Chapter 18

"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.

"Dear Mother, I know how great your difficulties are," said Mother Hilda, "and I am loth to oppose your wishes in anything. I know how wise you are, how much wiser than we--but however foolishly I may appear to be acting, you will understand that I cannot act differently, feeling as I do."

"I understand that, Hilda; we all must act according to our lights. And now we must go to bed, we are breaking all the rules of the house."

XXV

After breakfast Veronica came to Evelyn, saying that dear Mother would like to speak to her. Evelyn nodded, and went gaily to see the Prioress in her room on the ground-floor. Its long French windows, opening on to the terrace-walk, appealed to her taste; and the crowded writing-table, on which stood a beautiful crucifix in yellow ivory. Papers and tin boxes were piled in one corner. But there was no carpet, and only one armchair, over-worn and shabby. There were flowers in vases and bowls, and, in a large cage, canaries uttered their piercing songs.

"I like your room, dear Mother, and wish you would send for me a little oftener. All your writing--now couldn't I do some of it for you?"

"Yes, Evelyn, I should like to use you sometimes as a secretary... if you are going to remain with us."

"I don't know what you mean, Mother."

"Well, sit down. I have sent for you because I want to have a little talk with you on this subject." And she spoke of Evelyn's postulancy; of how long it had lasted. It seemed to the Prioress that it would be better, supposing Evelyn did not intend to remain with them, for her to live with them as an oblate, occupying the guest-chamber.

"Your health doesn't permit much religious instruction; but one of these days you will realise better than you do now what our life is, and what its objects are."

So did the Prioress talk, getting nearer the point towards which she was making, without, however, pressing Evelyn to answer any direct question, leading her towards an involuntary decision.

"But, dear Mother, I am safe here, you know."

"And yet you fear, my dear child, you have no vocation?"

"Well, it seems extraordinary that I--"

"More extraordinary things have happened in the world than that; besides, there is much time for you to decide. No one proposes that you should be admitted to the Order to-morrow; such a thing, you know, is impossible, but the white veil is a great help. Evelyn, dear, this question has been running in my mind some time back--is it well for you to remain a postulant any longer? The white veil, again I say, is such a help."

"A help for what, dear Mother?"

"Well, it will tell you if you have a vocation; at the end of the year you will know much better than you know now."

"I a nun!" Evelyn repeated.

"In a year you will be better able to decide. Extraordinary things have happened."

"But it would be extraordinary," Evelyn said, speaking to herself rather than to the nun.

"I have spoken to Mother Hilda and Mother Philippa on the subject, and they are agreed that if you are to remain in the convent it would be better for you to take the white veil."

"Or do they think that it would be better for me to leave the convent?"

"It would be impossible for us to think such a thing, my dear child."

"But what I would wish to understand, dear Mother, is this--have I to decide either to leave the convent or to take the white veil?"

"Oh, no; but you have been so long a postulant."

"But when I went to Rome my postulancy--"

"Even so, you have been a postulant for over a year; and, should you discover that you have no vocation, the fact of having been a novice, of having worn the white veil, will be a protection to you ever afterwards, should you return to the world."

"You think so, dear Mother?"

And the Prioress read in Evelyn's face that she had touched the right note.

"Yes, to have a name, for instance--not only the veil, but the name. I have been thinking of a name for you--what do you think of 'Teresa'?"

"Teresa!" Evelyn answered. And her thoughts went to the great nun whose literature she had first read in the garden outside, when she walked there as a visitor. It was under a certain tree, where she had often sat since with Mother Hilda and the novices, that she had first read the "Autobiography" and "The Way of Perfection." There were the saints' poems, too; and, thinking of them, a pride awoke in her that for a time, at least, she should bear the saint's name. The Prioress was right, the saint's name would fortify her against her enemy; and her noviceship would be something to look back upon, and the memory of it would protect her when she left the convent.

"I am glad that we shall have you, at all events, for some months more with us--some months more for sure, perhaps always. But take time to consider it."

"Dear Mother, I am quite decided."

"Think it over. You can tell me your decision some time in the afternoon, or to-morrow."

It was a few days after that the Prioress took Evelyn up to the novitiate, where the novices were making the dress that Evelyn was to wear when she received the white veil.

"You see, Teresa, we spare no expense or trouble on your dress," said the Prioress.

"Oh, it is no trouble, dear Mother." And Sister Angela rose from her chair and turned the dress right side out and shook it, so that Evelyn might admire the handsome folds into which the silk fell.

"And see, here is the wreath," said Sister Jerome, picking up a wreath of orange-blossoms from a chair.

"And what do you think of your veil, Sister Teresa? Sister Rufina did this feather-stitch. Hasn't she done it beautifully?"

"And Sister Rufina is making your wedding-cake. Mother Philippa has told her to put in as many raisins and currants as she pleases. Yours will be the richest cake we have ever had in the convent." Sister Angela spoke very demurely, for she was thinking of the portion of the cake that would come to her, and there was a little gluttony in her voice as she spoke of the almond paste it would have upon it.

"It is indeed a pity," said Sister Jerome, "that Sister Teresa's clothing takes place so early in the year."

"How so, Sister Jerome?" Evelyn asked incautiously.

"Because if it had been a little later, or if Monsignor had not been delayed in Rome--I only thought," she added, stopping short, "that you would like Monsignor to give you the white veil--it would be nicer for you; or if the Bishop gave it," she added, "or Father Ambrose. I am sure Sister Veronica never would have been a nun at all if Father Ambrose had not professed her. Father Daly is such a little frump."

"That will do, children; I cannot really allow our chaplain to be spoken of in that manner." And Mother Hilda looked at Evelyn, thinking, "Well, the Prioress has had her way with her."

The recreation-bell rang, and the novices clattered down the stairs of the novitiate, their childish eagerness rousing Evelyn from the mild stupor which still seemed to hang about her mind; and she smiled at the novices and at herself, for suddenly it had all begun to seem to her like a scene in a play, herself going to take the white veil and to become a nun, at all events, for a while. "Now, how is all this to end?" she asked herself. "But what does it matter?" Clouds seemed to envelop her mind again, and she acquiesced when the Prioress said:

"I think your retreat had better begin to-day."

"When, Mother?"

"Well, from this moment."

"If Teresa will come into the garden with me," said Mother Hilda.

It was impossible for the Prioress to say no, and a slaty blush of anger came into her cheek. "Hilda will do all she can to prevent her." Nor was the Prioress wholly wrong in her surmise, for they had not walked very far before Evelyn admitted that the idea of the white veil frightened her a great deal.

"Frightens you, my dear child?"

"But if I had a vocation I should not feel frightened. Isn't that so, Mother Hilda?"

"I shouldn't like to say that, Teresa. One can feel frightened and yet desire a thing very much; desire and fear are not incompatible."

Tears glistened in her eyes, and she appealed to Mother Hilda, saying:

"Dear Mother, I don't know why I am crying, but I am very unhappy. There is no reason why I should be, for here I am safe."

"Will she ever recover her mind sufficiently to know what she is doing?" Mother Hilda asked herself.

"It is always," Evelyn said, "as if I were trying to escape from something." Mother Hilda pressed her to explain. "I cannot explain myself better than by telling that it is as if the house were burning behind me, and I were trying to get away."

That evening Mother Hilda consulted the Prioress, telling her of Evelyn's tears and confusion.

"But, Hilda, why do you trouble her with questions as to whether she would like to be a nun or not? As I have said repeatedly, the veil is a great help, and, in a year hence, Teresa will know whether she'd like to join our community. In the meantime, pray let her be in peace and recover herself." The Prioress's voice was stern.

"Only this, dear Mother--"

"The mistake you make, Hilda, seems to me to be that you imagine every one turns to religion and to the convent for the same reason, whereas the reasons that bring us to God are widely different. You are disappointed in Teresa, not because she lacks piety, but because she is not like Jerome or Angela or Veronica, whom we both know very well. Each seeks her need in religion, and you are not acquainted with Teresa's, that is all. Now, Hilda, obedience is the first of all the virtues, and I claim yours in all that regards Teresa." Mother Hilda raised her quiet eyes and looked into the Prioress's face, and then lowered them again. "We should be lacking in our duty," the Prioress continued, "if we don't try to keep her by all legitimate means. She will receive the white veil at the end of the week; try to prepare her for her clothing, instruct her in the rule of our house; no one can do that as well as you."

Lifting her eyes again for a moment, Mother Hilda answered that it should be as the Prioress wished--that she would do her best to instruct Teresa; and she moved away slowly, the Prioress not seeking to detain her any longer in her room.

XXVI

Next day in the novitiate Mother Hilda explained to Evelyn how the centre of their life was the perpetual adoration of the Blessed Sacrament exposed on the altar.

"Our life is a life of expiation; we expiate by our prayers and our penances and our acts of adoration the many insults which are daily flung at our divine Lord by those who not only disobey His commandments, but deny His very presence on our altars. To our prayers of expiation we add prayers of intercession; we pray for the many people in this country outside the faith who offend our Lord Jesus Christ more from ignorance than from malice. All our little acts of mortification are offered with this intention. From morning Mass until Benediction our chapel, as you know, is never left empty for a single instant of the day; two silent watchers kneel before the Blessed Sacrament, offering themselves in expiation of the sins of others. This watch before the Blessed Sacrament is the chief duty laid upon the members of our community. Nothing is ever allowed to interfere with it. Unfailing punctuality is asked from every one in being in the chapel at the moment her watch begins, and no excuse is accepted from those who fail in this respect. Our idea is that all through the day a ceaseless stream of supplication should mount to heaven, that not for a single instant should there be a break in the work of prayer. If our numbers permitted it we should have Perpetual Adoration by day and night, as in the mother house in France; but here the bishop only allows us to have exposition once a month throughout the night, and all our Sisters look forward to this as their greatest privilege."

"It is a very beautiful life, Mother Hilda; but I wonder if I have a vocation?"

"That is the great question, my dear," and a cloud gathered in Mother Hilda's face, for it had come into her mind to tell Evelyn that she hardly knew anything of the religious life as yet; but remembering her promise to the Prioress, she said: "Obedience is the beginning of the religious life, and you must try to think that you are a child in school, with nothing to teach and everything to learn. The experience of your past life, which you may think entitles you to consideration--"

"But, dear Mother, I think nothing of the kind; my whole concern is to try to forget my past life. Ah, if I could only--" Mother Hilda wondered what it must be to bring that look of fear into Evelyn's eyes, but she refrained from questioning her, saying:

"I beg of you to put all the teachings of the world as far from your mind as possible. It will only confuse you. What we think wise the world thinks foolish, and the wisdom of the world is to us a vanity."

"If it were only a vanity," Evelyn answered. And her thoughts moved away from the Mother Mistress to herself, wondering how it was that this conventual life was so sympathetic to her, finding a reason in the fact that her idea had alienated her from the world; she had come here in quest of herself, and had found something, not exactly herself, perhaps, but at all events a refuge from one side of herself, and many other things--a group of women who thought as she did. But would the convent always be as necessary to her as it was to-day? And what a grief it would be to the nuns when the term of her noviceship ended. Would she find courage to tell them that she did not wish to take final vows? But she must listen to Mother Hilda who was instructing her in the virtue of obedience. After obedience came the rule of silence.

"But I don't know how the work in the garden will be done if one isn't allowed to speak."

"The work in the garden must wait until your retreat is over. Now go, my dear; I am waiting for Sisters Winifred and Veronica, who are coming to me for their Latin lesson."

"May I go into the garden?"

It amused Evelyn to ask the question, so strange did it seem that she should ask, like a little child, permission to go into the garden; and as she went along the passages she began to fear that the old Evelyn was on her way back, the woman who had disappeared for so many months. Be that as it may, she was not altogether Sister Teresa on the day of her clothing, though she tried to imitate the infantile glee of the novices, and of the nuns too; for they were nearly as childish as the novices. In spite of herself she wearied of the babble and the laughter over orange-blossoms and wedding-cake, especially of Sister Jerome's babble. She was particularly noisy that afternoon; her unceasing humour had begun to jar, and Evelyn had begun to feel that she must get away from it all, and she asked leave to go into the garden.

Ah, the deep breath she drew! How refreshing it was after the long time spent in church in the smell of burning wax and incense. "The incense of the earth is sweeter," she said; and the sound of the wind in the boughs reminded her of the voice of the priest intoning the "Veni Creator." "Nature is more musical," and her eyes strayed over the great park to its rim miles away, indistinct, though the sky was white as white linen above it, only here and there a weaving of some faint cream tones amid clouds rising very slowly; a delicious warmth fell out of the noonday sky, enfolding the earth; and, discomforted by her habit--a voluminous trailing habit with wide hanging sleeves-- she stood on the edge of the terrace thinking that the stiff white head-dress made her feel more like a nun than her vows.

"Of what am I thinking?" she asked herself, for her thoughts seemed to go out faintly, like the clouds; she seemed more conscious of the spring-time than she had ever been before, of a sense of delight going through her when, before her eyes, the sun came out, lighting up the distant inter-spaces and the stems of the trees close by. The ash was coming into leaf, but among the green tufts, every bough could still be traced. The poplars looked like great brooms, but they were reddening, and in another week or two would be dark green again. The season being a little late, the lilacs and laburnums were out together; pink and white blossoms had begun to light up the close leafage of the hawthorns, and under the flowering trees grass was springing up, beautiful silky grass. "There is nothing so beautiful in the world as grabs," Evelyn thought, "fair spring grass." The gardener was mowing it between the flower beds, and it lay behind his hissing scythe along the lawn in irregular lines.

"There is the first swallow, just come in time to see the tulips, the tall May tulips which the Dutchmen used to paint."

So did Evelyn think, and her eyes followed Sister Mary John's jackdaw. He seemed to know the hour of the day, and was looking out for his mistress, who generally came out after dinner with food for him, and speech--the bird seemed to like being spoken to, and always put his head on one side so that he might listen more attentively. A little further on Evelyn met three goslings straying under the flowering laburnums, and she returned them to their mother in the orchard. Something was moving among the potato ridges, and wondering what it could be, she discovered the cat playing with the long-lost tortoise. How funny her great fluffy tom-cat looked, as he sat in front of the tortoise, tapping its black head whenever it appeared beyond the shell. All cats are a beautiful shape, but this one was a beautiful colour, "grey as a cloud at even"; but to leave him playing with the tortoise would be cruel to the tortoise, so she decided to carry the cat to the other end of the garden, where the sparrows were picking up the green peas.

The pear blossom had disappeared some weeks ago, and now the apple was in bloom. Some trees were later than others, and there were still tight pink knots amid the brown boughs. Evelyn sat down and closed her eyes, so that she might enjoy more intensely the magic of this Maytime. Every now and again a breeze shook the branches, shedding white blossom over the bright grass, and faint shadows rushed out and retreated The sun was swallowed up in a sudden cloud. A dimness came and a chill, but not for long enduring; the world was lit up, all the lilac leaves were catching the light and dancing in the breeze. "How living the world is, no death anywhere." Then her eyes turned to the convent, for at that moment she caught sight of one of the lay sisters coming towards her, evidently the bearer of a message. Sister Agnes had come to tell her that a lady had called to see her.

"The lady is in the parlour. Mother Hilda is with her"

"But her name?"

Sister Agnes could not give Evelyn her visitor's name; but on the way to the parlour they were met by the Prioress, who told Evelyn that the lady who had come to see her was a French lady, Mademoiselle Helbrun.

"Louise! Dear Mother, she is an actress, one of the women I used to sing with."

"Perhaps you had better not see her, and you may count upon me not to offend her; she will understand that on the day of your clothing--"

"No, no, dear Mother, I must see her."

"Teresa, one never uses the word 'must' to the Prioress, nor to any one in the convent; and on the day of your clothing it seems to me you might have remembered this first rule of our life."

"Of course I am very sorry, Mother; but now that she has come I am afraid it would agitate me more not to see her than to see her. It was the surprise of hearing her name after such a long while--there is no reason I can think of--"

"Teresa, it is for me to think, it is for you to obey."

"Well, Mother, if you will allow me."

"Ah, that is better. Of course she has come here to oppose your being here. How will you answer her?"

"Louise is an old friend, and knows me well, and will not argue with me, so it seems to me; and if she should ask me why I'm here and if I intend to remain, it will be easy for me to answer her, "I am here because I am not safe in the world."

"But she'll not understand."

"Yes she will, Mother. Let me see her."

"Perhaps you are fight, Teresa; it will be better for you to see her. But it is strange she should have come this afternoon."

"Some intuition, some voice must have told her."

"Teresa, those are fancies; you mustn't let your mind run on such things."

They were at the door of the parlour. Evelyn opened it for the Prioress, allowing her to pass in first.

"Louise, how good of you to come to see me. How did you find my address? Did Mérat give it to you?"

"No, but I have heard--we all know you are thinking of becoming a nun."

"If you had been here a little earlier," the Prioress said, "you would have been in time for Teresa's clothing." And there was an appeal in the Prioress's voice, the appeal that one Catholic makes to another. The Prioress, of course, assumed that Louise had been brought up a Catholic, though very likely she did not practise her religion; few actresses did. So did the Prioress's thoughts run as she leaned forward; her voice became winning, and she led Louise to ask her questions regarding the Order. And she told Louise that it was a French Order originally, wearying her with the story of the arrival of the first nuns. "How can Evelyn stop here listening to such nonsense?" she thought. And then Mother Hilda told Louise about Evelyn's singing at Benediction, and the number of converts she had won to the Church of Rome.

"As no doubt you know. Mademoiselle Helbrun, once people are drawn into a Catholic atmosphere--"