THE ROMANCE OF A MOSS ROSE.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXX, Issue 49, 4 December 1902, Page 23

THE ROMANCE OF A MOSS ROSE.

I. ' I thinki he will die.' The \oice that delivered that sentence seemed to come to my ears from vast regions of silence. 1 opened my eyes (or thought I did) and saw great plains of desolation stretching out, out unto infinity, and all the awful space was filled by that voice. Whose voice was it ? God's ? Not thus doubtfully docs the All-Knowing speak ! Man's ? Could human tongue fill heaven and earth with its simple utterances ? Then I felt myself sinking as gently, as slowly as a feather floats down to earth. This was death. I had heard how in those last moments the past is unfolded before the soul, for it to read thereon its sins and behold the future punishment they deserve, so I waited. But instead of old, forgotten infractions of the law there rose before me two scenes from those dead years around which instead of a sin a romance of youth was woven. I was born and reared on a farm in Kentucky —the best place for man or woman to begin existence. My parents were in fairly prosperous circumstances, and there being no necessity for me to begin work on the farm, I decided to fit myself for the profession of medicine. The summer after my graduation I spent my vacation with an uncle in the town of Paris. My uncle's home was in a quiet street, where each houso stands back, in spacious lawns, whose guardian oaks and elms give them a country seclusion. The property adjoining belonged to a teaching Order of nuns. As I sat alone by the window my eyes would wander. towards the convent. A high fence separated the two lawns, but as the convent was built close to the dividing line, my window gave me a full \iew of it. I saw the green yard dotted with flower beds, the brick walks, the long, vine-hung piazzas, and if the shutters had been unclosed I could have looked into the rooms. But the windows were closely screened, no light showing anywhere, and the white convent lay like an image of death in the pale moonlight. Like all young doctors, I held myself to be very wise, and as I watched the convent I meditated on the lives of the 'women who occupied it. ' How utterly useless and unavailing are their days,' I mused. ' There those women are, immured behind those walls, leading an unnatural existence, no good either to themselves or to others. Why, the lery flowers they grow are doing more good than they. The flowers at least fulfil the mission for which they were intended ' As thus I thought mv glance fell upon the flower beds. One I particularly noted. It was lashioned in the shape of a heart. In the centre grew a tall plant. a rose bush, I coniectured. Many silly thoughts were mine as 1 looked on that heart-shaped bed, then I grew sleo~ -- and retired The next morning, at a seemingly unearthly hour. the ringing of the convent bell aroused me from a deep slumber. I looked at mv watch and saw that it was 5 o'clock. The newness of my surroundings drove sleep from my eves, so 1 rose. When dressed I opened the shutters The convent wore a more cheerful aspect than my fancy of the nieht Ra.\e it Another bell rant?, then for half an hour nothing was heard, no one was seen. Then from various doors on the ground floor nuns came pouring out—some dressed all in black, some with white veils, some wearing the dress of the women of the world, but with lace caps on their heads They paced the walks or moved among the flowers, while not a few hurried from the kitchen to the milk house, bearingpails or pans or pitchers of milk and cream And all was silent except for prayer. At a ringing of a third bell they went into the house. As I now gazed upon the flower yard and convent I found mv preconceived notions about nuns evaporating, and Tennyson's noble lines took on a "-rander meaning — Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers, Whose loves in higher love endure : What souls possess themselves so pure, Or is there blessedness like theirs "> As the thought occurred to me that my standing there overgazing the convent and its grounds was to say the least, questionable conduct, a girl appeared She was young, I felt she was beautiful, and [ experienced a sensation of relief as I saw that, although her dress was black, she wore neither veil nor cap Her arms were hanging by her sides, and as she stood thus something m her attitude suggested dejection, perhaps misery. Before I could frame a possible thouirht as to its possible cause, she lifted her black skirt and crossed the yard to the heart-shaped flower bed As each step brought her nearer her beauty dawned on me by gradations ; the erect, supple figure.' the head crowned with clustering curls that glistened like gold in the sunlight, the fair oval face, with a soft <-o!or in the cheeks the scarlet mouth, and although I could not see the eyes, I knew they must be beautiful As she reached the bed and stretched forth a hand toward the flower T exclaimed softly : ' The white wonder of dear Juliet's hand • The flower was held between a small thumb and forefinger, and T observed that it was a rose a moss-rose, almost full blown As she examined it a regress came to one of the windows and called the vounr girl to breakfast. " Presently T was summoned down stairs. I was burning with curiosity, but 1 realised that I must not let my

aunt discover this, and I asked no questions regarding the girl until the following day. My aunt had come to my room, with a letter from home, and after hearing, its contents she stood for a moment by the window, looking across the fence toward the Sisters' yard. ' That plot of ground is the prettiest I have ever seen ! ' I remarked, casually. ' Yes, the Sisters have 'no trouble in getting their flowers to grow and bloom,' replied my aunt. ' They are very sweet and generous* with them, too. Many of my best plants were started by them and given to me.' As she was speaking the young girl, accompanied by a nun, appeared and they began to walk slowly up and down the shaded path, apparently in deep conversation. My aunt looked at them for a moment, then she drew down the blind. ' All the Sisters' boarders have not left them ? ' I remarked, carelessly, taking up my letter and refolding it to place it in the envelope. * That is little Marion,' replied my aunt. ' She always stays with them. Her mother was a favorite pupil of the superioress — that nun you saw just now with her — and when Marion was left an orphan and peniless, Mother Eleanore took her. She was only six years old then, and now she is 18. She graduated this year. I suppose she will soon join the Sisterhood.' There was no reason why as I heard the last sentence I should instantly conceive such a dislike for the venerable lady who was walking in. the yard beyond with the young girl. Gradually this dislike began to embrace all Catholic nuns in general, and this community in particular. Instead of the gentle, amiable women they are, I beheld in them a strong arm of the Roman Church reached out to draw into the gloomy cloister the fairest of their sex, and, binding them by solemn vows, leave them to unutterable misery and desolation. I am ashamed to confess it, but when my aunt went down stairs I raised the blind and began to watch the. girl and her black-robed companion. 1 fancy the girl looked even more dejected than when I had first beheld her, and I noticed that she rarely turned her face to the nun, who seemed to be speaking most earnestly, nay, pleadingly For a full hour they paced that shaded walk, and as my eyes followed them I wove a terrible tragedy around the life of the friendless girl. I had not the slightest doubt the nun was telling her how sinful the world was, how wicked were all men. and that if she ventured away from the convent her soul would be irretrievably lost. Her only redemption was to remain in the cloister. ' She will frighten the poor child into joining the Order ! I eyclaimed to myself, will she not suffer then ? ' A novice called away the superioress.. When alone the girl took out her handkerchief and held it for a moment to her eyes. The sight awoke all my chivalry. I determined to save the doomed girl. But how could I do it ? She was utterly unaware of my existence How could I inform her of it and my desire to save her? If I were to attempt it, might she 'not see in the very act an indication of man's wiles and evil designs and in consequence fly to the cloister for protection ? ' As I debated she returned the handkerchief to her pocket and crossed the grass to her heart-shaped bed. For a moment she held the rose between a thumb and finger, lookingly at it longingly. The sad thoughts which I felt were m her mind made mo long to speak, and assure her of my nearness. Fortunately 1 recalled my aunt's earning ; but if my voice were still my voice called out to her. I think— and like so to think— that its voice reached her, for she lifted her head and looked un toward the window before which I stood. For a moment our eyes met, then, with a bright blush on her face, she turned quickly and went into the house. I pulled down the blind and staggered back into a chair She had seen me ! But what if a nun had seen us both ? 1 shuddered as I thought of the conseouences that might fall on the innocent grrl. Then -I realised that 1 loved this girl called Marion with the deep love of a young man of one and twenty years. t - 1 went t° mv rool n fearly that evening on the plea of ieel.ng ill. It was no falsehood. I was ill in mind, for 1 heard from my aunt that there was to be a reception ot novices at the convent in a few days, and she expressed the belief that Marion would then enter the Order, l was nearly frantic at the thought How could 1 save her Horn that terrible fate and myself from end loss misery ? I was /irmly convinced then if Marion would not be my wife 1 must commit suicide. Life without her could not be borne. 1 lived over for the thousandth time that brief encounter of glances and pondered how I might rescue her. I decided to climb the fence and steal her rosebud. Then when she went to the bed in the morning and found the blossom gone she would look up at the window. I would be there and give her some sign by which she would know of m~ love and desire to help her. At midnight I climbed the fence and cut pretty Marions moss rose from its parent stem. 1 slept but fitfully that night, and long before the deeu vo.ced bell called the Sisters from their slumber I wL at the window waiting lor the girl. At the regular tune the black robed hgure appeared on (he walk and my heart gave a thump. She stepped across the trra=s to the heart-shaped bed. When she beheld her nmtUatcd plant she gave a little cry of sorrow ; then she looked toward the window. I dramatically held l the .rosebud toward her, luted it to my l,p s , and laidVy other had on my breast Surely she could not mistake that silent language of my heart's devotion and undying loveaid S?t d th; O ya?d BWering bUt a * ain turnedVripUy All that«day and the next I waited for another glimpse of Marion. Then I knew that we had been seen by some of the nuns and instantly began to SnaglSetne

misery being endured by that lovely girl. All that I had read of convent dungeons, with bread-and-water diet for the inmates and other cruel punishments, recurred to me, and in the end I very likely should have been guilty of some act if my aunt had not prevented me by asking me to accompany her to the convent, the third afternoon. On meeting the superioress I found it hard to reconcile her with, the artful woman my fancy had painted, while the nuns I chanced to meet or see appeared to be happy and contented. In the course of our visit my aunt inquired for Marion. At the name tears gathered in the eyes of the aged religious. ' Dear Mrs. Taylor, our little Marion has loft us ! ' she said brokenly. ' She has gone into the world to begin life in earnest.' 'Is it possible ? ' cried my aunt. ' I always thought she would be a nun.' 'I hoped so too, I will admit,' replied Mother Eleanore ; for I love the child, and what we love we desire to have near to us. But it was not God's will.' Where is she ? ' questioned my aunt, with the privilege of an old friend. 'She is in Louisville,' replied the nun. 'She will teach music in one of the schools.' I felt very much ashamed of myself, in my abasement of soul I called the following day at the convent and confessed my sins against her and her Sisters to the good superioress. At first she was evidently amused. but after a moment's reflection she said, looking me earnestly in the eyes : ' I believe you are a good young man ! I am going to give to you a sacred charge. God often sends His answer to our prayers in the most unusual ways Every Waking hour of my life from this forward will hold a supplication for my little Marion ; that she may be spared suffering, that temptation may not come ' near her, or, if it must, that she may rise above it ; that she may lead a good, useful, noble life, and that at the final hour I may give back her soul to her mother, who I firmly believe, is already numbered amonp- God's saints. But she will be far from me ! ' added the nun, clasping her thin hands over her breast. ' And in the hour that she needs me most I shall not be near her It may be that you will be there. Who can say? May not God have sent you to us to become her .saviour ? Promise me that if ever you see our little girl in danger you will take my place toward her.' I never forgot tho solemnity of that scene, and for days afterwards that pleading, tear-filled voice thrilled my ears. 'I promise you, Mother,' I said, 'that I will always be your little Marion's friend.' 11. A few months after I found myself in a town in a distant part of the State, and in the anxiety of my own future success in my profession my young !<ue for Marion faded and died. About two years afterwards I w^s in L uj.s< i'lo a - vtending a meeting of physicians. After tho business of the convention was over I went one evening with a friend to a theatre. It proved a most interesting play. and as my eyes left the stage for tho audience I began to notice tho man and woman sitting before me. Her hat was off and there was something in her hair hen the electric light glinted over it that roused a memory Her face I could not sop, but several times her companion glanced over his shoulder, and I read evil on his handsome countenance. He was talking low and earnestly to the girl, and while I could not hear a syllabic I knew that he was pleading with her to do ' something of which her soul disapproved. Once between the acts my friend left his seat, I suppose tho man. hearing him depart, concluded we were both away, for his tones were louder when he next spoke. ' But it would be more advantageous for you ' ho said 'if you were in another boarding house ' You could get more and better pupils if you lived in fashionable quarters— and I could got to see you oftcner ' Tho voice was gliding, seductive, and ho leaned toward her as he spoke. ' But I cannot leave tho Sisters ! ' she said Her voice was soft and tremulous— the voice of a hesitatingwoman. My soul told all was not right there. Why should the man ask the girl to leave her boarding place with the Sisters ? Why did he urge it in that voice ? A man never asks a woman to do what is best for her in tones like tpose I well know. ' Why not ? ' he questioned. 'They have been so good and kind to me,' she replied, even more faintly. 'Is there no one else who would be good and kind to you if you would let him ? ' he asked tenderl" ?T? aW ,V ho , rod W ' CO P over her nGCk ailcl shell-like ears ..u o- Mother Eleanore told me I must ne\er lea-^e the Sisters until ' 'Until what ? ' I heard her companion ask Her reply was lost to mo, for I recehed a sudden thrust from memory. ' Mother Eleanore • ' Wheie had T heard that name ? Recollections came with a shock Was this her little Marion-? Was this uhat the the prophetic soul of the saintly woman had foreseen o My friend came in. The man turned, and seeing him bowed slightl*- ' Will,' I asked as the curtain went up ' who is that man ? 'Oh ! he's connected with the stage in some wav ■ an advance agent, gets the announcement of the plays ready for the press and all that sort of thinp- '

' But what kind of a man is he ? * I inquired. .™A . ri »ht, I reckon ! ' replied my friend. would' y^do^Tafked. **" **** SiSter ' What 'If she were my sister she wouldn't be with him ! ' he answered promptly. out I W £?S. thiS aCt ' S ° Yer ' yOU him to Ko argued 66 k ere< DD ° C ' that ' S none of your affai *V he h, li?? I - 1 ! be ff a , n ' 'the woman who for years stood ?« * t £ lrl . mm T the P la ce of her dead mother asked me to save her if I ever saw her in danger, and • All right said my friend, 'I'm with you.' At the end of the act I withdrew. I waited near the {t* l^ f + nend ' mth the ma »> P a ««eU out ; then f llfl hu ™ d back to my seat. In my notebook still lay iSS r ip«^p7 rapped in u tissue P a P er - Hastil y Obey Mother Eleanore if you would be as harmv always as you were when you lived where that ro S e P g?ew ' tor another instant she looked into mv eves SStiU Innno- fi c - o at l he convent > where I was informed many young ladies who were employed during the day in t&f^rf??? 6^"^- From the Po^ress I learneS that the girl I wished to see had left the convent that m fh P and + ii Iher, 1 her , P , reSent address was 'low A stood there the bell was rung, and when the dnnr tent tnTtW^fW the man h ° W been with M a °rTon?n the theatre last evening. He asked to see her and when aso informed of her sudden departure his brow grow wSSrhY o/fSTr^S nay heart shook oft a 2S3SK h^prday^ £* SSf&g* """«• fr ° m Child " 111. 'I think he will live after all ' tratS°™ m ° V T e Spok , e the words - and as th ey peneSch^ifnHT 1 opened my eyes. Instead of the great stretch of land I saw a hospital ward, a doctor bending over me, and near him the gleam of a nurse's Ste SffmvDiWff, 11 / 1 n °^' and those two scenes irom my past that had been so vividly before mv mind sank back into the oblivion of the dead years I was m°an°Tt r t^ 0 ™ mant j c y° u th, the mpSSfois young l ioT\t "JJS.2 JSrSSicJSJ d a ow h n ° rt distance f ' om ( Is this Montauk,' 1 asked faintly nnvorTh'n,, v^ yy + u riend '' , re P lied the physician. ' But I nSt *£ °gee * ec Weeks ft S° that you would live to bo killed' qUeStlon! But you Kentuckians can'? ' Y^, O Tni dd H id , y ou n kn o w I a^ a Kentuckian ? ' I asked. his k^nd ll d n M al A ab , ooutu + t yourself !' he answered with and—' Pretty girl in the convent, * nZH* 0 ? tl?£ \ fc 5u c white a P ron was moving away loavo 1 hnvH led th ° doctor V interrupting himself, ' I Hdv doctor y li° yy ° UHU H n °Tv If a weren>t for th^ little in the cei?et'orv ' ' W ° ll]d be another » ravo mvma^nVSf 011 had exhausted me. I closed my eyes ana when the nuise came back to mv qirip T murmured my gratitude faintly. Then 1 slept a lonir ammuon. wtiea I awoke the nurse was before mo with Jaw 'So °'oS3! atabl9 f ° Od - But 1 SaW her f^° bcfo^ I ; Marion!"' I cried, impetuouslface. I* oboyed Commanded ' the blood died her oveS n alo,r S A'I, Ol ! I < i nOU 11 § h *2 Wal , k X found h er one isVH s^""^"'^ 10 " 0 he? he to