Sister Dolorosa, and Posthumous FameAllen, James Lane
Religion
Sister Dolorosa, and Posthumous Fame
Allen, James Lane
Kentucky -- Social life and customs -- Fiction
It was when she had grown weary of books, of the imaginary drama of her
life, and the loveliness of Nature, that Sister Dolorosa was sent by the
Mother Superior on those visits of sympathy to old Martha Cross; and it
was during her return from one of them that there befell her that
adventure which she had deemed too slight to mention.
III.
Her outward history was that night made known to Gordon Helm by old
Martha Cross. When Sister Dolorosa passed him he followed her at a
distance until she entered the convent gates. It caused him subtle pain
to think what harm might be lurking to ensnare her innocence. But
subtler pain shot through him as he turned away, leaving her housed
within that inaccessible fold.
Who was she, and from what mission returning alone at such an hour
across those darkening fields? He had just come to the edge of the corn
and started to follow up the path in quest of shelter for the night,
when he had caught sight of her on the near hill-top, outlined with
startling distinctness against the jasper sky and bathed in a tremulous
sea of lovely light. He had held his breath as she advanced towards
him. He had watched the play of emotions in her face as she paused a few
yards off, and her surprise at the discovery of him--the timid start;
the rounding of the fawn-like eyes; the vermeil tint overspreading the
transparent purity of her skin: her whole nature disturbed like a
wind-shaken anemone. All this he now remembered as he returned along the
footpath. It brought him to the door of the farm-house, where he
arranged to pass the night.
"You are a stranger in this part of the country," said the old housewife
an hour later.
When he came in she had excused herself from rising from her chair by
the chimney-side; but from that moment her eyes had followed him--those
eyes of the old which follow the forms of the young with such despairing
memories. By the chimney-side sat old Ezra, powerful, stupid, tired,
silently smoking, and taking little notice of the others. Hardly a chill
was in the air, but for her sake a log blazed in the cavernous fireplace
and threw its flickering light over the guest who sat in front.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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