Sister Dolorosa, and Posthumous FameAllen, James Lane
Religion
Sister Dolorosa, and Posthumous Fame
Allen, James Lane
Kentucky -- Social life and customs -- Fiction
The passing of such a tragedy scars the nature of the penitent like the
passing of an age across a mountain rock. If there had lingered thus
long on Sister Dolorosa's nature any upland of childhood snows, these
vanished in that hour; if any vernal belt of maidenhood, it felt the hot
breath of that experience of the world and of the human destiny which
quickly ages whatever it does not destroy. So that while she prayed
there seemed to rise from within her and take flight for ever that
spotless image of herself as she once had been, and in its place to
stand the form of a woman, older, altered, and set apart by sorrow.
At length her prayer ended and she rose. It had not brought her the
peace that prayer brings to women; for the confession of her love before
the very altar--the mere coming into audience with the Eternal to
renounce it--had set upon it the seal of irrevocable truth. It is when
the victim is led to the altar of sacrifice that it turns its piteous
eyes upon the sacrificing hand and utters its poor dumb cry for life;
and it was when Sister Dolorosa bared the breast of her humanity that it
might be stabbed by the hand of her religion, that she, too, though
attempting to bless the stroke, felt the last pangs of that deep thrust.
With such a wound she turned from the altar, walked with bowed head once
more across the church, unlocked the door, stepped forth and locked it.
The night had grown more tender. The host of seraphic cloud-forms had
fled across the sky; and as she turned her eyes upward to the heavens,
there looked down upon her from their serene, untroubled heights only
the stars, that never falter or digress from their fore-written courses.
The thought came to her that never henceforth should she look up to them
without being reminded of how her own will had wandered from its orbit.
The moon rained its steady beams upon the symbol of the sacred heart on
her bosom, until it seemed to throb again with the agony of the
crucifixion. Never again should she see it without the remembrance that
_her_ sin also had pierced it afresh.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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