The White Ladies of Worcester | Page 9

"I want to live--to live--to
live!"
The Prioress looked up, astonished.
The surface humility had departed from the swollen countenance of
Sister Seraphine. The petulant defiance was plainly visible.
"Kneel!" commanded the Prioress, with authority.

The wayward nun jerked down upon her knees, upsetting the stool
behind her.
The Prioress made a quick movement, then restrained herself. She had
prayed for patience in dealing with wilfulness.
"We die that we may live," she said, solemnly. "Sister Seraphine, this is
the lesson your wayward heart must learn. Dying to self, we live unto
God. Dying to sin, we live unto righteousness. Dying to the world, we
find the Life Eternal."
On her knees upon the floor, Sister Seraphine felt her position to be
such as lent itself to pathos.
"But I want to live to the world!" she cried, and burst into tears.
Now Convent life does not tend to further individual grief. Constant
devout contemplation of the Supreme Sorrow which wrought the
world's salvation lessens the inclination to shed tears of self-pity.
The Prioress was startled and alarmed by the pathetic sobs of Sister
Seraphine.
This young nun had but lately been sent on to the Nunnery at
Whytstone from a convent at Tewkesbury in which she had served her
novitiate, and taken her final vows. The Prioress now realised how little
she knew of the inner working of the mind of Sister Seraphine, and
blamed herself for having looked upon the outward appearance rather
than upon the heart, taken too much for granted, and relied too entirely
upon the reports of others. Her sense of failure, toward the Community
in general, and toward Seraphine in particular, lent her a fresh stock of
patience.
She 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,