The White Ladies of Worcester | Page 8

take her eyes from
the flushed face. A slight colour tinged her own cheeks.
"Who was Wilfred?" she asked, when Sister Seraphine paused for
breath.
"My cousin, whom I should have wed if----"
"If?"
"If I had not left the world."
The Prioress considered this.
"If your heart was set upon wedding your cousin, my child, why did
you profess a vocation and, renouncing all worldly and carnal desires,
gain admission to our sacred Order?"
"My heart was not set on marrying my cousin!" cried Sister Seraphine,
with petulance. "I was weary of Wilfred. I was weary of everything! I
wanted to profess. I wished to become a nun. There were people I could
punish, and people I could surprise, better so, than in any other way.
But Wilfred said that, when the time came, he would be there to carry
me off."
"And--when the time came?"
"He was not there. I never saw him again."
The Prioress turned, and looked out through the oriel window. She
seemed to be weighing, carefully, what she should say.
When at length she spoke, she kept her eyes fixed upon the waving
tree-tops beyond the Convent wall.
"Sister Seraphine," she said, "many who embrace the religious life,
know what it is to pass through the experience you have now had; but,
as a rule, they fight the temptation and conquer it in the secret of their
own hearts, in the silence of their own cells.

"Memories of the life that was, before, choosing the better part, we left
the world, come back to haunt us, with a wanton sweetness. Such
memories cannot change the state, fixed forever by our vows; but they
may awaken in us vain regrets or worldly longings. Therein lies their
sinfulness.
"To help you against this danger, I will now give you two prayers,
which you must commit to memory, and repeat whenever need arises.
The first is from the Breviary."
The Prioress drew toward her a black book with silver clasps, opened it,
and read therefrom a short prayer in Latin. But seeing no light of
response or of intelligence upon the face of Sister Seraphine, she
slowly repeated a translation.
_Almighty and Everlasting God, grant that our wills be ever meekly
subject to Thy will, and our hearts be ever honestly ready to serve Thee.
Amen._
Her eyes rested, with a wistful smile, upon the book.
"This prayer might suffice," she said, "if our hearts were truly honest, if
our wills were ever yielded. But, alas, our hearts are deceitful above all
things, and our wills are apt to turn traitor to our good intentions.
"Therefore I have found for you, in the Gregorian Sacramentary,
another prayer--less well-known, yet much more ancient, written over
six hundred years ago. It deals effectually with the deceitful heart, the
insidious, tempting thoughts, and the unstable will. Here is a translation
which I have myself inscribed upon the margin."
The Prioress laid her folded hands upon the missal and as she repeated
the ancient sixth-century prayer, in all its depth of inspired simplicity,
her voice thrilled with deep emotion, for she was giving to another that
which had meant infinitely much to her own inner life.
_Almighty God, unto Whom all hearts be open, all desires known, and
from Whom no secrets are hid: Cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by

the inspiration of Thy Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love Thee, and
worthily magnify Thy Holy Name, through Christ our Lord. Amen._
The Prioress turned her face from Sister Seraphine's unresponsive
countenance and fixed her eyes once more upon the tree-tops. She was
thinking of the long years of secret conflict, known only to Him from
Whom no secrets are hid; of the constant cleansing of her thoughts, for
which she had so earnestly pleaded; of the fear lest she should never
worthily magnify that Holy Name.
Presently--her heart filled with humble tenderness--she turned to Sister
Seraphine.
"These prayers, my child, which you will commit to memory before
you sleep this night, will protect you from a too insistent recollection of
the world you have resigned; and will assist you, with real inward
thoroughness, to die daily to self, in order that the Holy Name of our
dear Lord may be more worthily magnified in you."
But, alas! this gentle treatment, these long silences, this quiet recitation
of holy prayers, had but stirred the naughty spirit in Sister Seraphine.
Her shallow nature failed to understand the deeps of the noble heart,
dealing thus tenderly with her. She measured its ocean-wide greatness,
by the little artificial runnels of her own morbid emotions. She mistook
gentleness for weakness; calm self-control, for lack of strength of will.
Her wholesome awe of the Prioress was forgotten.
"But I do not want to die!" she exclaimed.