While she pondered, unable to believe that the nuns' prayers had saved her, unwilling to discard the idea, the Prioress told of the three nuns who came to England about thirty years ago to make the English foundation. But of this part of the story Evelyn lost a great deal; her interest was not caught again until the Prioress began to tell how a young girl in society, rich and beautiful, whose hand was sought by many, came to the rescue of these three nuns with all her fortune and a determination to dedicate her life to God. Her story did not altogether catch Evelyn's sympathies, and the Prioress agreed with Evelyn that her conduct in leaving her aged parents was open to criticism. We owe something to others, and it appears that an idea had come into her mind when she was twelve years old that she would like to be a nun, and though she appeared to like admiration and to encourage one young man, yet she never really swerved from her idea, she always told him she would enter a convent.
Evelyn did not answer, for she was thinking of the strange threads one finds in the weft of human life. Every one follows a thread, but whither do the threads lead? Into what design? And while Evelyn was thinking the Prioress told how the house in which they were now living had been bought with five thousand out of the thirty thousand pounds which this girl had brought to the convent. The late Prioress was blamed for this outlay. Blame often falls on innocent shoulders, for how could she have foreseen the increased taxation? how could she have foreseen that no more rich postulants would come to the convent, only penniless converts turned out by their relations, and aged governesses? A great deal of the money had been lost in a railway, and it was lost at a most unfortunate time, only a few days before the lawyer had written to say that the Australian mine in which most of their money was invested had become bankrupt.
"There was nothing for us to do," the Prioress said, "but to mortgage the property, and this mortgage is our real difficulty, and its solution seems as far off as ever. There seems to be no solution. We are paying penal interest on the money, and we have no security that the mortgagee will not sell the property. He has been complaining that he can do better with his money, though we are paying him five and six per cent.
"And if he were to sell the property, Mother, you would all have to go back to your relations?"
"All of us have not relations, and few have relations who would take us in. The lay sisters—what is to become of them?—some of them old women who have given up their lives. Frankly, Evelyn, I am at my wits' end."
"But, Mother, have I not offered to lend you the money? It will be a great pleasure to me to do it, and in some way I feel that I owe the money."
"Owe the money, Evelyn?"
The women sat looking at each other, and at the end of a long silence the Prioress said:
"It is impossible for us to take your money, my child?"
"But something must be done, Mother."
"If you were staying with us a little longer—"
"I have made no plans to leave you." And to turn the conversation from herself Evelyn spoke of the crowds that came to Benediction.
"To hear you, dear, and when you leave us our congregation will be the same as it was before, a few pious old Catholic ladies living on small incomes who can hardly afford to put a shilling into the plate." Evelyn spoke of the improvement of the choir, and the Prioress interrupted her, saying, "Don't think for a moment that any reformation in the singing of the plain chant is likely to bring people to our church; the Benedictine gradual versus the Ratisbon." And the Prioress shrugged her shoulders contemptuously. "What has brought us a congregation is you, my dear—your voice and your story which is being talked about. The story is going the rounds that you are going to become a nun, and that interests everybody. An opera singer entering a convent! Such a thing was never heard of before, and they come to hear you."
"But, Mother, I never said I was going to join the Order. I only came here in the hope—"
"And I accepted you as a postulant in the hope that you would persevere. All this seems very selfish, Evelyn. It looks as if we were only thinking! of your money; but you know it isn't so."
"Indeed, I do, Mother. I know it isn't so."
"When are you going to leave us?"
"Well, nothing is decided. Every day I expect to hear from my father, and if he wishes—"
"But if he doesn't require you? By remaining with us you may find you have a vocation. Other women have persevered and discovered in the end—" The Prioress's face changed expression, and Evelyn began to think that perhaps the Prioress had discovered a vocation in herself, after long waiting, and though she had become Prioress discovered too late that perhaps she had been mistaken. "You have no intention of joining the Order?"
"You mean to become a novice and then to become a nun and live here with you?"
"You need say no more."
"But you don't think I have deceived you, Mother?"
"No, I don't blame anybody, only a hope has gone. Besides, I at least, Evelyn, shall be very sorry to part with you, sorry for many reasons which I may not tell you… in the convent we don't talk of our past life." And Evelyn wondered what the Prioress alluded to. "Has she a past like mine? What is her story?"
The canaries began singing, and they sang so loudly the women could hardly hear themselves speak. Evelyn got up and waved her handkerchief at the birds, silencing them.
* * * * *
Late that night a telegram came telling Evelyn that her father was dangerously ill, and she was to start at once for Rome.
XIX
The wind had gathered the snow into the bushes and all the corners of the common, and the whole earth seemed but a little brown patch, with a dead grey sky sweeping by. For many weeks the sky had been grey, and heavy clouds had passed slowly, like a funeral, above the low horizon. The wind had torn the convent garden until nothing but a few twigs remained; even the laurels seemed about to lose their leaves. The nuns had retreated with blown skirts; Sister Mary John had had to relinquish her digging, and her jackdaw had sought shelter in the hen-house.
One night, when the nuns assembled for evening prayer, the north wind seemed to lift the roof as with hands; the windows were shaken; the nuns divined the wrath of God in the wind, and Miss Dingle, who had learned through pious incantation that the Evil One would attempt a descent into the convent, ran to warn the porteress of the danger. At that moment the wind was so loud that the portress listened, perforce, to the imaginings of Miss Dingle's weak brain, thinking, in spite of herself, that some communication had been vouchsafed to her. "Who knows," her thoughts said, "who can say? The ways of Providence are inscrutable." And she looked at the little daft woman as if she were a messenger.
As they stood calculating the strength of the lock and hinges the door-bell suddenly began to jingle.
"He wouldn't ring the bell; he would come down the chimney," said
Miss Dingle.
"But who can it be?" said the portress, "and at this hour."
"This will save you." Miss Dingle thrust a rosary into the nun's hand and fled down the passage. "Be sure to throw it over his neck."
The nun tried to collect her scattered thoughts and her courage. Again the bell jingled; this time the peal seemed crazier than the first, and, rousing herself into action, she asked through the grating who it might be.
"It is I, Sister Evelyn; open the door quickly, Sister Agnes."
The nun held the door open, thanking God it was not the devil, and Evelyn dragged her trunk through the door, letting it drop upon the mat abruptly.
"Tell dear Mother I want to speak to her—say that I must see her—be sure to say that, and I will wait for her in the parlour."
"There is no light there; I will fetch one."
"Never mind, don't trouble; I don't want a light. But go to the
Reverend Mother and tell her I must see her before any one else."
"Of course, Sister Evelyn, of course." And the portress hurried away, feeling that things had happened in a life which was beyond her life, beyond its scope. Perhaps Sister Evelyn had come to tell the Prioress the Pope himself was dead, or had gone mad; something certainly had happened into which it was no business of hers to inquire. And this vague feeling sent her running down the passage and up the stairs, and returning breathless to Evelyn, whom she found in a chair nearly unconscious, for when she called to her Evelyn awoke as from sleep, asking where she was.
"Sister Evelyn, why do you ask? You are in Wimbledon Convent, with
Sister Agnes; what is the matter?"
"Matter? Nothing and everything." She seemed to recover herself a little. "I had forgotten, Sister Agnes, I had forgotten. But the Prioress, where is she?"
"In her room, and she will see you. But you asked me to go to the
Prioress saying she must see you—have you forgotten, Sister Evelyn?
You know the way to her room?"
Evelyn did not answer; and feeling perhaps that she might lose her
way in the convent, Sister Agnes said she would conduct her to the
Prioress, and opened the door for her, saying, "Reverend Mother,
Sister Evelyn."
There was a large fire burning in the room, and Evelyn was conscious of the warmth, of bodily comfort, and was glad to sit down.
"You are very cold, my child, you are very cold. Don't trouble to speak, take your time and get warm first." And Evelyn sat looking into the fire for a long time. At last she said:
"It is warm here, Mother, I am so glad to be here. But perhaps you will turn me away and won't have me. I know you won't, I know you won't, so why did I come all this long way?"
"My dear child, why shouldn't we be glad to have you back? We were sorry to part with you."
"That was different, that was different."
These answers, and the manner in which they were spoken even more than the answers themselves, frightened the Prioress; but unable to think of what might have happened, she sat wondering, waiting for Evelyn to reveal herself. The hour was late, and Evelyn showed no signs of speaking. Perhaps it would be better to ring for one of the lay sisters, and ask her to show Evelyn to her room.
"You will stay here to-night?"
"Yes, if you will allow me."
"Allow you, my dear child! Why speak in this way?"
"Oh, Mother, I am done for, I am done for!"
"You haven't told me yet what has happened."
Evelyn did not answer; she seemed to have forgotten everything, or to be thinking of one thing, and unable to detach her thoughts from it sufficiently to answer the Prioress's question.
"Your father—"
"My father is dead," she answered. And the Prioress, imagining her father's death to be the cause of this mental breakdown, spoke of the consolations of religion, which no doubt Mr. Innes had received, and which would enable Mr. Innes's soul to appear before a merciful God for judgment.
"There is little in this life, my dear; we should not be sorry for those who leave it—that is, if they leave it in a proper disposition of soul."
"My father died after having received the Sacraments of the Church.
Oh, his death!" And thinking it well to encourage her to speak, the
Prioress said:
"Tell me, my dear, tell me; I can understand your grief and sympathise with you; tell me everything."
And like one awakening Evelyn told how for days he had fluctuated between life and death, sometimes waking to consciousness, then falling back into a trance. In spite of the hopes the doctors had held out to him he had insisted he was dying.
"'I am worn to a thread,' he said, 'I shall flicker like that candle when it reaches the socket, and then I shall go out. But I am not afraid of death: death is a great experience, and we are all better for every experience. There is only one thing—'
"He was thinking of his work, he was sorry he was called away before his work was done; and then he seemed to forget it, to be absorbed in things of greater importance."
Sometimes the wind interrupted the Prioress's attention, and she thought of the safety of her roofs; Evelyn noticed the wind, and her notice of it served to accentuate her terror. "It is terror," the Prioress said to herself, "rather than grief."
"I waited by his bedside seeing the soul prepare for departure. The soul begins to leave the body several days before it goes; it flies round and round like a bird that is going to some distant country. I must tell you all about it, Mother. He lay for hours and hours looking into a corner of the room. I am sure he saw something there; and one night I heard him call me. I went to him and asked him what he wanted; but he lay quiet, looking into the corner of the room, and then he said, 'The wall has been taken away,' I know he saw something there. He saw something, he learnt something in that last moment that we do not know. That last moment is the only real moment of our lives, the only true moment—all the rest is falsehood, delirium, froth. The rest of life is contradictions, distractions, and lies, but in the moment before death I am sure everything becomes quite clear to us. Then we learn what we are. We do not know ourselves until then. If I ask who am I, what am I, there is no answer. We do not believe in ourselves because we do not know who we are; we do not know enough of ourselves to believe in anything. We do not believe; we acquiesce that certain things are so because it is necessary to acquiesce, but we do not believe in anything, not even that we are going to die, for if we did we should live for death, and not for life."
"Your father's death has been a great grief to you; only time will help you to recover yourself."
"Recover myself? But I shall never recover, no, Mother, never, never, never!"
The Prioress asked when Mr. Innes had died.
"I can't remember, Mother; some time ago."
The Prioress asked if he were dead a week.
"Oh, more than that, more than that."
"And you have been in Rome ever since? Why did you not come here at once?"
"Why, indeed, did I not come here?" was all Evelyn could say. She seemed to lose all recollection, or at all events she had no wish to speak, and sat silent, brooding. "Of what is she thinking?" the Prioress asked herself, "or is she thinking of anything? She seems lost in a great terror, some sin committed. If she were to confess to me. Perhaps confession would relieve her." And the Prioress tried to lead Evelyn into some account of herself, but Evelyn could only say, "I am done for, Mother, I am done for!" She repeated these words without even asking the Prioress to say no more: it seemed to her impossible to give utterance to the terror in her soul. What could have happened to her?"
"Did you meet, my child, either of the men whom you spoke to me of?"
The question only provoked a more intense agony of grief.
"Mother, Mother, Mother!" she cried, "I am done for! let me go, let me leave you."
"But, my child, you can't leave us to-night, it is too late. Why should you leave us at all?"
"Why did I ever leave you? But, Mother, don't let us talk any more about it. I know myself; no one can tell me anything about myself; it is all clear to me, all clear to me from the beginning; and now, and now, and now—"
"But, my child, all sins can be forgiven. Have you confessed?"
"Yes, Mother, I confessed before I left Italy, and then came on here feeling that I must see you; I only wanted to see you. Now I must go."
"No, my child, you mustn't go; we will talk of this to-morrow."
"No, let us never talk of it again, that I beseech you, Mother; promise me that we shall never talk of it again."
"As you like, as you like. Perhaps every one knows her own soul best…. It is not for me to pry into yours. You have confessed, and your grief is great."
The Prioress went back to her chair, feeling relieved, thinking it was well that Evelyn had confessed her sin to some Italian priest who did not know her, for it would be inconvenient for Father Daly to know Evelyn's story. Evelyn could be of great use to them; it were well, indeed, that she had not even confessed to her. She must not leave the convent; and arriving at that conclusion, suddenly she rang the bell. Nothing was said till the lay sister knocked at the door. "Will you see, Sister Agnes, that Sister Evelyn's bed is prepared for her?"
"In the guest-room or in the novitiate, Reverend Mother?"
"In the novitiate," the Prioress answered.
Evelyn had sunk again into a stupor, and, only half-conscious of what was happening to her, she followed the lay sister out of the Prioress's room.
"It is very late," the Prioress said to herself, "all the lights in the convent should be out; but the rule doesn't apply to me." And she put more coal on the fire, feeling that she must give all her mind to the solution of the question which had arisen—whether Evelyn was to remain with them to-morrow. It had almost been decided, for had she not told Sister Agnes to take Evelyn to the novitiate? But Evelyn might herself wish to leave to-morrow, and if so what inducements, what persuasion, what pressure should be used to keep her? And how far would she be justified in exercising all her influence to keep Evelyn? The Prioress was not quite sure. She sat thinking. Evelyn in her present state of mind could not be thrown out of the convent. The convent was necessary for her salvation in this world and in the next.
"She knows that, and I know it."
The Prioress's thoughts drifted into recollections of long ago; and when she awoke from her reverie it seemed that she must have been dreaming a long while: "too long" she thought; "but I have not thought of these things for many a year…. Evelyn has confessed, her sins are behind her, and it would be so inconvenient—" The Prioress's thoughts faded away; for even to herself she did not like to admit that it would be inconvenient for Evelyn to confess to Father Daly the sins she had committed—if she had committed any. Perhaps it might be all an aberration, an illusion in the interval between her father's death and her return to the convent. "Her sins have been absolved, and for guidance she will not turn to Father Daly but to me." The Reverend Mother reflected that a man would not be able to help this woman with his advice. She thought of Evelyn's terror, and how she had cried, "I am done for, I am done for!" She remembered the tears upon Evelyn's cheeks and every attitude so explicit of her grief.
"A penitent if ever there was one, one whom we must help, whom we must lead back to God. Evelyn must remain in the convent. To-morrow we must seek to persuade her. But it will not be difficult." Then, listening to the wind, the Prioress remembered that the convent roof required re-slating. "Who knows? Perhaps what happened may have been divinely ordered to bring her back to us? Who knows? who knows?" She thought of the many other things the convent required: the chapel wanted re-decorating, and they had to spare every penny they could from their food and clothing to buy candles for the altar; another item of expense was the resident chaplain; and when in bed she lay thinking that perhaps to-morrow she would find a way out of the difficulty that had puzzled her so long.
XX
"Yes, dear Mother, if you are willing to keep me I shall be glad to remain. It is good of you. How kind you all are!"
Very little more than that she could be induced to say, relapsing, after a few words, into a sort of stupor or dream, from which very often it was impossible to rouse her; and the Prioress dreaded these long silences, and often asked herself what they could mean, if the cause were a fixed idea… on which she was brooding. Or it might be that Evelyn's mind was fading, receding. If so, the responsibility of keeping her in the convent was considerable. A little time would, however, tell them. Any religious instruction was, of course, out of the question, and books would be fatal to her.
"Her mind requires rest," the Prioress said. "Even her music is a mental excitement."
"I don't think that," Sister Mary John answered. "And as for work, I have been thinking I might teach her a little carpentry. If plain carpentry does not interest her sufficiently, she might learn to work at the lathe."
"Your idea is a very good one, Sister Mary John. Go to her at once and set her to work. It is terrible to think of her sitting brooding, brooding."
"But on what is she brooding, dear Mother?"
"No doubt her father's death was a great shock."
And Sister Mary John went in search of Evelyn, and found her wandering in the garden.
"Of what are you thinking, Sister?" As Evelyn did not answer, Sister Mary John feared she resented the question. "You don't like me to walk with you?"
"Yes I do, I don't mind; but I wonder if the Prioress likes me to be here. Can you find out for me?"
"Why should you think we do not wish to have you here?"
"Well, you see, Sister—oh, it is no use talking." Her thoughts seemed to float away, and it might be five or ten minutes before she would speak again.
"I wish you would come to the woodshed, Sister. If not, I must leave you."
"Oh, I'll go to the woodshed with you."
"And will you help me with my work?"
"I help you with your work!"
There was a long, narrow table in the woodshed—some planks laid upon two tressels; and the walls were piled with all kinds of sawn wood, deal planks, and rough timber, and a great deal of broken furniture and heaps of shavings. The woodshed was so full of rubbish of all kinds that there was only just room enough to walk up and down the table. Sister Mary John was making at that time a frame for cucumbers, and Evelyn watched her planing the deal boards, especially interested when she pushed the plane down the edge of the board, and a long, narrow shaving curled out of the plane, but asking no questions.
"Now, wouldn't you like to do some work on the other side of the table, Sister?"
Evelyn did not answer, and it was not that day nor the next, but at the end of the week, that she was persuaded to take the pincers and pull the nails out of an old board.
"And when you have done that, I will show you how to plane it."
She seemed to have very little strength—or was it will that she lacked? The pincers often fell from her hands, and she would stand, lost in reverie.
"Now, Sister, you have only pulled two nails out of that board in the last ten minutes; it is really very tiresome of you, and I am waiting for it."
"Do you really mean that you are waiting for this board? Do you want it?"
"But of course; I shouldn't have asked you to draw the nails out of it if I didn't," And it was by such subterfuges that she induced Evelyn to apply herself. "Now, you won't think of anything until you have drawn out every nail, will you? Promise me." Sister Mary John put the pincers into her hand, and when the board was free of nails, it seemed that Evelyn had begun to take an interest in the fate of the board which she had prepared. She came round the table to watch Sister Mary John planing it, and was very sorry when the nun's plane was gapped by a nail which had been forgotten.
"This iron will have to go to the grinders."
"I am so sorry, Sister. Will you forgive me?"
"Yes, I'll forgive you; but you must try to pay attention."
When the cucumber-frame was finished Sister Mary John was busy making some kitchen chairs, and the cutting out of the chair-backs moved Evelyn's curiosity.
"Shall you really be able to make a chair that one can sit upon?"
"I hope so."
"Have you ever made one before?"
"Well, no, this is my first chair, but I made several stools."
The mystery of dovetailing was explained to Evelyn, and she learned that glue was required.
"Now you may, if you like, melt the glue for me."
There was a stove in the adjoining shed, and Sister Mary John lighted a fire and told Evelyn that she was to keep stirring the glue. "And be sure not to let it burn." But when she came back twenty minutes after, she found that Evelyn had wandered away from the stove to the farther end of the shed to watch a large spider.
"Oh, Sister, just look at the spider! There is a fly in the web; see how he comes out to seize his prey!"
"But, my goodness, Evelyn! what about my glue? There it is, all burnt in the pot, and I shall have to take it to the kitchen and get hot water and scrape it all out. It is really very tiresome of you."
When she returned with the glue, Evelyn said:
"You see, Sister, it is difficult to fix one's thoughts on a glue-pot; the glue melts so slowly, and, watching the spider, I lost count of the time. But I think I should like to saw something."
"That's a very good idea."
A saw was put into her hand, and half an hour after the sister came to see how Evelyn had been getting on. "Why, you will be a first-rate carpenter; you have sawn those boards capitally, wandering a little from the line, it is true, but you will do better to-morrow."
Whenever Sister Mary John heard the saw cease she cried out, "Now, Sister Evelyn, what are you thinking about? You are neglecting your work." And Evelyn would begin again, and continue until her arm ached.
"Here is Mother Abbess."
"See, dear Mother, what Evelyn has been doing. She sawed this board through all by herself, and you see she has sawn it quite straight, and she has learned how to plane a board; and as for glueing, she does it capitally!"
XXI
"What are you looking for, Sister Evelyn?"
"Veronica asked me to go into the garden; I think it was to gather some laurel-leaves, but I can't remember where they grow."
"Never mind the leaves, I will gather them for you. Take my spade and dig a little while. It is pleasanter being in the open air than in that hot sacristy."
"But I don't know how to dig. You'll only laugh at me."
"No, no. See, here is a bed of spring onions, and it wants digging out. You press the spade in as far as you can, pull down the handle, and lift out the earth. I shall be some little while away, and I expect you will have dug some yards. You can dig as far as this. Try, Evelyn, make up your mind that you will; if you make up your mind, you will succeed."
Evelyn promised.
"But you won't stay a long time, will you?" she called after the nun. "Now I know why Sister Mary John wears men's boots." And she stooped to pin up her skirt.
All the while the sky was clearing, the wind drove the clouds westward, breaking up the dark masses, scattering, winnowing, letting the sun through. Delicious was the glow, though it lasted but for a few minutes—perhaps more delicious because it was so transitory. Another patch of wind-driven clouds came up, and the world became cold and grey again. A moment afterwards the clouds passed, the sun shone out, and the delicious warmth filled mind and body with a delight that no artificial warmth could; and, to enjoy the glowing of the sun, Evelyn left her digging, and wandered away through the garden, stopping now and then to notice the progress of the spring. A late frost had cut the blossoms of the pear and the cherry; the half-blown blossom dropped at the touch of the finger, and Evelyn regretted the frost, thinking of the nets she had made.
"They'll be of very little use this year." And she wondered if the currant and gooseberry-bushes had escaped; the apples had, for they were later, unless there was another frost. "And then my nets will be of no use at all; and, I have worked so hard at them!"
The lilac-bushes were not yet in leaf—only some tiny green shoots. "We shall not have any lilac this year till the middle of May. Was there ever such a season?" Larks were everywhere, ascending in short flights, trilling as they ascended; and Evelyn listened to their singing, thinking it most curious—quaint cadenzas in which a note was wanting, like in the bagpipes, a sort of aerial bagpipes. But on a bare bough a thrush sang, breaking out presently into a little tune of five notes. "Quite a little tune; one would think the bird had been taught it." She waited for him to sing it again, but, as if not wishing to waste his song, being a careful bird, he continued a sort of recitative; then, thinking his listener had waited long enough for his little aria, he broke out again. "There it is, five notes—a distinct little tune." Why should he sing and no other thrush sing it? There was a robin; but he sang the same little roundelay all the year…. A little, pale-brown bird, fluttering among the bushes, interested her; but it was some time before she could catch fair sight of it. "A dear little wren!" she said. "It must have its nest about here." She sought it, knowing its beautifully woven house, with one hole, through which the bird passes to feed a numerous progeny, and expected to find it amid the tangle of traveller's-joy which covered an old wall.
In the convent garden there was a beautiful ash-tree, under which Evelyn had often sat with the nuns during recreation, but it showed no signs of coming into leaf; and the poplars rose up against the bright sky, like enormous brooms. The hawthorns had resisted the frost better than the sycamores. One pitied the sycamore and the chestnut-trees most of all; and, fearing they would bear no leaves that year, Evelyn stood with a black and shrivelled leaf in her hand. "Autumn, before the spring has begun," she said. "But here is Jack." And she stooped to pick up the great yellow tom-cat, whom she remembered as a kindly, affectionate animal; but now he ran away from her, turning to snarl at her. "What can have happened to our dear Jack?" she asked herself. And Miss Dingle, who had been watching her from a little distance, cried out:
"You'll not succeed in catching him; he has been very wicked lately, and is quite changed. The devil must have got into him, in spite of the blue ribbon I tied round his neck."
"How are you, Miss Dingle?"
Miss Dingle evinced a considerable shyness, and muttered under her breath that she was very well. She hoped Evelyn was the same; and ran away a little distance, then stopped and looked back, her curiosity getting the better of her. "Ordinary conversation does not suit her," Evelyn said to herself. And, when they were within speaking distance again, Evelyn asked her what had become of the blue ribbon she had tied round the cat's neck to save him from the devil.
"He tore it off—I mean the devil took it off. I can't catch him. If you'd try?—if you'd get between him and that bush. It is a pity to see a good cat go to the devil because we can't get a bit of blue ribbon on his neck."
Evelyn stood between the cat and the bush, and creeping near, caught him by the neck, and held him by the forepaws while Miss Dingle tried to tie the ribbon round his neck; but Jack struggled, and raising one of his hind paws obliged Evelyn to loose him.
"There is no use trying; he won't let it be put on his neck."
"But what will become of him? He will get more and more savage." Miss Dingle ran after the cat, who put up his tail and trotted away, eluding her. She came back, telling Evelyn that she might see the devil if she wished. "That is to say, if you are not afraid. He's in that corner, and I don't like to go there. I have hunted him out of these bushes—you need not be afraid, my rosary has been over them all."
Evelyn could see that Miss Dingle wished her to exorcise the dangerous corner, and she offered to do so.
"You have two rosaries, you might lend me one."
"No, I don't think I could. I want two, one for each hand, you see…. I have not seen you in the garden this last day or two. You've been away, haven't you?"
"I've been in Rome."
"In Rome! Then why don't you go and hunt him out… frighten him away? You don't need a rosary if you have touched the precious relics. You should be able to drive him out of the garden, and out of the park too, though the park is a big place. But here comes Sister Mary John. You will tell me another time if you've brought back anything that the Pope has worn."
Sister Mary John came striding over the broken earth, followed by her jackdaw. The bird stopped to pick up a fat worm, and the nun sent Miss Dingle away very summarily.
"I can't have you here, Alice. Go to the summer-house and worry the devil away with your holy pictures. I've no time for you, dear," she said to the jackdaw, who had alighted on her shoulder; "and I have been looking for you everywhere," she said, turning from her bird to Evelyn. "You promised me—But I suppose digging tired you?"
"No, it was not that, Sister, only the sun came out and the warmth was so delicious; I am afraid I am easily beguiled."
"We are all easily beguiled," Sister Mary John answered somewhat sharply. "Now we must try to get on with our digging. You can help me a little with it, can't you?" And looking up and down a plot about ten yards long and twenty feet wide, protected by a yew-hedge, she said, "This is the rhubarb-bed. And this piece," she said, walking to another plot between the yew-hedge and the gooseberry bushes, "will have to be dug up. We were short of vegetables last year."
"You speak very lightly, Sister, of so much digging. Do you never get tired?" So that she might not lose heart altogether, Sister Mary John told her one of these beds had been dug up in autumn, and that no more would be required than the hoeing out of the weeds.
"Is hoeing lighter work than digging?"
"You will find out soon." Evelyn set to work; but when she had cleared a large piece of weeds she had to go over the ground again, having missed a great many. "But you will soon get used to the work. Now, there's the dinner bell. Are you so tired as all that?"
"Well, you see, I have never done any digging before."
After dinner Sister Mary John without further words told her she was to go in front with the dibble and make holes for the potatoes, for an absent-minded person could not be trusted with the seed potatoes— she would be sure to break the shoots. The next week they were engaged in sowing French beans and scarlet runners, and Evelyn thought it rather unreasonable of the sister to expect her to know by instinct that French beans should not be set as closely together as the scarlet runners, and she laughed outright when the sister said, "But surely you know that broad beans must be trodden firmly into the ground?" Sister Mary John noticed her laugh. "Work in the garden suits her," she said to herself, "she is getting better; only we must be careful against a relapse. Now, Evelyn, we must weed the flower beds, or there will be no flowers for the Virgin in May." And they weeded and weeded, day after day, filling in the gaps with plants from the nursery. A few days later came the seed sowing, the mignonette, sweet pea, stocks, larkspur, poppies, and nasturtiums— all of which should have been sown earlier, the nun said, only the season was so late, and the vegetables had taken all their time.
"They all like to see flowers on the altar, but not one of them will tie up her habit and dig, and they are as ignorant as you are, dear."
"Sister, that is unkind. I have learned as much as can be expected in a month."
"You aren't so careless as you were." The two women walked a little way, and then they sat for a long time looking into the distant park, enjoying the soft south wind blowing over it. Evelyn would have liked to have sat there indefinitely, and far too soon did the nun remind her that time was going by and they must return to their work. "We have had some warm nights lately and the wallflowers are out; come and look at them, dear." And forgetful of her, Sister Mary John rose and went towards the flower garden. Evelyn was too tired to follow, and she sat watching Sister Mary John, who seemed as much part of the garden as the wind, or the rain, or the sun.
XXII
A cold shower struck the windows of the novitiate.
"Was there ever such weather? Will it never cease raining and blowing?" the novices cried, and they looked through the panes into the windy garden. Next day the same dark clouds rolled overhead, with gleams of sunshine now and then lighting up the garden and the distant common, where sometimes a horseman was seen galloping at the close of day, just as in a picture.
"How wet he will be when he gets home!" a novice would sometimes say, and the conversation was not continued.
"I wonder if we shall ever have fine weather again?" broke in another.
"One of these days it will cease raining," Mother Hilda said, for she was an optimist; and very soon she began to be looked upon as a prophetess, for the weather mended imperceptibly, and one afternoon the sky was in gala toilette, in veils and laces: a great lady stepping into her carriage going to a ball could not be more beautifully attired. An immense sky brushed over with faint wreathing clouds with blue colour showing through, a blue brilliant as any enamel worn by a great lady on her bosom; and the likeness of the clouds to plumes passed through Evelyn's mind, and her eyes wandering westward, noticed how the sky down there was a rich, almost sulphurous, yellow; it set off the white and blue aerial extravagances of the zenith. The garden was still wet and cold, but a warm air was coming in, and the voices of the nuns and novices sounded so innocent and free that Evelyn was moved by a sudden sympathy to join them.
Under yonder trees the three Mothers were walking, looking towards
Evelyn now and then; she was the subject of their conversation, the
Prioress maintaining it would be a great benefit to her to take the
veil.
"But, dear Mother, do you think she will ever recover her health sufficiently for her to decide, and for us to decide, whether she has a vocation?" Mother Hilda asked.
"It seems to me that Evelyn is recovering every day. Do you remember at first whole days passed without her speaking? Now there are times when she joins in the conversation."
Mother Mary Hilda did not answer, and a little aggressive glance shot out of the Prioress's eyes.
"You don't like to have her in the novitiate. I remember when she returned from Rome—"
"It seems to me that it would be just as well for her to live in the convent as an oblate, occupying the guest-room as before."
"Now, why do you think that, Hilda? Let us have things precise."
"Her life as an opera singer clings about her."
"On the contrary, I cannot discover any trace of her past life in her. In the chapel she seems very often overcome, and for piety seems to set an example to us all."
"You see, dear Mother, I am responsible for the religious education of some half-dozen young and innocent girls, and, though I like Evelyn herself very much, her influence—"
"But what influence? She doesn't speak."
"No matter; it is known to every one in the convent that she has once been a singer, though they don't know, perhaps, she was on the stage; and she creates an atmosphere which I assure you—"
"Of course, Hilda, you can oppose me; you always oppose. Nothing is easier than opposition. Your responsibilities, I would not attempt to deny that they exist, but you seem to forget that I, too, have responsibilities. The debts of the convent are very pressing. And Mother Philippa, too, has responsibilities."
"It would be a great advantage if Evelyn could discover she had a vocation. Four or five, perhaps six hundred a year—she must have at least that, for opera singers are very well paid, so I have always heard—would—"
"But, Mother Philippa, the whole question is whether Evelyn has a vocation. We know what the advantages would be," said Mother Hilda in a low, insinuating voice which always exasperated the Reverend Mother.
"I think it would be better to wait," Mother Philippa answered. "You see, she is suffering from a great mental breakdown; I think she should have her chance like another." And, turning to the Prioress, she said, "Dear Mother, do you think when Evelyn recovers her health sufficiently to arrive at a decision that she will stay with us?"
"Not if a dead set is made against her, and if she is made to feel she has no vocation, and that her influence is a pernicious one."
"Dear Mother, I never said—"
"Well, don't let us discuss the matter any more for the moment. Of course, if you decide that Evelyn is not to remain in the novitiate—"
"It is for you to decide the matter. You are Reverend Mother here, it is for us to obey; only since you ask me—"
"Ask you, Hilda? But you tell me nothing. You merely oppose. What is your dislike to Evelyn?"
"Dislike!"
"I am sure there is no dislike on Mother Hilda's part," Mother Philippa said; "I am quite sure of that, Reverend Mother. Evelyn's health is certainly improving, and I hope she will soon be able to sing for us again at Benediction. Haven't you noticed that our congregation is beginning to fall away? And you won't deny that the fact that an opera singer wishes to enter our convent gives a distinction—"
"It depends, Mother Philippa, in what sense you use the word 'distinction.' But I see you don't agree with me; you think with the Prioress that Evelyn is—"
"Don't let us argue this question any more. Hilda, go and tell Evelyn
I want her."
"How Hilda does try to thwart me, to make things more difficult than they are!"
"Evelyn, my dear child, I have sent for you to ask if you feel well enough to-day to sing for us at Benediction?"
"Oh, yes, dear Mother, why shouldn't I sing for you? What would you like me to sing?"' The Prioress hesitated, and then asked Evelyn to suggest some pieces, and after several suggestions Evelyn said:
"Perhaps it would be better if I were to call Sister Mary John, if you will allow me, Mother." And she went away, calling to the other nun, who came quickly from the kitchen garden in her big boots and her habit tucked up nearly to her knees, looking very much more like a labouring woman than a musician.
"We were talking just now of what Evelyn would sing for us at Benediction; perhaps you had better go away and discuss the matter between you."
"Will you sing Stradella's 'Chanson d'Eglise' or will you sing
Schubert's 'Ave Maria'? Nothing is more beautiful than that."
"I will sing the 'Ave Maria.'"
The nun sat down to play it, but she had not played many bars when
Evelyn interrupted her. "The intention of the single note, dear
Sister, the octave you are striking now, has always seemed to me like
a distant bell heard in the evening. Will you play it so."
XXIII
And the idea of a bell sounding across the evening landscape was in the mind of the congregation when Sister Mary John played the octave; and the broken chords she played with her right hand awoke a sensation of lights dying behind distant hills.
It is almost night, and amid a lonely landscape a harsh rock appears, and by it a forlorn woman stands—a woman who is without friend or any mortal hope—and she commends herself to the care of the Virgin. She begins to sing softly, tremulous, like one in pain and doubt, "Ave Maria, hearken to the Virgin's cry." The melody she sings is rich, even ornate, but the richness of the phrase, with its two little grace notes, does not mitigate the sorrow at the core; the rich garb in which the idea is clothed does not rob the song of its humanity.
Evelyn's voice filled with the beauty of the melody, and she sang the phrase which closes the stanza—a phrase which dances like a puff of wind in an evening bough—so tenderly, so lovingly, that acute tears trembled under the eyelids. And all her soul was in her voice when she sang the phrase of passionate faith which the lonely, disheartened woman sings, looking up from the desert rock. Then her voice sank into the calm beauty of the "Ave Maria," now given with confidence in the Virgin's intercession, and the broken chords passed down the keyboard, uniting with the last note of the solemn octaves, which had sounded through the song like bells heard across an evening landscape.
"How beautifully she sings it!" a man said out loud, and his neighbour looked and wondered, for the man's eyes were full of tears.
"You have a beautiful voice, child," said the Prioress when they came out of church, "and it is a real pleasure to me to hear you sing, and it will be a greater pleasure when I know that for the future your great gift will be devoted to the service of God. Shall we go into the garden for a little walk before supper? We shall have it to ourselves, and the air will do you good."
It was the month of June, and the convent garden was in all the colour of its summer—crimson and pink; and all the scents of the month, stocks and sweetbriar, were blown up from St. Peter's Walk. In the long mixed borders the blue larkspurs stood erect between Canterbury bells and the bush peonies, crimson and pink, and here and there amid furred leaves, at the end of a long furred stalk, flared the foolish poppy, roses like pale porcelain clustered along the low terraced walk and up the house itself, over the stucco walls; but more beautiful than the roses were the delicate petals of the clematis, stretched out like fingers upon the walls.
An old nun was being wheeled up and down the terrace in a bath-chair by one of the lay sisters, that she might enjoy the sweet air.
"I must say a word to Sister Lawrence," the Prioress said, "she will never forgive me if I don't. She is the eldest member of our community; if she lives another two years, she will complete half a century of convent life."
As they drew near Evelyn saw two black eyes in a white, almost fleshless face. The eyes alone seemed to live, and the shrunken figure, huddled in many shawls, gave an impression of patriarchal age. Evelyn saw by her veil that Sister Lawrence was a lay sister, and the old nun tried to draw herself up in her chair as they approached, and kissed the hand of the Prioress.
"Well, Sister, how are you feeling? I have brought you our new musical postulant to look at. I want to know what you think of her. You must know, Evelyn," said the Prioress, "that Sister Lawrence is a great judge of people's vocations; I always consult her about my new postulants."
Sister Lawrence took Evelyn's hands between hers and gazed into her face so earnestly that Evelyn feared her innermost thoughts were being read. Then, with a little touch of wilfulness, that came oddly from one so old and venerable, the Sister said:
"Well, Reverend Mother, she is pretty anyhow, and it is a long time since we had a pretty postulant."
"Really, Sister Lawrence, I am ashamed of you," said the Prioress with playful severity; "Sister Evelyn will be quite disedified."
"Mother, if I like them to be pretty it is only because they have one more gift to bring to the feet of our dear Lord. I see in Sister Evelyn's face that she has a vocation. I believe she is the providence that God has sent to help us through our difficulties."
"We are all praying," said the Prioress, "that it may be so."
"Well, Hilda, you'll agree with me now, I think, that we have every reason to hope."
"Hope for what, dear Mother?"
"That we shall discover a vocation in Evelyn. You heard what Sister
Lawrence said, and she has had great experience."
"It is possible to God, of course, that an opera singer may find a vocation for the religious life, and live happily in a community of nuns devoted to Perpetual Adoration."
"But you don't believe God desires that such a thing should come to pass?"
"I shouldn't like to say that, it would be too presumptuous; but it would be entirely out of the ordinary course."
The Prioress began to wonder if Mother Hilda suspected that some great sin committed while she was in Rome was the cause of Evelyn's nervous breakdown; and the Mistress of the Novices, as she walked by the side of the Prioress, began to wonder why the Prioress wished that Evelyn should become a nun. It might be that the Prioress, who was a widow, was interested in the miracle of the great shock which had caused Evelyn to relinquish her career and to turn to the Church! That might be her motive, she reflected. Those who have lived in the world are attracted and are interested in each other, and are to some extent alien to the real nun, to her who never doubts her vocation from the first and resolves from the first to bring her virginity to God—it being what is most pleasing to him. It might be that the Prioress was influenced, unconsciously, of course, by some such motive; yet it was strange that she should be able to close her eyes to Evelyn's state of mind. The poor woman was still distracted and perplexed by a great shock which had happened before she came to the convent and which had been aggravated by another when she went to Rome; she had returned to them as to a refuge from herself. Such mental crises often happened to women of the world, to naturally pious women; but natural piety did not in the least mean a vocation, and Mother Hilda had to admit to herself that she could discover no sign of a vocation in Evelyn. How were it possible to discover one? She was not herself, and would not be for a long while, if she ever recovered herself. Mother Prioress had chosen to admit her as a postulant…. Even that concession Mother Hilda did not look upon with favour. Why not go one step farther and make Miss Dingle a postulant? It seemed to her that if Mother Prioress insisted that Evelyn should take the white veil at present, a very serious step would be taken. It was the Mistress of the Novices who would be responsible for Evelyn's instruction, and Evelyn was hardly ever in the novitiate; she was always singing, or working in the garden.
XXIV
"I am afraid, dear Mother, her progress towards recovery is slow."
"I don't agree with you. A great nervous breakdown! That journey to Rome, only to see her father die before her eyes, was a great shock— such a one as it would take anybody a long time to recover from. Evelyn is very highly-strung, there can be no doubt of that. I wonder how it is that you don't understand?"
"But I do understand, dear Mother, only I find it hard to believe that the time has come for her to take the white veil."
"Or that it will ever come?"
"The other day she said in the novitiate she was sure she would go to hell, and that she wouldn't be able to bear the uncertainty much longer…."
"What ever did she mean? You must have misunderstood her, Mother Hilda." And the Prioress determined to talk to Evelyn "on the first occasion"—the first occasion with the Prioress meant the very next minute. So she went in search of her, and finding her by the fishpond, quite unaware that any one was watching her, the thought crossed the Prioress's mind that Hilda might be right after all: Evelyn might be sitting there thinking how, after a short struggle, the water would end the misery that was consuming her.
"Evelyn, dear, of what are you thinking?"
"Only of the fish, dear Mother. You know they are quite deaf; fish haven't ears. There is a legend, however, of a boy playing the flute and the fish leaping to listen."
"If her health doesn't improve," the Prioress said to herself, "we shall not be able to keep her.
"Evelyn, dear, you are not looking very well; I am afraid you haven't been sleeping lately."
"Last night I hardly closed my eyes, dear Mother, and to-day there is no reality anywhere. One begins to hate everything—the shapes of the trees, the colour of the sky."
"It is just what I suspected," the Prioress said to herself, "she was thinking of suicide. Suicide in a convent—such a thing has never happened. Yet why shouldn't such a thing happen? Everything happens in this world."
But, notwithstanding some alarming relapses, Evelyn's health continued to improve, slowly, but it continued to improve; and after a long day's work in the garden she would talk quite cheerfully, saying that that night for sure she would get some hours of sleep. The Prioress listened, saying to herself, "There is no doubt that manual work is the real remedy, the only remedy." Sister Mary John was of the same opinion, and the Prioress relied on Sister Mary John to keep Evelyn hoeing and digging when it was fine, and making nets in the work-shop when it was wet. She was encouraged to look after the different pets; and there were a good many to look after; her three cats occupied a good deal of her time, for the cats were always anxious to kill her tame birds. One cat had killed several, so the question had arisen whether he should be drowned in the fishpond or trained to respect caged birds. The way to do this, Evelyn had been told, was to put a caged bird on the ground in front of the cat, and, standing over him with a cane, strike swiftly and severely the moment the cat crouched to spring. A cat above all other animals hates to be beaten, for a cat is probably one of the most sagacious animals, more even than a dog, though he does not care to show it. The beating of the cat was repellent to Evelyn, but Sister Mary John had no such scruples, and the beatings proved so efficient that the cat would run away the moment he was shown a bird in a cage. In turn each of the cats received its lesson, and henceforth Evelyn's last presents— blackbirds, thrushes, linnets, and bull-finches—lived in safety.
The feeding of these birds and the cleaning of the aviary occupied two hours a day during the winter. She had also her greenhouse to attend to; herself and Sister Mary John, with some help from the outside, had built one, and hot-water pipes had been put in; and her love of flowers was so great that she would run down the garden even when the ground was covered with snow to stoke up the fire, if she thought she had forgotten to do so, saying that they would have no tulips, or lily of the valley, or azaleas for the altar, if the temperature were allowed to drop. Her talk was all about her garden, and when the spring returned she was working there constantly with Sister Mary John in the morning till the Angelus rang at twelve; then they went into dinner, and as soon as dinner was over Evelyn returned with Sister Mary John to the garden and worked till it was time to go into church for Benediction. Or sometimes they left the garden when the other nuns went there for recreation, having music to try over, for now, since she had recovered her health, Evelyn sang every day at Benediction.
"There is no reason why she should remain any longer with us," the Prioress often said, "unless there is some hope of her staying altogether. You will admit, Hilda, that her health is much improved, and that she is capable now of arriving at some decision."
"There is no doubt her health is improving."
"And her piety—have you noticed it? She almost sets us an example."
Mother Hilda did not answer, and the Prioress understood her silence to mean that she would hardly look upon Evelyn as an example for the convent to follow.
"Well, something will have to be decided." And one evening the Prioress asked Mother Philippa and Mother Hilda to her room after evening prayers.
"We were talking of Evelyn the other day in the garden, Hilda, and you admitted that she was in a state now to decide whether she should go or stay."
"You mean, dear Mother, that Evelyn must either leave us or join the community?"
"Or show some signs that she wishes to join it. Her postulancy has been unduly prolonged; it is nearly a year since she returned from Rome, and she was a postulant for six months before that."
"You think that if she hadn't a vocation she would have left us before? But are you not forgetting that she was suffering from a nervous breakdown, and came here with the intention of seeking rest rather than becoming one of us?"
"Her health has been mending this long while. Really, Hilda—"
"I am sorry, Mother, if I seem stubborn."
"Not stubborn, but I should like to hear you explain your reasons for thinking Evelyn has not a vocation. And Mother Philippa is most anxious to hear them, too."
Mother Philippa listened, thinking of her bed, wondering why Mother
Mary Hilda kept them up by refusing to agree with the Prioress.
"I am afraid I shall not be able to say anything that will convince you. I have had some experience—"
"We know that you are very experienced, otherwise you would not be the Mistress of the Novices. You don't believe in Evelyn's vocation?"
"I'm afraid I don't, and—"
"And what, Mother Hilda? We are here for the purpose of listening to you. We shall be influenced by everything you say, so pray speak your mind fully."
"About Evelyn? But that is just my point; there is nothing for me to say about her. I hardly know her; she has hardly been in the novitiate since she returned from Rome." "You think before taking the veil she should receive more religious instruction from you?"
"She certainly should. I grant you Evelyn is a naturally pious woman, and that counts for a great deal; but what I attach importance to is that she is still alien to the convent, knowing hardly anything of our rule, of our observances. A novice spends six months in the novitiate with me learning obedience, how to forget herself, how she is merely an instrument, and how the greatest purpose of her life is to obey."
"It is impossible to overestimate the value of obedience, but there are some—I will not say who can dispense with obedience, of course not, but who cannot put off their individualities, who cannot become the merely typical novice—that one who would tell you, if she were asked to describe the first six months of her life in the convent, that all she remembered was a great deal of running up and down stairs. There are some who may not be moulded, but who mould themselves; and they are not the worst, sometimes they are the best nuns. For instance, Sister Mary John—who will doubt her vocation? And yet there is not a more headstrong nun in our community. I don't wish to say one word against Sister Mary John, who is an example to us all; it is only to answer your objection that I mentioned her."
"Sister Mary John is quite different," Mother Hilda answered. And, after waiting some moments for Mother Hilda to continue, the Prioress said:
"You would wish her, then, to spend some time longer with you in the novitiate?"
"I am not sure it would be of any use. There is another matter about which I hardly like to speak; still, I must remind you that the convent has never been the same since she came here. She has not been herself since she came back from Rome, but now she is regaining herself, and you cannot have failed to notice that both Sister Mary John and Veronica are drawn towards her. I am sure they are not aware of it, and would resent my criticism as unjust. Not only Sister Mary John and Veronica, but all of us; it seems to me that we all talk too much about her… I am sometimes almost glad that she is so little in the novitiate. Her influence on such simple-minded young women as Sister Jerome and Sister Barbara must be harmful—how could it be otherwise, coming out of another world? and her voice, too—you don't agree with me?" And Mother Hilda turned to Mother Philippa. Mother Philippa shook her head, and confessed she had not the slightest notion of what Mother Hilda meant.
"But you have, dear Mother?"
"Yes, I know very well what you mean, only I don't agree with you. Her singing, of course, gives her an exceptional position in the convent, but I don't think she avails herself of it; indeed, her humility has often seemed to me most striking."
"In that I agree with you," Mother Hilda answered; "so I feel that perhaps, after all, I may be misjudging her."
At this concession the Prioress's manner softened at once towards the
Mistress of the Novices.
"Well, Hilda, come, tell me, have you said everything you have to say? Have you given us your full reasons for not wishing Evelyn to take the veil if she should decide to do so? I see you hesitate. I asked you here to-night so that you might speak your mind. Let everything be said. There is no use telling me afterwards that you didn't say things because you thought I wouldn't like to hear them. Say everything."
Pressed by the Prioress, Mother Hilda admitted that she was concerned regarding the motive which actuated the Prioress and Mother Philippa.
"I include her."
Mother Philippa looked up suddenly. The Prioress smiled.
"My motive!" said Mother Philippa.
"Nothing is farther from my thought than to attribute a wrong motive to anybody, but I am not quite sure, dear Mother, that you would be as anxious for Evelyn to join our community if she had no money… and no voice."
"Situated as we are, we cannot accept penniless women as choir sisters. You know that well enough—am I not right, Mother Philippa?"
And Mother Philippa agreed that no one could be admitted into the convent as a choir sister unless she brought some money with her.
"But you hold a different opinion, Hilda?"
"I understand that we cannot admit as a choir sister a woman who has no money; but that is quite different from admitting an opera singer because she has money and can sing for us. It seems to me that nuns devoted to Perpetual Adoration should not yield themselves to money considerations."
"Yield to money considerations—no; but as long as we live upon earth, we shall live dependent upon money in some form or another. Our pecuniary embarrassments—you know all about them. I need not refer to the mortgagee, who, at any moment, may foreclose. Think of what it would be if this house were to be put up for sale, and we had all to return to our relations. How many are there who have relations who would take them in? And the lay sisters—what would become of them and our duties towards them—they who have worked for us all these years? Sister Lawrence—would you like to see her on the roadside, or carried to the workhouse? Spiritual considerations come first, of course, but we must have a house to live in and a chapel to pray in. Do you never think of these things, Hilda?"
"Yes, and I appreciate the anxiety our pecuniary difficulties cause you, dear Mother. I am not indifferent, I assure you, but I cannot help feeling that anything were better than we should stop, instead of going forward, towards the high ideal—"
"Well, Hilda, are you prepared to risk it? We have a chance of redeeming the convent from debt—will you accept the responsibility?"
"Of what, dear Mother?"
"Of refusing to agree that Evelyn shall be allowed to take the white veil, if she wishes to take it."
"But taking the white veil will not enable us to get hold of her money. We shall have to wait till she is professed."
"But if she is given the white veil," the Prioress answered sternly, "she will be induced to remain. The fact of her taking the white veil is a great inducement, and a year hence who knows—"
"Well, dear Mother, you will act, I am sure, for the best. Perhaps it would have been better if you had not consulted me; but, having consulted me, I had to tell you what I think. I am aware that in practical matters I am but a very poor judge. Remember, I passed, like Veronica, from the schoolroom to the convent. But you know the world."
"It is very kind of you to admit so much; but it seems to me, Hilda, you are only admitting that much so as to give a point to your contention, or what I suppose is your contention—that those who never knew the world may attain to a more intense spirituality than poor women such as myself and Mother Philippa here, who did not enter the convent as early in life as you did… but who renounced the world."
The sharp tone of the Prioress's voice, when she mentioned Mother
Philippa's name, awoke the nun, who had been dozing.
"Well, Mother Philippa, what is your opinion?"
"It seems to me," the nun answered, now wide awake, "that it is a matter for Evelyn to decide. You think I was asleep, but I wasn't; I heard everything you said. You were discussing your own scruples of conscience, which seem to me quite beside the question. Our conscience has nothing to do with the matter; it is all a question for Evelyn to decide herself… as soon as she is well, of course."
"And she is now quite well. I will see her to-morrow on the subject."
On this the Prioress rose to her feet, and the other two nuns understood that the interview was at an end.