You will be amused when you see Mary: I have already lost my companion. Mr. Herbert calls at least once a day, but sometimes oftener; so all day long Mary is on the alert. She takes much more interest in the roses over the porch than was formerly the case; the creepers outside the windows require continual training, not to say hourly care. I tell her the constitution of the garden must have become seriously weakened lately. One morning I caught her before the glass, trying the effect of syringa (the English orange-blossom, you know) in her hair. She looked such a darling. I hinted how flattered Mr. Herbert would feel when I told him; which provoked her to offer a few remarks on old maids. Was it not a shame?
Last Thursday Magdalen Ellis was finally received into the Sisterhood of Mercy. I wished much to be present, but could not, as the whole affair was conducted quite privately; only her parents were admitted of the world. However, I made interest for a lock of her beautiful hair, which I prize highly. It makes me sad to look at it; yet I know she has chosen well, and will, if she perseveres, receive hereafter an abundant recompense for all she has foregone here. Sometimes I think whether such a life can be suited to me; but then I could not bear to leave mamma: indeed that is just what Magdalen felt so much. I met her yesterday walking with some poor children. Her veil was down, nearly hiding her face; still I fancy she looked thoughtful, but very calm and happy. She says she always prays for me, and asked my prayers; so I begged her to remember you and Mary. Then she enquired how you are, desiring her kindest love to you, and assuring me she makes no doubt your name will be known at some future period; but checking herself almost immediately, she added that she could fancy you very different as pale Sister Maude. This surprised me; I can fancy nothing of the sort. At last she mentioned the verses you gave her months ago, which she knows by heart and values extremely: then, having nearly reached my home, we parted.
What a document I have composed; I, who have not one minute to spare from Mary’s trousseau. Will you give my love to my aunt, and request her from me to permit your immediately coming to Your affectionate cousin,
AGNES M. CLIFTON.
P.S. — Mary would doubtless send a message were she in the room; I conjecture her to be lurking about somewhere on the watch. Goodbye: or rather, come.
Maude handed the letter to her mother: “Can you spare me, mamma? I should like to go, but not if it is to inconvenience you.”
“Certainly, you shall go, my dear. It is a real pleasure to hear you express interest on some point, and you cannot be with any one I approve of more than Agnes. But you must make haste with the packing now: I will come and help you in a few minutes.”
Still Maude lingered.
“Did you see about Magdalen?
I wonder what made her think of me as a sister. It is very nice of her; but then she is so good she never can conceive what I am like. Mamma, should you mind my being a nun?”
“Yes, my dear, it would make me miserable. But for the present take my advice and hurry a little, or the train will leave without you.”
Thus urged, Maude proceeded to bundle various miscellaneous goods into a trunk; the only article on the safety of which she bestowed much thought being the present destined for Mary; a sofa-pillow worked in glowing shades of wool and silk. This she wrapped carefully in a cloth and laid at the bottom; then over it all else was heaped without much ceremony. Many were the delays occasioned by things mislaid, which must be looked for; ill-secured, which must be re-arranged; or remembered too late, which yet could not be dispensed with, and so must be crammed in somewhere. At length, however, the tardy preparations were completed; and Maude, enveloped in two shawls, though it was the height of summer, stepped into a cab, promising strict conformity to her mother’s injunction that both windows should be kept closed.
Half an hour had not elapsed when another cab drove up to the door, and out of it Maude was lifted perfectly insensible. She had been overturned, and though no limb was broken, had neither stirred nor spoken since the accident.
II
Maude Foster to Agnes Clifton.
2nd July, 18 —
My Dear Agnes, —
YOU have heard of my mishap? it keeps me, not bedridden, but sofa-ridden. My side is dreadfully hurt; I looked at it this morning for the first time, but hope never again to see so shocking a sight. The pain now and then is extreme, though not always so; sometimes, in fact, I am unconscious of any injury.
Will you convey my best love and wishes to Mary, and tell her how much I regret being away from her at such a time, especially as mamma will not hear of leaving me. A day or two ago I tried to compose an epithalamium for our fair fiancée; which effort resulted in my present enclosure: not much to the purpose, we must admit. You may read it when no better employment offers. The first Nun no one can suspect of being myself, partly because my hair is far from yellow and I do not wear curls, partly because I never did anything half so good as profess. The second might be Mary, had she mistaken her vocation. The third is Magdalen, of course. But whatever you miss, pray read the mottoes. Put together, they form a most exquisite little song which the nuns sing in Italy. One can fancy Sister Magdalen repeating it with her whole heart.
The surgeon comes twice a day to dress my wounds; still all the burden of nursing falls on poor mamma. How I wish you were here to help us both; we should find plenty to say.
But perhaps ere many months are passed I shall be up and about, when we may go together on a visit to Mary; a most delightful possibility. By the way, how I should love a baby of hers, and what a pretty little creature it ought to be. Do you think Mr. Herbert handsome? hitherto I have only heard a partial opinion.
Uh, my side! it gives an awful twinge now and then. You need not read my letter; but I must write it, for I am unable to do anything else. Did the pillow reach safely? It gave me so much pleasure to work it for Mary, who, T hope, likes it. At all events, if not to her taste, she may console herself with the reflection that it is unique; for the pattern was my own designing.
Here comes dinner; good-bye. When will anything so welcome as your kind face gladden the eyes of Your affectionate
MAUDE FOSTER?
P.S. — I have turned tippler lately on port wine, three times a day. “To keep you up,” says my doctor: while I obstinately refuse to be kept up, but insist on becoming weaker and weaker. Mind you write me a full history of your grand doings on a certain occasion; not omitting a detailed account of the lovely bride, her appearance, deportment, and toilet. Good-bye once more: when shall I see you all again?
THREE NUNS
I
“Sospira questo core
E non sadir perché.”
Shadow, shadow on the wall,
Spread thy shelter over me;
Wrap me with a heavy pall,
With the dark that none may see.
Fold thyself around me; come:
Shut out all the troublesome
Noise of life; I would be dumb.
Shadow, thou hast reached my feet,
Rise and cover up my head;
Be my stainless winding-sheet, Buried before I am dead.
Lay thy cool upon my breast:
Once I thought that joy was best,
Now I only care for rest.
By the grating of my cell
Sings a solitary bird:
Sweeter than the vesper bell,
Sweetest song was ever heard.
(*” Sweetest eyes were ever seen.’* — E. B. Browning.)
Sing upon thy living tree:
Happy echoes answer thee,
Happy songster, sing to me.
When my yellow hair was curled
Though men saw and called me fair,
I was weary in the world,
Full of vanity and care.
Gold was left behind, curls shorn
When I came here; that same morn
Made a bride no gems adorn.
Here wrapped in my spotless veil,
Curtained from intruding eyes,
I whom prayers and fasts turn pale
Wait the flush of Paradise.
But the vigil is so long
My heart sickens — sing thy song,
Blithe bird that canst do no wrong.
Sing on, making me forget
Present sorrow and past sin;
Sing a little longer yet:
Soon the matins will begin:
And I must turn back again
To that aching worse than pain
I must bear and not complain.
Sing, that in thy song I may
Dream myself once more a child
In the green woods far away
Plucking clematis and wild Hyacinths, till pleasure grew
Tired, yet so was pleasure too,
Resting with no work to do.
In the thickest of the wood I remember, long ago
How a stately oak-tree stood
With a sluggish pool below,
Almost shadowed out of sight.
On the waters dark as night,
Water-lilies lay like light.
There, while yet a child I thought
I could live as in a dream,
Secret, neither found nor sought:
Till the lilies on the stream,
Pure as virgin purity,
Would seem scarce too pure for me:
Ah, but that can never be.
II
“Sospirera d’ amort
Ma non lodice a me.”
I loved him, yes, where was the sin?
I loved him with my heart and soul,
But I pressed forward to no goal,
There was no prize I strove to win.
Show me my sin that I may see: —
Throw the first stone, thou Pharisee.
I loved him, but I never sought
That he should know that I was fair.
I prayed for him; was my sin prayer?
I sacrificed, he never bought.
He nothing gave, he nothing took;
We never bartered look for look.
My voice rose in the sacred choir,
The choir of Nuns; do you condemn
Even if, when kneeling among them,
Faith, zeal, and love kindled a fire,
And I prayed for his happiness
Who knew not? was my error this?
I only prayed that in the end,
His trust and hope may not be vain.
I prayed not we may meet again:
I would not let our names ascend,
No, not to Heaven, in the same breath;
Nor will I join the two in death.
Oh sweet is death, for I am weak
And weary, and it giveth rest.
The Crucifix lies on my breast,
And all night long” it seems to speak
Of rest; I hear it through my sleep,
And the great comfort makes me weep.
Oh sweet is death that bindeth up
The broken and the bleeding heart.
The draught chilled but a cordial part
Lurked at the bottom of the cup,
And for my patience will my
Lord Give an exceeding great reward.
Yea, the reward is almost won,
A crown of glory and a palm.
Soon I shall sing the unknown psalm;
Soon gaze on light, not on the sun;
And soon, with surer faith, shall pray
For him, and cease not night nor day.
My life is breaking like a cloud;
God judgeth not as man doth judge —
Nay, bear with me; you need not grudge
This peace; the vows that I have vowed
Have all been kept; Eternal Strength
Holds me, though mine own fails at length.
Bury me in the Convent ground
Among the flowers that are so sweet;
And lay a green turf at my feet
Where thick trees cast a gloom around.
At my head let a Cross be, white
Through the long blackness of the night.
Now kneel and pray beside my bed
That I may sleep being free from pain:
And pray that I may wake again
After His Likeness,
Who hath said (Faithful is He Who promiseth),
We shall be satisfied Therewith.
III
“Rispondimi, cor mio,
Perché sospiri tu?
Risponde: Voglio Iddio,
Sospiro perGesu.”
My heart is as a free-born bird
Caged in my cruel breast,
That flutters, flutters evermore,
Nor sings, nor is at rest.
But beats against the prison bars,
As knowing its own nest
Far off beyond the clouded West.
My soul is as a hidden fount
Shut in by clammy clay,
That struggles with an upward moan;
Striving to force its way
Up through the turf, over the grass,
Up, up into the day,
Where twilight no more turneth grey.
Oh for the grapes of the True Vine
Growing in Paradise,
Whose tendrils join the Tree of Life
To that which maketh wise.
Growing beside the Living Well,
Whose sweetest waters rise,
Where tears are wiped from tearful eyes.
Oh for the waters of that
Well Round which the Angels stand;
Oh for the Shadow of the Rock
On my heart’s weary land.
Oh for the Voice to guide me when I turn to either hand,
Guiding me till I reach Heaven’s strand.
Thou World from which I am come out,
Keep all thy gems and gold;
Keep thy delights and precious things
Thou that art waxing old, My heart shall beat with a new life,
When thine is dead and cold;
When thou dost fear I shall be bold.
When Earth shall pass away with all
Her pride and pomp of sin,
The City builded without hands
Shall safely shut me in.
All the rest is but vanity
Which others strive to win:
Where their hopes end my joys begin.
I will not look upon a rose,
Though it is fair to see,
The flowers planted in Paradise
Are budding now for me.
Red roses like love visible
Are blowing on their tree,
Or white like virgin purity.
I will not look unto the sun
Which setteth night by night,
In the untrodden courts of Heaven
My crown shall be more bright.
So, in the New Jerusalem,
Founded and built aright,
My very feet shall tread on light.
With foolish riches of this world
I have bought treasure, where
Naught perisheth: for this white veil
I gave my golden hair,
I gave the beauty of my face
For vigils, fasts, and prayer;
I gave all for this Cross I bear.
My heart trembled when first I took
The vows which must be kept;
At first it was a weariness
To watch when once I slept.
The path was rough and sharp with thorns;
My feet bled as I stepped;
The Cross was heavy and I wept.
While still the names rang in mine ears
Of daughter, sister, wife,
The outside world still looked so fair
To my weak eyes and rife
With beauty, my heart almost failed;
Then in the desperate strife
I prayed, as one who prays for life,
Until I grew to love what once
Had been so burdensome.
So now when I am faint, because
Hope deferred seems to numb
My heart, I yet can plead; and say
Although my lips are dumb:
“The Spirit and the Bride say, Come.”
III
THREE weeks had passed away. A burning sun seemed baking the very dust in the streets, and sucking the last remnant of moisture from the straw spread in front of Mrs. Foster’s house, when the sound of a low, muffled ring was heard in the sickroom; and Maude, now entirely confined to her bed, raising herself on one arm, looked eagerly towards the door; which opened to admit a servant with the welcome announcement that Agnes had arrived.
After tea Mrs. Foster, almost worn out with fatigue, went to bed; leaving her daughter under the care of their guest. The first greetings between the cousins had passed sadly enough. Agnes perceived at a glance that Maude was, as her last letter hinted, in a most alarming state: while the sick girl, well aware of her condition, received her friend with an emotion which showed she felt it might be for the last time. But soon her spirits rallied.
“I shall enjoy our evening together so much, Agnes” ; said she, speaking now quite cheerfully: “You must tell me all the news. Have you heard from Mary since your last despatch to me?”
“Mamma received a letter this morning before I set off; and she sent it, hoping to amuse you. Shall I read it aloud?”
“No, let me have it myself.” Her eye travelled rapidly down the well-filled pages, comprehending at a glance all the tale of happiness. Mr. and Mrs. Herbert were at Scarborough; they would thence proceed to the Lakes; and thence, most probably, homewards, though a prolonged tour was mentioned as just possible. But both plans seemed alike pleasing to Mary, for she was full of her husband, and both were equally connected with him.
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Christina Rossetti Page 100