The Spinners Book of Fiction | Page 3

the alarm bell summoned

the Vigilance Committee day and night to protect or avenge, where a
coarse and impertinent set of adventurers stared at and followed an
inoffensive nun who only left the holy calm of the convent at the
command of the Bishop to rescue brands from the burning; then had
Teresa, sick with the tragedy of youth, an enchanting vision of secluded
paths, where nuns--in white--walked with downcast eyes and folded
hands; of the daily ecstasy of prayer in the convent chapel misty with
incense.
And in some inscrutable way Sister Dominica during that long
conversation, while Mrs. Grace and her other daughters dispensed
egg-nog in the parlor--it was New Year's Day--had made the young girl
a part of her very self, until Teresa indulged the fancy that without and
within she was a replica of that Concha Argüello of California's
springtime; won her heart so completely that she would have followed
her not only into the comfortable and incomparably situated convent of
the saint of Siena, but barefooted into that wilderness of Soledad where
the Indians still prayed for their lost "Beata." It was just eight months
tonight since she had taken her first vows, and she had been honestly
aware that there was no very clear line of demarcation in her fervent
young mind between her love of Sister Dominica and her love of God.
Tonight, almost prostrate before the coffin of the dead nun, she knew
that so far at least all the real passion of her youth had flowed in an
undeflected tide about the feet of that remote and exquisite being whose
personal charm alone had made a convent possible in the chaos that
followed the discovery of gold. All the novices, many of the older nuns,
the pupils invariably, worshipped Sister Dominica; whose saintliness
without austerity never chilled them, but whose tragic story and the
impression she made of already dwelling in a heaven of her own,
notwithstanding her sweet and consistent humanity, placed her on a
pinnacle where any display of affection would have been unseemly.
Only once, after the beautiful ceremony of taking the white veil was
over, and Teresa's senses were faint from incense and hunger, ecstasy
and a new and exquisite terror, Sister Dominica had led her to her cell
and kissing her lightly on the brow, exclaimed that she had never been
happier in a conquest for the Church against the vileness of the world.
Then she had dropped the conventional speech of her calling, and said

with an expression that made her look so young, so curiously virginal,
that the novice had held her breath: "Remember that here there is
nothing to interrupt the life of the imagination, nothing to change its
course, like the thousand conflicting currents that batter memory and
character to pieces in the world. In this monotonous round of duty and
prayer the mind is free, the heart remains ever young, the soul
unspotted; so that when----" She had paused, hesitated a moment, then
abruptly left the room, and Teresa had wept a torrent in her
disappointment that this first of California's heroines--whose place in
history and romance was assured--had not broken her reserve and told
her all that story of many versions. She had begged Sister María
Sal--the sister of Luis Argüello's first wife--to tell it her, but the old nun
had reproved her sharply for sinful curiosity and upon one occasion
boxed her ears. But tonight she might be in a softer mood, and Teresa
resolved that when the last rites were over she would make her talk of
Concha Argüello.
A few moments later she was lifted to her feet by a shaking but still
powerful arm.
"Come!" whispered Sister María. "It is time to prepare. The others have
gone. It is singular that the oldest and the youngest should have loved
her best. Ay! Dios de mi alma! I never thought that Concha Argüello
would die. Grow old she never did, in spite of the faded husk. We will
look at her once more."
The dead nun in her coffin lay in the little parlor where she had turned
so many wavering souls from fleeting to eternal joys. Her features,
wasted during years of delicate health, seemed to regain something of
their youth in the soft light of the candles. Or was it the long black
eyelashes that hid the hollows beneath the eyes?--or the faint
mysterious almost mocking smile? Had the spirit in its eternal youth
paused in its flight to stamp a last sharp impress upon the prostrate clay?
Never had she looked so virginal, and that had been one of the most
arresting qualities of her always remarkable appearance; but there was
something more--Teresa held her breath. Somehow, dead and in her
coffin, she looked less saintly