WITH A GROAN SHE COULD NOT SUPPRESS, Mother St. Raphael got up from her knees. Her breath was a white smoke in the air, and she was so stiff she stood swaying for a moment as she gained her balance. Dr. Corneille had stated categorically that more warmth in her cell would alleviate the pain from her arthritis, but she refused to ask for it. Each nun had an allotment of coal and wood for her fireplace, and she was expected to only make use of it when the weather was bitter. The prioress deeply believed she must be an example to those whose spiritual life she directed. A few of the weaker sisters, in their secret hearts, wished that she might, on occasion, be less rigorous.
Mother St. Raphael had been praying for a long time, but the Lord’s will was not yet clear to her. She knew that it was her own pride that was holding her back. She took great care when she selected the nuns who came as postulants. No matter what the professed ardour, she accepted only those young women whom she felt could withstand the hardship and purity of their rule. Never again to see the outside world, to live a life of prayer to which the needs of the body were subjugated, often at great cost. Only a few women were truly suitable. Sister Philomena had entered the order when she was very young. In spite of herself and the rule that forbad special friendships, Sister St. Raphael, as she was then, had become very fond of the new postulant. She saw her own struggle for perfection mirrored in the girl, and she understood the perpetual self-recrimination when that impossible struggle failed time and again.
Sister Philomena flagellated her body and her spirit but was rarely at peace with her own conscience. The prioress more than once had been forced to admonish her, albeit gently, for her scrupulosity. However, the young nun was generous with the older sisters, who became so demanding as their bodies succumbed to age and discomfort. She never complained at the most menial chores. In spite of these manifestations of her goodness, she only seemed to taste happiness when she had occasion to amuse the other sisters during the recreation hour. In the summer, like several of the other diligent nuns, she used the hour before the Grand Silence to tend to the garden they depended on. But it was throughout the dark winter months when little work could be done that Sister Philomena entertained them all with stories of the sea that she claimed to have heard in her native province of Nova Scotia. She was a compelling storyteller and spun out the tales, doling out one episode at a time, leaving them all in suspense until the following day. Nobody ever questioned the veracity of these tales even though her store seemed endless. Occasionally, the prioress worried about the decidedly secular nature of the yarns, but she couldn’t bear to deprive the little community of this small pleasure or quench the brightness in Sister Philomena’s face as she addressed her rapt audience.
Mother St. Raphael walked over to her desk. She was not at all a worldly woman. She had entered the order when she was eighteen, the shy, youngest daughter of a genteel Montreal family. Her mother’s piety was constantly besieged by the need for her daughters to marry well. The postulants whispered among themselves that Mother had become a nun when her heart was broken by the death of her fiancée. She was aware of this rumour but did nothing to dispel it. The truth was not nearly as romantic. Her mother had put great pressure on her to marry the son of a wealthy banker. She had loathed the sickly young man on sight and was certain his antipathy was the equal of hers. He had died suddenly from a lung haemorrhage, and Hermione had fled to the convent where she might be safe from the admonishments of her mother and older sisters.
She had been elected prioress six years ago, and under her direction life was orderly and placid. Nothing like this had ever fallen on her shoulders before. As prioress, Mother St. Raphael was responsible for monitoring all correspondence that came and went in the convent. Although the nuns were permitted to write their own letters, the envelopes were never sealed. It would have been against the rule of their order to maintain the privacy they had experienced in the outer world. Letters that were addressed to any one of the nuns were opened and read. This was not a burdensome task as communication with the outside world was restricted. At Christmas, letters could be exchanged with immediate family members to share in the joy of Our Lord’s birth. On the anniversary of the nun’s marriage to Christ her Saviour, the same families were expected to mark that special day both with a novena and a suitable letter. All the correspondence and small personal effects relinquished at the time of the first vows were kept in individual cardboard boxes in a special cupboard in the prioress’s room. They were forwarded to the next of kin in the event of the nun’s death.
Sister Philomena’s box contained a child’s diary, a small number of cards and letters, a garnet ring and matching ear bobs. Mother St. Raphael had been about to wrap everything and send them to William Murdoch when she found the letter. It was this that was causing her such distress.
On the eve of taking her final vows, Sister Philomena had written to her brother. The envelope was still sealed, indicating that the prioress at that time had not read it. Mother St. Raphael had simply followed the rule and opened the letter.
She took it up again.
Dear Will: I do not know if you will ever read this letter or if what I am about to relate will ever be made known to you. I am leaving that in the hands of Our Lord. It is His will that be done. However, if you are reading this letter, it means I have been gathered into the arms of our beloved Saviour. I ask you to accept this with joy and not sorrow.
It is so long since we met face to face that in my mind you are forever my older brother, tall and strong but not yet a grown man, with your dark hair that you could never keep smooth, your brown eyes that would gaze on me so seriously, a smile that when it was bestowed on me gladdened my sad heart. I know you did not approve of my accepting my vocation, but being a nun has brought me as much peace of mind as I am allowed by God’s mercy. Perhaps I am wrong to unburden myself in this way, but I believe that the truth shall make you free, and I long for freedom.
On the day our mother died, I was witness to a quarrel between her and our father. To say quarrel is not accurate because she never argued or defended herself, as you know. He was angry about some small and insignificant thing, and he hit her. Perhaps he did not mean to hit so hard, but she was knocked backwards and struck her head on the sharp corner of the kitchen cupboard, the one by the east window. She had to sit down and said she felt dizzy, but he was impatient and would not allow it. She got up and set off for the beach to gather shellfish. As you know, she was found drowned in one of the pools among the rocks. The coroner concluded that she had slipped and struck her head. However, I am convinced she would not have fallen if it were not for the blow she had received from Father.
All of my life, dearest brother, I have lived with the shame of doing nothing. I know that you will say I was a child and therefore absolved of responsibility, but I have never believed that. Sometimes he listened to me in particular. I could appeal to his conscience. That day, unfortunately, he was particularly vile tempered. He had run out of beer, and you know all too well what that did to him. I was sitting at the table when all this occurred, and I was so afraid I did nothing. Nothing. Perhaps she would not have died if I had begged him to let her rest. But I was silent, saving my own skin. When Mr. Markham came with the news that she had been discovered on the beach, Father behaved as if he were a grieving husband. He said nothing to me, and I truly believe that he was not aware of what I had witnessed. I dared not tell you, Will, because you were already so fiery. I knew you would challenge Father, and I feared for your safety. Dear brother, you were all we had, Bertie and I. I wrestle with my conscience every day, and perhaps by the time I pass from this life I will have cleansed the anger from my heart. I pray for this.
I don’t know what you will do with the information I have imparted. I am sure it will cause you great sorrow, and I pray that you will ask the Lord to guide you. I do not know if Father is alive or dead, but I hope there will come a time when I can wholeheartedly pray for his soul. You, dearest Will, are always in my prayers. May we meet in the arms of Our Lord at the judgement day.
Susanna.
For the dozenth time in the past hour, Mother St. Raphael crossed herself and asked for guidance. What good would be served if Sister Philomena’s brother were to know what had happened? It was a long time ago now. According to the extern nun, Mr. Murdoch had been angry at not being allowed to see his sister’s face. These past events had nothing to do with the Order, but one could never be sure with families. She had no desire to bring shameful public attention to the convent, nor would Sister Philomena have wished that.
She replaced the letter in the box and retied the black ribbon that fastened the lid.