself a life apart from Amabel. "But sometimes I think I should like to see what the world is like, especially England. Perhaps the Protestants are not all so bad after all!" And here I stopped and looked about me rather alarmed, lest my audacious remark should have been overheard.

"I am sure our mother was not bad!" said Amabel. "She used to teach us to say our prayers at her knees."

"How I wish I could remember her as you do!" said I, enviously. "I wonder why I cannot!"

"I heard Mother Prudentia say once that you were very ill when you came here and for some time after—perhaps that is the reason!" answered Amabel, and then recurring to our sick play fellow. "How strange and sad it will seem not to have Dénise."

"I can't bear to think of it!" said I, beginning to cry. "She has played with us ever since I remember. It was she who told Mother Superior about our going into the cavern, and only for her we might have died there, for I am sure Desireè would never have told!"

"Not she!" said Amabel with decision. "She would not care if the whole family perished, so she were safe. Lucy, that girl is a hypocrite!"

"You should not say so—she is very devout," said I; for I rather believed in Desireè's conversion, though I am afraid I did not like her any the better for it.

"Devout or not, she is a hypocrite!" persisted Amabel in a tone which surprised me. I had never heard her speak so bitterly, and indeed she rarely spoke ill of any one. "She despises dear Mother Prudentia, whose shoes she is not fit to carry, and she hates Mother Superior. I have seen the looks she casts at them when she thinks herself unobserved. But come, we must not be here. The bell will ring in a moment."

Dénise lingered a few weeks, and then died full of peace and hope. Her death was followed, not very long after, by that of Mother Assistant and one of the sisters, which reduced the number of the professed members of the household to eight, beside the superiors.

"Our band grows smaller and smaller, and Sister Augustine is failing fast," I heard Mother Prudentia say after Sister Agnes was buried.

We had all gone to pray at the grave, next day, and I was helping Mother Bursar to smooth the turf and set some violet roots in it.

"There will soon be no one left, and what will become of the dear children?" continued Mother Prudentia.

"The Lord will provide, dear sister," answered the Mother. "Our numbers are indeed small, but we must make up for it by more earnestness. We have always, as yet, been able to keep up our constant devotion to the Holy Sacrament of the Altar."

I heard no more at that time, but what I did hear set me to wondering what would become of us if any more were taken away. This same constant devotion to the Holy Sacrament must have been great drain on the strength of our little community, as I remember it. It had been established by the Mother Angelique in Port Royal some years before Madame de Longueville and the Bishop of Langris had set up, with this same Mother's assistance, the short-lived sub-order of Daughters of the Holy Sacrament.

From morning till night and from night till morning, no matter what might be the weather, a sister was always on her knees in the church, before the altar on which was the consecrated wafer. She might seek relief by lying on her face or by leaning against a post which was placed for that purpose. Hence the sisters usually spoke of "being at the post." (I never heard, by the way, that when our Lord was in this world in bodily presence, he kept the women who ministered to him on their knees before him. Even Mary sat at his feet.) This duty, which was not so very hard divided among forty or fifty people, was certainly a severe burden when it came to be divided among ten or twelve. It makes me vexed whenever I remember how much strength, both of body and mind, our good sisters used to waste on just such performances as these.

Sister Augustine had been out of health for many years, and it was not thought she could survive Mother Assistant very long. Nevertheless, she lingered till the snows came again, sometimes confined to the bed, sometimes able to sit up a little. The second week in Advent, she too was laid away to rest in the cemetery. She had been very low and desponding through great part of her illness, indeed, almost in despair. The day that she died, I was sitting with her administering the sips of wine and water every few minutes which seemed all that kept her alive. She had been dozing for half an hour—an unusually long time—and looked so peaceful, I could not find it in my heart to waken her. At last she opened her eyes, and I hastened to give her the usual refreshment.

"Thank you, dear child. How kind you are to me!" said she, and then, pressing my hand, "I have had a lovely vision. I saw the dear Saviour stand there at the foot of my bed, and heard him say, 'Her sins, which are many, are forgiven.' It is all clear to me now. He has saved me, and I shall be saved."

I saw a change had come over her face, and, in great alarm, I would have called some one, but she held me fast, while her eyes, turned toward the foot of the bed, seemed to behold some glorious vision. In a moment, the clasp of her hand relaxed, her eyes rolled upward—she was gone.

I called Mother Prudentia, but Sister Augustine never breathed again. I told the Mother what she had said.

"She was happy then in her death," said the good lady, half enviously, as it seemed. "Such assurance is granted to but very few. Doubtless it was a reward for the suffering she has borne so long and so patiently."

Had I known as much as I do now, I could have told her that such an assurance, or even a more certain one, was possible to every true believer; but I had never seen a whole Bible or heard a Bible sermon at that time. I say even more certain; for the assurance that our sins are forgiven rests on no doubtful vision or apparition, but on the rock of God's sure word and promise.

Our family was now small indeed. It was long since we had received any novices or postulants, and Desireè, who was to have been professed in the spring, seemed to have cooled considerably in her devotion. She used to excuse herself from the early services on the ground of an ague, and for a time the plea was admitted; but I think even Mother Prudentia saw through her at last. She concocted a horribly bitter dose of herb tea, with the addition of half a dozen wood-lice and a handful of earth worms, and administered the same to Desireè with her own hands every morning. I suppose Desireè thought the medicine worse than the early service, for she soon got better under this heroic treatment.

It became evident, however, that she was not the stuff of which a religious was made. At last matters came to a climax. Desireè was detected one night stealing out to the orchard, at an hour when all honest people should be in bed, and a glimpse was caught of a man's figure vanishing among the trees. If one of the elders of the house had made the discovery, the thing would doubtless have been managed without scandal, as the phrase is. But it was poor Sister Frances who saw her as she was going to relieve Sister Lazarus at the post, and the poor thing, who was not over-gifted with sense, took her for a ghost. She uttered such a succession of screams that Sister Lazarus rushed to the rescue. She caught Desireè in the act of hiding behind a thicket of evergreens, and plainly saw a man in the garden.

The whole family was aroused by that time, and came flocking to the scene of action; and so the disgraceful act became known to the whole sisterhood. Desireè was questioned in vain. She refused to utter a word. She was at last remanded to a cell, under guard; and as soon as it was light, a messenger was sent for the Count de Crequi, who was her stepfather and guardian.

Amabel and I saw him arrive from the window of the deserted oratory, where we often sat with our work. He was a little withered-looking man, richly dressed, and with a good deal of personal dignity. He was accompanied by his nephew and heir, a dissipated-looking young man, and a number of sufficiently insolent-looking lackeys. The young man staid outside talking with one of the servants. The count was received with great ceremony in the parlor, and was invited to visit the holy relics in the church, but declined, excusing himself on the ground of want of time. He was closeted for a long time with Mother Superior and Mother Prudentia, whom I ought to call Mother Assistant, since she had been elected to that place immediately after Mother Benedict's death. Meantime, wine and other refreshments were sent out to the young count and the servants, who made themselves very merry.

The old gentleman departed at last evidently in a very bad humor; for he swore furiously at the groom when he mounted his horse, and spurred the poor beast till it bolted and nearly threw him. I saw the servants laughing among themselves as they rode away. Later in the day, a covered litter, with two or three mounted servants and a female attendant, was brought to the gate, and Desireè was carried away. I was in the little chamber over the porch and saw her go. Her dress had been changed, and she wore neither veil nor rosary. She looked pale enough but not at all scared; just as she entered the litter, she turned and shook her hand at the house with such an expression of malice as I never saw before. She was then carried away and I have never seen her since.

I was dying with curiosity, but I knew better than to ask any questions, which was indeed counted a great misdemeanor among us. I was pretty sure I should have the tale from Mother Prudentia the first time we were alone together; opportunity was not likely to be wanting, for I was her regular assistant in the dairy and still-room, and it was not long before the whole came out.

"You see, child, the Count de Crequi put his step-daughter here, thinking to have made a nun of her, and so provide for her at less expense than it would have taken to marry her. I fancy, too, he did not care to have her in the way of his nephew. He is still set on his scheme, and even offered Mother Superior the choice of a double dowry with Desireè, or the withdrawal of his protection altogether. The worst is that this new Bishop is related to Desireè's mother."

"What harm should that do?" I asked in wonder! "Surely the Bishop would not wish Desireè to be received after such a scandal, and when she has no vocation!"

"Oh my child, as to that—the Bishop is the Bishop of course—but you can see that it happened very unluckily, because we are in disgrace already, having never accepted the Pope's bull about Jansenius and the five propositions."

"What were the five propositions about?" I asked.

"My child, I don't understand any more about them than that cat, which has no business here," said Mother Prudentia, "scatting" the cat out of the dairy, and throwing her a bit of cheese curd to console her. "Mother Superior knows and has explained it to me many a time, but I have no head for such matters, only one order held by Jansenius and Abbè St. Cyran, and the rest of the Port Royalists, and believed that they were cruelly treated and unjustly condemned. And we never accepted the Pope's bull about Jansenius as most of the Oratorians and Bernardines did. And you know we always look upon Mother Angelique as a sort of saint, because she reformed our house."

"But if the Pope is the one and infallible head of the Church—" said I rather surprised.

"Ah well—the Pope is the Pope, and of course he is infallible as to matters of faith. But we have always held that in matters of fact he is not infallible more than any one. And those who know, say that the propositions which the Pope condemned, are not in Jansenius' book at all. But however that may be, we are in disgrace and likely to be turned out at any time. And then what is to become of you children I don't know. Don't cut that curd any finer, child—you are working twice as much as is needful."

"I should think Sir Julius would send for us!" said I, a good deal startled.

"I believe Mother Superior has written to him—" answered Mother Prudentia—with a scared look, such as she always wore when she had been betrayed into some indiscretion greater than usual. "Oh! My unlucky tongue—when shall I ever learn to rule it? However, I know Mother Superior means to tell you all about it before long—only if she does you know—" and the good Mother looked rather wistfully at me.

"I understand, dear Mother—" said I, seeing that she wished to caution me against displaying any previous knowledge of what the Superior had to tell me.

In effect, it was only a few days before Mother Superior called Amabel and myself into her room and informed us that she had heard from Sir Julius Leighton concerning us, and that he would probably send for us in a short time. She gave us a great deal of excellent advice, and particularly enjoined it upon us to preserve our faith intact, in the land of heretics to which we were going.

"Your father, my Aimeè, is a good Catholic, or so I understand!" said she. "But your step-mother belongs to the so-called reformed religion, as do your father's sisters; you will therefore need to exercise great firmness and caution."

I cannot tell all the dear Mother said to us, only she specially warned us against reading heretical books. She gave us each a reliquary containing a precious relic. Mine was a bit of the veil of St. Agnes in a handsome gold and enameled setting. I have it still. She then addressed herself to me, telling me what it had never entered my head to think of before—namely, that I was inferior in rank to Amabel, and must probably be content to take a lower place. (French people cannot understand that commoners have any rank at all, more than French bourgeois.) While I was trying to take in and understand this new idea, Amabel spoke in her gentle decided voice.

"I shall never be separated from Lucy!" said she firmly. "Where she goes, I will go."

"That will be as your father says, my child!" answered dear Mother, rather reprovingly. "I hope indeed that you may continue united as you have been, but remember your father's will is your law, so long as he does not command anything contrary to our Holy Faith."

Amabel did not reply, but she shut her lips as she was used to do, when she had made up her mind. Mother Superior gave us some more words of advice and then dismissed us with her blessing.

We went away in silence, till we reached our old place of retirement in the Oratory, and then Amabel threw her arms round my neck, and burst into a passionate flood of tears—an unusual thing for her, for she seldom cried.

"You won't desert me, will you Lucy!" she sobbed. "It is bad enough to leave this dear home and all the Mothers and Sisters for a strange land, but if I must lose you—"

"Now you are borrowing trouble, as you tell me!" said I, holding her in my arms and trying to console her. "You don't know that any one will want to separate us."

"I feel as if they would try!" said Amabel, striving to recover her composure. "But oh! Lucy, promise me that you never will leave me, if you can help it."

"Of course I will. See, I promise on this holy relic!" said I, kissing the reliquary which I still held in my hand.

Amabel promised the same, and then to divert her and myself also, I suggested that we should go down to the chapel, and see if we could assist Mother Sacristine, who was busy cleaning the silver candlesticks, and other altar furniture.

[Illustration]