raised the weeping nun from the floor, put her arm around her, with protective gesture, and led her before the Shrine of the Madonna.
"My child," she said, "there are things we are called upon to suffer which we can best tell to our blessèd Lady, herself. Try to unburden your heart and find comfort … Does your mind hark back to the thought of the earthly love you resigned in order to give yourself solely to the heavenly? … Are you troubled by fears lest you wronged the man you loved, when, leaving him, you became the bride of Heaven?"
Sister Seraphine smiled—a scornful little smile. "Nay," she said, "I was weary of Wilfred. But—there were others."
The voice of the Prioress grew even graver, and more sad.
"Is it then the Fact of marriage which you desired and regret?"
Sister Seraphine laughed—a hard, self-conscious, little laugh.
"Nay, I could not have brooked to be bound to any man. But I liked to be loved, and I liked to be First in the thought and heart of another."
The Prioress looked at the pretty, tear-stained face, at the softly moulded form. Then an idea came to her. To voice it, lifted the veil from the very Holy of Holies of her own heart's sufferings; but she would not shrink from aught which could help this soul she was striving to uplift.
With her eyes resting upon the Babe in the arms of the Virgin Mother, she asked, gravely and low:
"Is it the ceaseless longing to have had a little child of your own to hold in your arms, to gather to your breast, to put to sleep upon your knees, which keeps your heart turning restlessly back to the world?"
Sister Seraphine gazed at the Prioress, in utter amazement.
"Nay, then, indeed!" she replied, impatiently. "Always have I hated children. To escape from the vexations of motherhood were reason enough for leaving the world."
Then the Prioress withdrew her protective arm, and looked sternly upon
Sister Seraphine.
"You are playing false to your vows," she said; "you are slighting your vocation; yet no worthy or noble feeling draws your heart back to the world. You do but desire vain pomp and show; all those things which minister to the enthronement of self. Return to your cell and spend three hours in prayer and penitence before the crucifix."
The Prioress lifted her hand and pointed to the figure of the Christ, hanging upon the great rugged cross against the wall, facing the door. The sublimity of a supreme adoration was in her voice, as she made her last appeal.
"Surely," she said, "surely no love of self can live, in view of the death and sacrifice of our blessèd Lord! Kneel then before the crucifix and learn——"
But the over-wrought mind of Sister Seraphine, suddenly convinced of the futility of its hopeless rebellion, passed, in that moment, altogether beyond control.
With a shout of wild laughter, she flung back her head, pointing with outstretched finger at the crucifix.
"Death! Death! Death!" she shrieked, "helpless, hopeless, terrible!
I ask for life, I want to live; I am young, I am gay, I am beautiful.
And they bid—bid—bid me kneel—long hours—watching death." Her
voice rose to a piercing scream. "Ah, HA! That will I NOT! A dead
God cannot help me! I want life, not death!"
Shrieking she leapt to her feet, flew across the room, beat upon the sacred Form with her fists; tore at It with her fingers.
One instant of petrifying horror. Then the Prioress was upon her.
Seizing her by both wrists she flung her to the floor, then pulled a rope passing over a pulley in the wall, which started the great alarm-bell, in the passage, clanging wildly.
At once there came a rush of flying feet; calls for the Sub-Prioress; but she was already there.
When they flung wide the door, lo, the Prioress stood—with white face and blazing eyes, her arms outstretched—between them and the crucifix.
Upon the floor, a crumpled heap, lay Sister Mary Seraphine.
The nuns, in a frightened crowd, filled the doorway, none daring to speak, or to enter; till old Mary Antony, pushing past the Sub-Prioress, kneeled down beside the Reverend Mother, and, lifting the hem of her robe, kissed it and pressed it to her breast.
Slowly the Prioress let fall her arms.
"Enter," she said; and they flocked in.
"Sister Seraphine," said the Prioress, in awful tones, "has profaned the crucifix, reviling our blessèd Lord, Who hangs thereon."
All the nuns, falling upon their knees, hid their faces in their hands.
There was a terrifying quality in the silence of the next moments.
Slowly the Prioress turned, prostrated herself at the foot of the cross, and laid her forehead against the floor at its base. Then the nuns heard one deep, shuddering sob.
Not a head was lifted. The only nun who peeped was Sister Mary
Seraphine, prone upon the floor.
After a while, the Prioress arose, pale but calm.
"Carry her to her cell," she said.
Two tall nuns to whom she made sign lifted Sister Seraphine, and bore her out.
When the shuffling of their feet died away in the distance, the
Prioress gave further commands.
"All will now go to their cells and kneel in adoration before the crucifix. Doors are to be left standing wide. The Miserere is to be chanted, until the ringing of the Refectory bell. Mother Sub-Prioress will remain behind."
The nuns dispersed, as quickly as they had gathered; seeking their cells, like frightened birds fleeing before a gathering storm.
The tall nuns who had carried Sister Seraphine returned and waited outside the Reverend Mother's door.
The Prioress stood alone; a tragic figure in her grief.
Mother Sub-Prioress drew near. Her narrow face, peering from out her veil, more than ever resembled a ferret. Her small eyes gleamed with a merciless light.
"Is mine the task, Reverend Mother?" she whispered.
The Prioress inclined her head.
Mother Sub-Prioress murmured a second question.
The Prioress turned and looked at the crucifix.
"Yes," she said, firmly.
Mother Sub-Prioress sidled nearer; then whispered her third question.
The Prioress did not answer.
