The White Ladies of Worcester A Romance of the Twelfth Century

CHAPTER V

THE WAY­WARD NUN

Sis­ter Mary Seraphine lay prone up­on the floor of her cell.

Tight­ly clenched in her hands were frag­ments of her torn veil.

She beat her knuck­les up­on the stones with rhyth­mic reg­ular­ity; then, when her arms would lift no longer, took up the mea­sure with her toes, in wild im­ita­tion of a gal­lop­ing horse.

As she lay, she re­peat­ed with monotonous re­it­er­ation: “Trap­pings of crim­son, and sil­ver bells: mane and tail, like foam of the waves; a pal­frey as white as snow!”

The Pri­oress en­tered, closed the door be­hind her, and looked search­ing­ly at the pros­trate fig­ure; then, lift­ing the mas­ter-​key which hung from her gir­dle, locked the door on the in­side.

Sis­ter Mary Seraphine had been silent long enough to hear the clos­ing and lock­ing of the door.

Now she start­ed afresh.

“Trap­pings of crim­son, and sil­ver bells----”

The Pri­oress walked over to the nar­row case­ment, and stood look­ing out at the rosy clouds wreath­ing a pale green sky.

“Oh! . . . Oh! . . . Oh! . . .” wailed Sis­ter Mary Seraphine, writhing up­on the floor; “mane and tail, like foam of the waves; a pal­frey as white as snow!”

The Pri­oress watched the swal­lows on swift wing, chas­ing flies in the evening light.

So com­plete was the si­lence, that Sis­ter Mary Seraphine--notwith­stand­ing that turn­ing of the key in the lock--fan­cied she must be alone.

“Trap­pings of crim­son, and sil­ver bells!” she de­claimed with ve­he­mence; then lift­ed her face to peep, and saw the tall fig­ure of the Pri­oress stand­ing at the case­ment.

In­stant­ly, Sis­ter Mary Seraphine dropped her head.

“Mane and tail,” she be­gan--then her courage failed; the “foam of the waves” qua­vered in­to in­de­ci­sion; and in­de­ci­sion, in such a case, is fa­tal.

For a while she lay quite still, moan­ing plain­tive­ly, then, of a sud­den, quiv­ered from head to foot, start­ing up alert, as if to lis­ten.

“Wil­fred!” she shrieked; “Wil­fred! Are you com­ing to save me?”

Then she opened her eyes, and peeped again.

The Pri­oress, whol­ly un­moved by the im­pend­ing ad­vent of “Wil­fred,” stood at the case­ment, calm­ly watch­ing the swal­lows.

Sis­ter Mary Seraphine be­gan to weep.

At last the pas­sion­ate sob­bing ceased.

Un­bro­ken si­lence reigned in the cell.

From with­out, the latch of the door was lift­ed; but the lock held.

Present­ly Sis­ter Mary Seraphine dragged her­self to the feet of the Pri­oress, seized the hem of her robe, and kissed it.

Then the Pri­oress turned. She firm­ly with­drew her robe from those cling­ing hands; yet looked, with eyes of ten­der com­pas­sion, up­on the kneel­ing fig­ure at her feet.

“Sis­ter Seraphine,” she said, “--for you must shew true pen­itence e'er I can per­mit you to be called by our La­dy's name--you will now come to my cell, where I will present­ly speak with you.”

Sis­ter Seraphine in­stant­ly fell prone.

“I can­not walk,” she said.

“You will not walk,” replied the Pri­oress, stern­ly. “You will trav­el up­on your hands and knees.”

She crossed to the door, un­locked and set it wide.

“More­over,” she added, from the door­way, “if you do not ap­pear in my pres­ence in rea­son­able time, I shall be con­strained to send for Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress.”

The cell of the Pri­oress was sit­uat­ed at the op­po­site end of the long, stone pas­sage; but in less than rea­son­able time, Sis­ter Seraphine crawled in.

The un­wont­ed ex­er­cise had had a most salu­tary ef­fect up­on her frame of mind.

Her straight habit, of heavy cloth, had ren­dered progress up­on her knees awk­ward and dif­fi­cult. Her hands had be­come en­tan­gled in her torn veil. Each mo­ment she had feared lest cell doors, on ei­ther side, should open; old Antony might ap­pear from the clois­ters, or--great­est dis­as­ter of all--Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress might ad­vance to­ward her from the Re­fec­to­ry stairs! In or­der to at­tain a greater rate of speed, she had tried lift­ing her knees, as ele­phants lift their feet. This mode of progress, though un­gain­ly, had proved ef­fi­ca­cious; but would have been dis­tinct­ly mirth-​pro­vok­ing to be­hold­ers. The stones had hurt her hands and knees far more than she hurt them when she beat up­on the floor of her own cell.

She ar­rived at the Rev­erend Moth­er's foot­stool, heat­ed in mind and body, ashamed of her­self, vexed with her gar­ments, in fact in an al­to­geth­er san­er frame of mind than when she had called up­on “Wil­fred,” and made re­it­er­at­ed men­tion of trap­pings of crim­son and sil­ver bells.

Per­haps the Pri­oress had fore­seen this re­sult, when she im­posed the penance. Le­nien­cy or sym­pa­thy, at that mo­ment, would have been fa­tal and fool­ish; and had not the Pri­oress made spe­cial pe­ti­tion for wis­dom?

She was seat­ed at her ta­ble, when Sis­ter Seraphine bumped and shuf­fled in­to view. She did not raise her eyes from the il­lu­mi­nat­ed missal she was study­ing. One hand lay on the mas­sive clasp, the oth­er rest­ed in readi­ness to turn the page. Her no­ble form seemed state­ly calm per­son­ified.

When she heard Sis­ter Seraphine pant­ing close to her foot, she spoke; still with­out lift­ing her eyes.

“You may rise to your feet,” she said, “and shut to the door.”

Then the wait­ing hand turned the page, and si­lence fell.

“You may ar­range the dis­or­der of your dress,” said the Pri­oress, and turned an­oth­er page.

When at length she looked up, Sis­ter Seraphine, clothed and ap­par­ent­ly in her right mind, stood humbly near the door.

The Pri­oress closed the book, and shut the heavy clasps.

Then she point­ed to an oak­en stool, sign­ing to the nun to draw it for­ward.

“Be seat­ed, my child,” she said, in tones of in­fi­nite ten­der­ness. “There is much which must now be said, and your mind will pay bet­ter heed, if your body be at rest.”

With her stead­fast eyes the Pri­oress searched the pret­ty, flushed face, swollen with weep­ing, and now gath­er­ing a look of petu­lant de­fi­ance, thin­ly veiled be­neath sur­face hu­mil­ity.

“What was the cause of this out­burst, my child?” asked the Pri­oress, very gen­tly.

“While in the Cathe­dral, Rev­erend Moth­er, up in our gallery, I, be­ing placed not far from a win­dow, heard, in a mo­ment of si­lence, the neigh­ing of a horse in the street with­out. It was like to the neigh­ing of mine own love­ly pal­frey, wait­ing in the cas­tle court at home, un­til I should come down and mount him. Each time that steed neighed, I could see Snowflake more clear­ly, in trap­pings of gay crim­son, with sil­ver bells, amid many oth­ers pranc­ing im­pa­tient­ly, champ­ing their bits as they wait­ed; for it pleased me to come out last, when all were mount­ed. Then the rid­ers lift­ed their plumed caps when I ap­peared, while Wil­fred, push­ing my page aside, did swing me in­to the sad­dle. Thus, with shout­ing and laugh­ter and wind­ing of horn, we would all ride out to the hunt or the tour­ney; I first, on Snowflake; Wil­fred, close be­hind.”

Very qui­et­ly the Pri­oress sat lis­ten­ing. She did not 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. “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, “help­less, hope­less, ter­ri­ble! I ask for life, I want to live; I am young, I am gay, I am beau­ti­ful. And they bid--bid--bid me kneel--long hours--watch­ing death.” Her voice rose to a pierc­ing scream. “Ah, HA! That will I NOT! A dead God can­not help me! I want life, not death!”

Shriek­ing she leapt to her feet, flew across the room, beat up­on the sa­cred Form with her fists; tore at It with her fin­gers.

One in­stant of pet­ri­fy­ing hor­ror. Then the Pri­oress was up­on her.

Seiz­ing her by both wrists she flung her to the floor, then pulled a rope pass­ing over a pul­ley in the wall, which start­ed the great alarm-​bell, in the pas­sage, clang­ing wild­ly.

At once there came a rush of fly­ing feet; calls for the Sub-​Pri­oress; but she was al­ready there.

When they flung wide the door, lo, the Pri­oress stood--with white face and blaz­ing eyes, her arms out­stretched--be­tween them and the cru­ci­fix.

Up­on the floor, a crum­pled heap, lay Sis­ter Mary Seraphine.

The nuns, in a fright­ened crowd, filled the door­way, none dar­ing to speak, or to en­ter; till old Mary Antony, push­ing past the Sub-​Pri­oress, kneeled down be­side the Rev­erend Moth­er, and, lift­ing the hem of her robe, kissed it and pressed it to her breast.

Slow­ly the Pri­oress let fall her arms.

“En­ter,” she said; and they flocked in.

“Sis­ter Seraphine,” said the Pri­oress, in aw­ful tones, “has pro­faned the cru­ci­fix, re­vil­ing our blessèd Lord, Who hangs there­on.”

All the nuns, falling up­on their knees, hid their faces in their hands.

There was a ter­ri­fy­ing qual­ity in the si­lence of the next mo­ments.

Slow­ly the Pri­oress turned, pros­trat­ed her­self at the foot of the cross, and laid her fore­head against the floor at its base. Then the nuns heard one deep, shud­der­ing sob.

Not a head was lift­ed. The on­ly nun who peeped was Sis­ter Mary Seraphine, prone up­on the floor.

Af­ter a while, the Pri­oress arose, pale but calm.

“Car­ry her to her cell,” she said.

Two tall nuns to whom she made sign lift­ed Sis­ter Seraphine, and bore her out.

When the shuf­fling of their feet died away in the dis­tance, the Pri­oress gave fur­ther com­mands.

“All will now go to their cells and kneel in ado­ra­tion be­fore the cru­ci­fix. Doors are to be left stand­ing wide. The _Mis­erere_ is to be chant­ed, un­til the ring­ing of the Re­fec­to­ry bell. Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress will re­main be­hind.”

The nuns dis­persed, as quick­ly as they had gath­ered; seek­ing their cells, like fright­ened birds flee­ing be­fore a gath­er­ing storm.

The tall nuns who had car­ried Sis­ter Seraphine re­turned and wait­ed out­side the Rev­erend Moth­er's door.

The Pri­oress stood alone; a trag­ic fig­ure in her grief.

Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress drew near. Her nar­row face, peer­ing from out her veil, more than ev­er re­sem­bled a fer­ret. Her small eyes gleamed with a mer­ci­less light.

“Is mine the task, Rev­erend Moth­er?” she whis­pered.

The Pri­oress in­clined her head.

Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress mur­mured a sec­ond ques­tion.

The Pri­oress turned and looked at the cru­ci­fix.

“Yes,” she said, firm­ly.

Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress si­dled near­er; then whis­pered her third ques­tion.

The Pri­oress did not an­swer. She was look­ing at the carved, oak­en stool, over­thrown. She was won­der­ing whether she could have act­ed with bet­ter judg­ment, spo­ken more wise­ly. Her heart was sore. Such no­ble na­tures ev­er blame them­selves for the wrong-​do­ing of the worth­less.

Re­ceiv­ing no re­ply, Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress whis­pered a sug­ges­tion.

“No,” said the Pri­oress.

Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress mod­ified her sug­ges­tion.

The Pri­oress turned and looked at the ten­der fig­ure of the Madon­na, brood­ing over the blessèd Babe.

“No,” said the Pri­oress.

Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress frowned, and made a fur­ther mod­ifi­ca­tion; but in tones which sug­gest­ed fi­nal­ity.

The Pri­oress in­clined her head.

The Sub-​Pri­oress, bow­ing low, lift­ed the hem of the Rev­erend Moth­er's veil, and kissed it; then passed from the room.

The Pri­oress moved to the win­dow.

The sun­set was over. The evening star shone, like a new­ly-​light­ed lamp, in a pale pur­ple sky. The fleet-​winged swal­lows had gone to rest.

Bats flit­ted past the case­ment, like home­less souls who know not where to go.

Low chant­ing be­gan in the cells; the nuns, with open doors, singing _Mis­erere_.

But, as she looked at the evening star, the Pri­oress heard again, with startling dis­tinct­ness, the fi­nal pro­fan­ity of poor Sis­ter Seraphine: “I want life--not death!”

Along the cor­ri­dor passed a short pro­ces­sion, on its way to the cell of Mary Seraphine.

First went a nun, car­ry­ing a light­ed ta­per.

Next, the two tall nuns who had borne Mary Seraphine to her cell.

Be­hind them, Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress, hold­ing some­thing be­neath her scapu­lary which gave to her more of a pres­ence than she usu­al­ly pos­sessed.

Solemn and of­fi­cial,--nay, al­most sac­ri­fi­cial--was their mea­sured shuf­fle, as they moved along the pas­sage, and en­tered the cell of Mary Seraphine.

The Pri­oress closed her door, and, kneel­ing be­fore the cru­ci­fix, im­plored for­give­ness for the sac­ri­lege which, all un­wit­ting­ly, she had pro­voked.

The nuns, in their sep­arate cells, chant­ed the _Mis­erere_. But--sud­den­ly--with one ac­cord, their voic­es fell silent; then has­tened on, in un­cer­tain, ag­itat­ed rhythm.

Old Mary Antony be­low, play­ing her favourite game, al­so paused, and pricked up her ears: then fil­liped the wiz­en pea, which stood for Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress, in­to the dark­est cor­ner, and hur­ried off to brew a sooth­ing bal­sam.

So, when the Re­fec­to­ry bell had sum­moned all to the evening meal, the old lay-​sis­ter crept to the cell of Mary Seraphine, car­ry­ing broth and com­fort.

But Sis­ter Seraphine was bet­ter con­tent than she had been for many weeks.

At last she had be­come the cen­tre of at­ten­tion; and, al­though, dur­ing the vis­it of Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress to her cell, this had been a pe­cu­liar­ly painful po­si­tion to oc­cu­py, yet to the mor­bid mind of Mary Seraphine, the po­si­tion seemed worth the dis­com­fort.

There­fore, her mind now purged of its dis­con­tent, she cheer­ful­ly supped old Antony's broth, and ap­plied the sooth­ing bal­sam; yet plan­ning the while, to gain favour with the Pri­oress, by re­peat­ing to her, at the first con­ve­nient op­por­tu­ni­ty, the naughty re­marks con­cern­ing Moth­er Sub-​Pri­oress, now be­ing made for her di­ver­sion, by the kind old wom­an who had risked re­proof, in or­der to bring to her, in her dis­grace, both food and con­so­la­tion.