The White Sister | Page 9

though
its deep human note had appealed profoundly to her the last time she
had repeated the words. Nothing meant anything now, in the face of the
unanswered riddle; nothing but the answer could have any meaning.
The great apostle of modern thought asked three questions: What can I
know? As a reasoning being what is it my duty to do in life? What may
I dare to hope hereafter? Angela had never even heard of Kant; she
only asked what it all meant; and the Knight of Malta was silent under
the steady yellow light of the six wax torches. Perhaps the white cross
on his cloak was the answer, but the emblem was too far from words
for mere humanity to understand it. She wished they would take him
away, for he was not her father, and she would be far better able to pray
alone in her own room than in the stately presence of that one master
whom all living things fear, man and bird and beast, and whatsoever
has life in the sea.
To pray, yes; but for what? Rebellious against outward things, the girl's
prime intuition told her that her father was quite separated from his
mortal symbol now, having suddenly left that which could change to
become a part of the unknown truth, which must be unchangeable if it
is true; invisible, without form or dimension, 'being' not 'living,'
'conscious' not 'aware,' 'knowing' not 'seeing,' 'eternal' not 'immortal.'
That might be the answer, but it meant too much for a girl to grasp, and
explained too little to be comforting. The threads of thought broke short
off again, and Angela's lips went on making words, while she gazed
unwinking on the Knight's expressionless face.
Suddenly her mind awoke again in a sort of horror of darkness, and her
lips ceased from moving for a while, for she was terrified.
Was there anything beyond? Was it really God who had taken her
father from her in an instant, or was it a blind force that had killed him,
striking in the dark? If that was the answer, what was there left?

The sensitive girl shivered. Perhaps no bodily danger could have sent
that chill through her. It began in her head and crept quickly to her
hands and then to her feet, for it was not a fear of death that came upon
her, nor of anything outward. To lose life was nothing, if there was
heaven beyond; pain, torture, martyrdom would be nothing if God the
good was standing on the other side. All life was but one long
opportunity for sinning, and to lose it while in grace was to be safe for
ever; so much she had been taught and until now she had believed it.
But what loss could be compared with losing God? There were
unbelievers in the world, of course, but she could not understand how
they could still live on, and laugh, and seek pleasure and feel it keenly.
What had they to fill the void of their tremendous loss? Surely, not to
believe was not to hope, to be for ever without hope was the
punishment of the damned, and to live hopeless in the world was to
suffer the pains of hell on earth.
She felt them now. 'The pains of hell gat hold upon me,' she moaned,
heedless of the priest's recitation. Darkness rose like a flood-tide all
round her and she shut her eyes to keep it out, for her will fought for
hope, as her body would have struggled against drowning. It was no
longer a mere question that assailed her, but imminent destruction
itself.
It passed away this first time and she grew calm again. Not to believe
was sin, and against all sin, prayer and steadfast will must be availing.
The will, she had; she could remember many prayers, too, and say them
earnestly, and was thankful for her memory which held orisons in
readiness for every circumstance of daily duty or spiritual life. From
her childhood she had found a gentle delight in the Church's liturgies
and hymns, and now, as she prayed with the forms of language she had
always loved, habit brought back belief to lighten her darkness. She
still felt the bitter cold of the outer night that was very near her; but she
kept it off now, and warmed her poor little soul in the fervour of her
praying till she felt that she was coming again to life and hope.
She opened her eyes at last and saw that nothing was changed. The
Knight of Malta slept on, as he was to sleep for ever; the priests knelt

motionless before the black altar; their quiet, monotonous voices went
on with the Penitential Psalms as priests had