LITMIR.BIZ

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      "And have you always said your offices?" Mary asked astonished.

      "Yes, my dear; by the mercy of God I have never failed yet. I tell you this of course because you are one of us, and because you have a faithful heart." Mistress Margaret lifted her great eyes and looked at Mary tenderly and penetratingly.

      "And this is one of your books?" she asked.

      "Yes, my dear. I was allowed at least to take it away with me. My sister here is very fond of it."

      Mary opened it again, and began to turn the pages.

      "Is it all in your handwriting, Mistress Torridon?"

      "Yes, my child; I continued writing in it ever since I first entered religion in 1534; so you see the handwriting changes a little," and she smiled to herself.

      "Oh, but this is charming," cried Mary, intent on the book.

      "Read it, my dear, aloud."

      Mary read:

      "Let me not rest, O Lord, nor have quiet,

      But fill my soul with spiritual travail,

      To sing and say, O mercy, Jesu sweet;

      Thou my protection art in the battail.

      Set thou aside all other apparail;

      Let me in thee feel all my affiance.

      Treasure of treasures, thou dost most avail.

      Grant ere I die shrift, pardon, repentance."

      Her voice trembled a little and ceased.

      "That is from some verses of Dan John Lydgate, I think," said Mistress Margaret.

      "Here is another," said Mary in a moment or two.

      "Jesu, at thy will, I pray that I may be,

      All my heart fulfil with perfect love to thee:

      That I have done ill, Jesu forgive thou me:

      And suffer me never to spill, Jesu for thy pity."

      "The nuns of Hampole gave me that," said Mistress Margaret. "It is by Richard Rolle, the hermit."

      "Tell me a little," said Mary Corbet, suddenly laying down the book, "about the nunnery."

      "Oh, my dear, that is too much to ask; but how happy we were. All was so still; it used to seem sometimes as if earth were just a dream; and that we walked in Paradise. Sometimes in the Greater Silence, when we had spoken no word nor heard one except in God's praise, it used to seem that if we could but be silent a little longer, and a little more deeply, in our hearts as well, we should hear them talking in heaven, and the harps; and the Saviour's soft footsteps. But it was not always like that."

      "You mean," said Mary softly, "that, that—" and she stopped.

      "Oh, it was hard sometimes; but not often. God is so good. But He used to allow such trouble and darkness and noise to be in our hearts sometimes—at least in mine. But then of course I was always very wicked. But sitting in the nymph-hay sometimes on a day like this, as we were allowed to do; with just tall thin trees like poplars and cypresses round us: and the stream running through the long grass; and the birds, and the soft sky and the little breeze; and then peace in our hearts; and the love of the Saviour round us—it seemed, it seemed as if God had nothing more to give; or, I should say, as if our hearts had no more space."

      Mary was strangely subdued and quiet. Her little restless movements were still for once; and her quick, vivacious face was tranquil and a little awed.

      "Oh, Mistress Margaret, I love to hear you talk like that. Tell me more."

      "Well, my dear, we thought too much about ourselves, I think; and too little about God and His poor children who were not so happy as we were; so then the troubles began; and they got nearer and nearer; and at last the Visitor came. He—he was my brother, my dear, which made it harder; but he made a good end. I will tell you his story another time. He took away our great crucifix and our jewelled cope that old Mr. Wickham used to wear on the Great Festivals; and left us. He turned me out, too; and another who asked to go, but I went back for a while. And then, my dear, although we offered everything; our cows and our orchard and our hens, and all we had, you know how it ended; and one morning in May old Mr. Wickham said mass for us quite early, before the sun was risen, for the last time; and—and he cried, my dear, at the elevation; and—and we were all crying too I think, and we all received communion together for the last time—and—and, then we all went away, leaving just old Dame Agnes to keep the house until the Commissioner came. And oh, my dear, I don't think the house ever looked so dear as it did that morning, just as the sun rose over the roofs, and we were passing out through the meadow door where we had sat so often, to where the horses were waiting to take us away."

      Miss Corbet's own eyes were full of tears as the old lady finished: and she put out her white slender hand, which Mistress Torridon took and stroked for a moment.

      "Well," she said, "I haven't talked like this for a long while; but I knew you would understand. My dear, I have watched you while you have been here this time."

      Mary Corbet smiled a little uneasily.

      "And you have found me out?" she answered smiling.

      "No, no; but I think our Saviour has found you out—or at least He is drawing very near."

      A slight discomfort made itself felt in Mary's heart. This nun then was like all the rest, always trying to turn the whole world into monks and nuns by hints and pretended intuitions into the unseen.

      "And you think I should be a nun too?" she asked, with just a shade of coolness in her tone.

      "I should suppose not," said Mistress Margaret, tranquilly. "You do not seem to have a vocation for that, but I should think that our Lord means you to serve Him where you are. Who knows what you may not accomplish?"

      This was a little disconcerting to Mary Corbet; it was not at all what she had expected. She did not know what to say; and took up the leather book again and began to turn over the pages. Mistress Margaret went on serenely with her embroidery, which she had neglected during the last sentence or two; and there was silence.

      "Tell me a little more about the nunnery," said Mary in a minute or two, leaning back in her chair, with the book on her knees.

      "Well, my dear, I scarcely know what to say. It is all far off now like a childhood. We talked very little; not at all until recreation; except by signs, and we used to spend a good deal of our time in embroidery. That is where I learnt this," and she held out her work to Mary for a moment. It was an exquisite piece of needlework, representing a stag running open-mouthed through thickets of green twining branches that wrapped themselves about his horns and feet. Mary had never seen anything quite like it before.

      "What does it mean?" she asked, looking at it curiously.

      "Quemadmodum cervus,"—began Mistress Margaret; "as the hart brayeth after the waterbrooks,"—and she took the embroidery and began to go on with it.—"It is the soul, you see, desiring and fleeing to God, while the things of the world hold her back. Well, you see, it is difficult to talk about it; for it is the inner life that is the real history of a convent; the outer things are all plain and simple like all else."

      "Well," said Mary, "is it really true that you were happy?"

      The old lady stopped working a moment and looked up at her.

      "My dear, there is no happiness in the world like it," she said simply. "I dream sometimes that we are all back there together, and I wake crying for joy. The other night I dreamed that we were all in the chapel again, and that it was a spring morning, with the dawn beginning to show the painted windows, and that all the tapers were burning; and that mass was beginning. Not one stall was empty; not even old Dame Gertrude, who died when I was a novice, was lacking, and Mr. Wickham made us a sermon after the creed, and showed us the crucifix back in its place

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