Chapter 19

"Yes, I quite understand. So you sing every day at Benediction, do you, Evelyn? You are singing to-day? It will be strange to hear you singing an 'Ave Maria.'"

"But, Louise, if I sing an 'O Salutaris,' will you sing Schubert's 'Ave Maria'?"

"No, you sing Schubert's 'Ave Maria' and I will sing an 'O Salutaris.'"

Evelyn turned to the Prioress.

"Of course, we shall be only too glad if Mademoiselle Helbrun will sing for us."

"The last time we saw each other, Louise, was the day of your party in the Savoy Hotel."

"Yes, didn't we have fun that day? We were like a lot of children. But you went away early."

"Yes, that day I went to Confession to Monsignor."

"Was it that day? We noticed something strange in you. You seemed to care less for the stage, to have lost your vocation."

"We hope she has begun to find her vocation," Mother Hilda answered.

"But that is just what I mean--in losing her vocation for the stage she has gained, perhaps, her vocation for the religious life."

"Vocation for the stage?"

"Yes, Mother Hilda," the Prioress said, turning to the Mistress of the Novices, "the word vocation isn't used in our limited sense, but for anything for which a person may have a special aptitude."

"That day of your party--dear me, how long ago it seems, Louise! How much has happened since then? You have sung how many operas? In whose company are you now?" Before they were aware of it the two singers had begun to chatter of opera companies and operas. Ulick Dean was secretary of the opera company with which Louise was travelling. They were going to America in the autumn. The conversation was taking too theatrical a turn, and the Prioress judged it necessary to intervene. And without anybody being able to detect the transition, the talk was led from America to the Pope and the Papal Choir.

"May we go into the garden, dear Mother?" Evelyn said, interrupting. Her interruption was a welcome one; the Prioress in her anxiety to change the subject had forgotten Mr. Innes's death and Evelyn's return to Rome. She gave the required permission, and the four women went out together.

"Do you think we shall be able to talk alone?"

"Yes, presently," Evelyn whispered. Soon after, in St. Peter's Walk, an opportunity occurred. The nuns had dropped behind, and Evelyn led her friend through the hazels, round by the fish-pond, where they would be able to talk undisturbed. Evelyn took her friend's arm. "Dear Louise, how kind of you to come to see me. I thought I was forgotten. But how did you find me out?"

"Sir Owen Asher, whom I met in London, told me I would probably get news of you here."

Evelyn did not answer.

"Aren't you glad to see me?"

"Of course I am. Haven't I said so? Don't you see I am? And you have brought beautiful weather with you, Louise. Was there ever a more beautiful day? White clouds rising up in the blue sky like great ships, sail over sail."

"My dear Evelyn, I have not come to talk to you about clouds, nor green trees, though the birds are singing beautifully here, and it would be pleasant to talk about them if we were going to be alone the whole afternoon. But as the nuns may come round the corner at any minute I had better ask you at once if you are going to stop here?"

"Is that what you have come to ask me?"

Evelyn got up, though they had only just sat down.

"Evelyn, dear, sit down. You are not angry with me for asking you these questions? What do you think I came here for?"

"You came here, then, as Reverend Mother suspected, to try to persuade me away? You would like to have me back on the stage?"

"Of course we should like to have you back among us again. Owen Asher--"

"Louise, you mustn't speak to me of my past life."

"Ulick--"

"Still less of him. You have come here, sent by Owen Asher or by Ulick Dean--which is it?"

"My dear Evelyn, I came here because we have always been friends and for old friendship's sake--by nobody."

These words seemed to reassure her, and she sat down by her friend, saying that if Louise only knew the trouble she had been through.

"But all that is forgotten... if it can be forgotten. Do you know if our sins are ever forgotten, Louise?"

"Sins, Evelyn? What sins? The sin of liking one man a little better than another?"

"That is exactly it, Louise. The sin and the shame are in just what you have said--liking one man better than another. But I wish, Louise, you wouldn't speak to me of these things, for I'll have to get up and go back to the convent."

"Well, Evelyn, let us talk about the white clouds going by, and how beautiful the wood is when the sun is shining, flecking the ground with spots of light; birds are singing in the branches, and that thrush! I have never heard a better one." Louise walked a little way. Returning to Evelyn quickly, she said, "There are all kinds of birds here--linnets, robins, yes, and a blackbird. A fine contralto!"

"But why, Louise, do you begin to talk about clouds and birds?"

"Well, dear, because you won't talk about our friends."

"Or is it because you think I must be mad to stay here and to wear this dress? You are quite wrong if you think such a thing, for it was to save myself from going mad that I came here."

"My dear Evelyn, what could have put such ideas into your head?"

"Louise, we mustn't talk of the past. I can see you are astonished at this dress, yet you are a Catholic of a sort, but still a Catholic. I was like you once, only a change came. One day perhaps you will be like me."

"You think I shall end in a convent, Evelyn?"

Evelyn did not answer, and; not knowing exactly what to say next, Louise spoke of the convent garden.

"You always used to be fond of flowers. I suppose a great part of your time is spent in gardening?"

An angry colour rose into Evelyn's cheek.

"You don't wish me," she said, "to talk about myself? You think-- Never mind, I don't care what you think about me."

Louise assured her that she was mistaken; and in the middle of a long discourse Evelyn's thoughts seemed suddenly to break away, and she spoke to Louise of the greenhouse which she had made that winter, asking her if she would like to come to see it with her.

"A great deal of it was built with my own hands, Sister Mary John and I. You don't know her yet; she is our organist, and an excellent one."

At that moment Evelyn laid her hand on Louise's arm, and a light seemed to burst into her face.

"Listen!" she said, "listen to the bird! Don't you hear him?"

"Hear what, dear?"

"The bird in the branches singing the song that leads Siegfried to Brunnhilde."

"A bird singing Wagner?"

"Well, what more natural than that a bird should sing his own song?"

"But no bird--" A look of wonder, mingled with fear, came into Louise's face.

"If you listen, Louise." In the silence of the wood Louise heard somebody whistling Wagner's music. "Don't you hear it?"

Louise did not answer at once. Had she caught some of Evelyn's madness... or was she in an enchanted garden?

"It is a boy in the park, or one of the nuns."

"Nuns don't whistle, and the common is hundreds of yards away. And no boy on the common knows the bird music from 'Siegfried'? Listen, Louise, listen! There it goes, note for note. Francis is singing well to-day."

"Francis!"

"Look, look, you can see him! Now are you convinced?"

And the wonder in Louise's face passed into a look of real fear, and she said:

"Let us go away."

"But why won't you listen to Francis? None of my birds sings as he does. Let me tell you, Louise--"

But Louise's step hastened.

"Stop! Don't you hear the Sword motive? That is Aloysius."

Louise stopped for a moment, and, true enough, there was the Sword motive whistled from the branches of a sycamore. And Louise began to doubt her own sanity.

"You do hear him, I can see you do."

"What does all this mean?" Louise said to the Reverend Mother, drawing her aside. "The birds, the birds, Mother Superior, the birds!"

"What birds?"

"The birds singing the motives of 'The Ring.'"

"You mean Teresa's bullfinches, Mademoiselle Helbrun? Yes, they whistle very well."

"But they whistle the motives of 'The Ring!'"

"Ah! she taught them."

"Is that all? I thought she and I were mad. You'll excuse me, Mother Superior? May I ask her about them?"

"Of course, Mademoiselle Helbrun, you can." And Louise walked on in front with Evelyn.

"Mother Superior tells me you have taught bullfinches the motives of 'The Ring,' is it true?"

"Of course. How could they have learned the motives unless from me?"

"But why the motives of 'The Ring'?"

"Why not, Louise? Short little phrases, just suited to a bird."

"But, dear, you must have spent hours teaching them."

"It requires a great deal of patience, but when there is a great whirl in one's head--"

Evelyn stopped speaking, and Louise understood that she shrank from the confession that to retain her sanity she had taught bullfinches to whistle,

"So she is sane, saner than any of us, for she has kept herself sane by an effort of her own will," Louise said to herself.

"Some birds learn much quicker than others; they vary a great deal."

"My dear Evelyn, it is ever so nice of you. Just fancy teaching bullfinches to sing the motives of 'The Ring,' It seemed to me I was in an enchanted garden. But tell me, why, when you had taught them, did you let them fly away?"

"Well, you see, they can only remember two tunes. If you teach them a third they forget the first two, and it seemed a pity to confuse them."

"So when a bullfinch knows two motives you let him go? Well, it is all very simple now you have explained it. They find everything they want in the garden. The bullfinch is a homely little bird, almost as domestic as the robin; they just stay here, isn't that it?"

"Sometimes they go into the park, but they come every morning to be fed. On the whole, Francis is my best bird; but there is another who in a way excels him--Timothy. I don't know why we call him Timothy; it isn't a pretty name, but it seems suited to him because I taught him 'The Shepherd's Pipe'; and you know how difficult it is, dropping half a note each time? Yet he knows it nearly all; sometimes he will whistle it through without a mistake. We could have got a great deal of money for him if he had been sold, and Reverend Mother wanted me to sell him, but I wouldn't."

And Evelyn led Louise away to a far corner.

"He is generally in this corner; these are his trees." And Evelyn began to whistle.

"Does he answer you when you whistle?"

"No; scraping one's feet against the gravel, some little material noise, will set him whistling." And Evelyn scraped her feet. "I'm afraid he isn't here to-day. But there is the bell for Benediction. We must not keep the nuns waiting." And the singers hurried towards the convent, where they met the Prioress and the Mistress of the Novices and Sister Mary John.

"Dear me, how late you are, Sister!" said Sister Mary John. "I suppose you were listening to the bullfinches. Aren't they wonderful? But won't you introduce me to Mademoiselle Helbrun? It would be delightful, mademoiselle, if you would only sing for us."

"I shall be very pleased indeed."

"Well, we have only got two or three minutes to decide what it is to be. Will you come up to the organ loft?"

And that afternoon the Wimbledon laity had the pleasure of hearing two prima donne at Benediction.

XXVII

One day in the last month of Evelyn's noviceship--for it was the Reverend Mother's plans to put up Evelyn for election, provided she could persuade Evelyn to take her final vows--Sister Mary John sat at the harmonium, her eyes fixed, following Evelyn's voice like one in a dream. Evelyn was singing Stradella's "Chanson d'Eglise," and when she, had finished the nun rose from her seat, clasping her friend's hand, thanking her for her singing with such effusion that the thought crossed Evelyn's mind that perhaps her friend was giving to her some part of that love which it was essential to the nun to believe belonged to God alone; and knowing Sister Mary John so well, she could not doubt that, as soon as the nun discovered her infidelity to the celestial Bridegroom, she would separate herself at once from her. A tenderness in the touch of the hand, an ardour in the eye, might reveal the secret to her, or very likely a casual remark from some other nun would awaken her conscience to the danger --an imaginary danger, of course--but that would not be her idea. Formal relations would be impossible between them, one of them would have to leave; and, without this friendship, Evelyn felt she could not live in the convent.

The accident she foresaw happened two days after, when sitting in the library writing. Veronica came in. Evelyn had seen very little of her lately, and at one time Evelyn, Veronica, and Sister Mary John had formed a little group, each possessing a quality which attracted the others; but, insensibly, musical interests and literary interests-- Sister Mary John had begun to teach Evelyn Latin--had drawn Evelyn and Sister Mary John together, excluding Veronica a little. This exclusion was more imaginary than real. But some jealousy of Sister Mary John had entered her mind; and Evelyn had noticed, though Sister Mary John had failed to notice, that Veronica had, for some time past, treated them with little disdainful airs. And now, when she opened the door, she did not answer Evelyn at once, though Evelyn welcomed her with a pretty smile, asking her whom she was seeking. There was an accent of concentrated dislike in Veronica's voice when Evelyn said she was looking for Sister Mary John.

"I heard her trampling about the passage just now; she is on her way here, no doubt, and won't keep you waiting."

The word "trampling" was understood by Evelyn as an allusion to the hobnails which Sister Mary John wore in the garden. Veronica often dropped a rude word, which seemed ruder than it was owing to the refinement and distinction of her face and her voice. A rude word seemed incongruous on the lips of this mediæval virgin; and Evelyn sat nibbling the end of the pen, thinking this jealousy was dangerous. Sister Mary John only had to hear of it. The door opened again; this time it was Sister Mary John, who had come to ask Evelyn what was the matter with Veronica.

"I passed her in the passage just now, and when I asked her if she had seen you, she said she really was too busy to speak to me; and, a moment after, she stood a long while to play with the black kitten, who was catching flies in the window."

"There is no doubt that Veronica has changed; lately she has been rather rude to me."

"To you, Teresa? Now, what could she be rude about to you?" The nun's face changed expression, and Evelyn sat reading it, "Do you think she is jealous of the time we spend together? We have been together a great deal lately."

"But it is necessary that we should be--our music."

"Yes, our music, of course; but I was thinking of other times."

Evelyn knew that Sister Mary John was thinking of the time they had spent reading the Breviary together--four great volumes, one for every season of the year. It was Sister Mary John who had taught her to appreciate the rich, mysterious tradition of the Church, and how these books of ritual and observances could satisfy the mind more than any secular literature. There was always something in the Office to talk about, something new amid much that remained the same--the reappearance of a favourite hymn.

"All the same, Sister, we should not take so much pleasure in each other's society. Veronica is quite right."

At that moment Evelyn was called away by the portress, who had come to tell her that Mother Hilda wanted her in the novitiate, and Sister Mary John was left thinking in the library that Veronica was certainly right, and every moment the conviction grew clearer. It must have been forming in her mind for a long time past, for, within five minutes after Evelyn had left the room, the nun determined to go straight to the Prioress and tell her that her life was being absorbed by Evelyn and beg her to transfer her to the Mother House in France. Never to see Evelyn again! Her strength almost failed her as she went towards the door. But what would it profit her to see Evelyn for a few years if she should lose her for eternity? A little courage, and they would meet to part no more. In a few years both would be in heaven. A confusion of thought began in her; she remembered many things, that she no longer loved Christ as she used to love him. She no longer stood before the picture in which Christ took St. Francis in His arms, saying to Christ, "My embrace will be warmer than his when thou takest me in thy arms." She had often thought of herself and Evelyn in heaven, walking hand in hand. Once they had sat enfolded in each other's arms under a flowering oleander. Christ was watching them! And all this could only point to one thing, that her love of Evelyn was infringing upon her love of God. And Evelyn, too, had questioned her love of God as if she were jealous of it, but she had answered Evelyn that nuns were the brides of Christ, and must set no measure on their love of God. "There is no lover," she had said, "like God; He is always by you, you can turn to Him at any moment. God wishes us to keep all our love for Him." She had said these things, but how differently she had acted, forgetful of God, thinking only of Evelyn, and her vows, and not a little of the woman herself.

The revelation was very sudden.... Sister Mary John seemed to find somebody in herself of whom she knew nothing, and a passion in herself unknown to her before. Therefore, to the Prioress she went at once to tell her everything.

"Mother, I have come to ask you if you will transfer me to the Mother House in France."

The Reverend Mother repeated the words in astonishment, and listened to Sister Mary John, who was telling her that she had found herself in sin.

"My life is falling to pieces, Mother, and I can only save myself by going away."

A shipwreck this was, indeed, for all the Prioress's plans! If Sister Mary John left, how was Evelyn to be persuaded to take the veil? "At every moment I am confronted with some unexpected obstacle." She tried to argue with Sister Mary John; but the nun was convinced she must go. So the only thing to do was to make terms.

"Teresa must know nothing of what has happened, on that I insist. There is too much of this kind of thing going on in my convent; I have heard of it among the younger nuns, all are thinking of visions. But among you women, who have been in the convent for many years, I had thought--"

"Mother, we are all weak; the flesh errs, and all we can do is to check ourselves, to pray, and take such measures as will save us from falling into sin again. Of what you said just now about the younger nuns I know nothing, nor has any vision been vouchsafed to me, only I have stumbled."

The Prioress did not answer; she was thinking how Sister Mary John might be transferred.

"Mrs. Cater is going to France next month, you can travel with her."

"So a month must pass! I thought of leaving to-day or to-morrow, but I see that is impossible. A month! How shall I endure it?"

"No one will know," the Prioress answered, with a little vehemence. "It is a secret between us, I repeat, and I forbid you to tell any one the reason of your leaving. Teresa will be professed in a few weeks, I hope; she has reached the critical moment of her life, and her mind must not be disturbed. The raising of such a question, at such a time, might be fatal to her vocation."

The Prioress rose from her chair, and, following Sister Mary John to the door, impressed upon her again that it was essential that no one should ever know why she had left the convent.

"You can tell Teresa before you leave, but she must hear nothing of it till the moment of your leaving. I give you permission merely to say goodbye to her on the day you leave, and in the interval you will see as little of each other as possible."

But when Sister Mary John said that Sister Elizabeth could accompany Evelyn as well as she could, the Prioress interrupted her.

"You must always accompany her when she sings at Benediction; you must do nothing to let her suspect that you are leaving the convent on her account. You promise me this? You can tell her what you like, of course when you are leaving, but not before. Of course, there is no use arguing with you again, Sister Mary John. You are determined, I can see that; but I do assure you that your leaving us is a sore trial to us, more than you think for."

In the passage Sister Mary John came unexpectedly upon Evelyn returning from the novitiate.

"Well, I have got through my Latin lesson, and Mother Hilda is delighted at my progress. She flatters herself on her instruction, but any progress I have made is owing to you.... But what is the matter, Sister? Why do you move away?" Evelyn put her hand on the nun's shoulder.

"Don't, Sister; I must go."

"Why must you go?"

"Teresa, try to think--" She was about to say "of God, and not of me," but her senses seemed to swoon a little at that moment, and she fell into Evelyn's arms.

"Teresa! Teresa! What is this?"

It was the Prioress coming from her room.

"A sudden giddiness, Mother," the nun answered.

"Just as I was telling her of my Latin lesson in the novitiate, that I could learn Latin with her better than with Mother Hilda."

"We met in the passage," Sister Mary John said, moving away.

"And a sudden giddiness came over her," Evelyn explained.

"Teresa, Sister Cecilia, who is our sacristan, is a little slow; she wants help, you are just the one to help her, and come with me."

XXVIII

And Evelyn followed the Prioress into a fragrance of lavender and orris-root; she was shown the vestments laid out on shelves, with tissue-paper between them. The most expensive were the white satin vestments, and these dated from prosperous times; and she was told how once poverty had become so severe in the convent that the question had arisen whether these vestments should be sold, but the nuns had declared that they preferred bread and water, or even starvation, to parting with their vestments.

"These are for the priest," the Prioress said, "these are for the deacon and subdeacon, and they are used on Easter Sundays, the professed days of the Sisters, and the visits of the Bishop; and these vestments with the figure of Our Lady, with a blue medallion in the centre of the cross, are used for all feasts of the Virgin."

On another shelf were the great copes, in satin and brocade, gold and white, with embroidered hoods and orphries, and veils to match; and the processional banners were stored in tall presses, and with them, hanging on wire hooks, were the altar-curtains, thick with gold thread; for the high altar there were curtains and embroidered frontals, and tabernacle hangings, and these, the Prioress explained, had to harmonise with the vestments; and the day before Mass for the Dead the whole altar would have to be stripped after Benediction and black hangings put up.

"Cecilia will tell you about the candles. They have all to be of equal length, Teresa, and it should be your ambition to be economical, with as splendid a show as possible. No candle should ever be allowed to burn into its socket, leaving less than the twelve ordained by the Church for Exposition."

As soon as the Prioress left them, Sister Cecilia told Evelyn that she would have to work very hard indeed, for it was the Prioress's whim not to use the ordinary altar cloths with an embroidered hem, but always cloths on which lace frontals were lightly tacked; and Evelyn was warned that the sewing on of the lace, without creasing the white linen, required great care; and the spilling of a little wax could not be passed over, the cloth would have to go to the wash.