by George Moore
CHAP. XXXVIII.
VERONICA MOVED TO her side, murmuring her prayers under her breath, she watched her face for some sign of life; but she lay quite still, and her stillness frightened the nun, and when the doctor called next day he seemed surprised to hear she was still alive. And for the next three or four days it was difficult to detect any change in her. But nature never rests; change there always will be, though the differences from day to day escape our observation.
The summer heat exhausted her and seemed to delay her recovery, and it was not until the end of September that she was able to go into the garden that year. The autumn was a singularly beautiful one. The days were like July days, only shorter and a little cooler; and in the mornings she sat on the terrace, watching the fading garden and the glittering skies. She thought she had never seen skies so beautiful before. There was a strange allurement in the blue; the skies reminded her of death — of some beautiful death, of something far away. The boughs no longer lifted themselves and danced to the light; they hung low as if burdened with the weight of leaves, and all the leaves were moveless in the moveless air.
September passed, and in October she noticed that the grass was tangled and wet — the dew had been heavy that night — and she had to keep to the gravelled path. The last sun-flowers blackened, and the chrysanthemums came out — strange growths of feverish, unnatural beauty. A night’s frost had turned the beech tree in the middle of the garden from yellow to red orange, and the same frost stripped the ash of nearly all its fairy leaves.
The garden seemed to struggle against death just as Evelyn had struggled. The rose tree still tried to break to flower, but the outer leaves of the blossoms had been killed by the frost, and the buds could not open. Evelyn noticed that the geraniums she had planted in tubs and placed along the terrace hung lifeless and sapless. All the summer they had been pink and scarlet, and she regretted that no one during her illness had thought to take them into the potting-shed. “If Sister Mary John had been here this would not have happened,” she said to herself, smiling plaintively.
And it was in this dying season that Evelyn began to regain her health. For the last fortnight she had been very happy. She had enjoyed the exquisite happiness of returning strength, of feeling herself able to walk a little further each day, of being able to do a little more; and her weakness saved her from thinking. A convalescent does not think; she yields herself to the sweet pressure of returning life, and it was not until the end of October, as she stopped in her walk to pity the neglected garden, as she stooped to free a tuft of pinks from some trailing nasturtium, that she suddenly remembered that she would never see the spring return to this garden again. She looked round for a stick to prop up some of the chrysanthemums, and she saw their graveyard with its nine crosses, realised that if she were lying there her difficulty and the convent difficulty would be at an end. And as her strength returned the difficulty would grow more and more acute. Neither the danger she had escaped from nor her long convalescence had helped her to regain her faith. Her position regarding the dogma of transubstantiation was unchanged. When the priest raised the Host she believed that that was the divine flesh, that the wine in the chalice was the divine blood, that a change had come into the elements themselves in the words of consecration; but now, standing in the middle of the garden, face to face with nature, she could not believe that the Host she had seen that morning was the divine flesh of Him who created all things, she did not believe with that intense conviction with which she — a nun, a Passionist Sister — should believe. It was very likely that many Catholics did not get nearer to a sensible belief in the dogma than she did, but they were not nuns vowed to a perpetual adoration of the Host. It was terribly sad that she no longer believed as she once believed; it was sad because she had sacrificed so much for this belief, and now when every sacrifice had been made she did not believe, or she did not believe enough, and her sacrifice was a vain one. No, not a vain one... even if she had to leave the convent. True that the difficulty lay still unsolved before her, and she almost wished that she had died, for it seemed to her that nothing but death could solve such a difficulty as hers and theirs.
As she watched the passing of the season she noticed that the nuns avoided her, that they looked at her askance, that they seemed frightened of her. She sighed, for the thought passed that there was good reason for their fear of her, for here she was an unbeliever — an unbeliever in a community vowed to perpetual adoration of the Host. She knew that, from the point of view of the nuns, nothing more awful could happen to them. In their hearts they must think of her as some chastisement sent by God. They could hardly think that; God would not chastise them in such a way. His way would be a different way; this was the devil’s way. She could not imagine how they thought.
But she knew that the Prioress’s illness had been attributed to her. The nuns could not but think that the fear of the scandal which Evelyn’s departure would bring upon the convent had brought the Prioress to death’s door. No one had told her so, but she guessed that the community was of one mind — or nearly so — on this point. She had no friends in the convent now except Mother Hilda and Veronica, and Veronica had let something slip the other day; and Evelyn pondered as she walked to and fro, seeing last night’s rain dripping from the last leaves — it collected at the very end of the leaf and the great drop fell. Leaves were being blown about, there were little pools of water wherever there was a slight hollow in the path, and the nuns were throwing a ball from one to another with little joyous cries. Evelyn kept as much out of their sight as possible, fearing to jar their amusement. She wondered if they had forgotten their obligation to her, and she remembered that had it not been for her singing, their beautiful garden would have been taken away from them a long while ago, and villa residences would have overlooked the Common. She walked round the fishpond in the little plantation at the end of St. Peter’s Walk, and, listening to the trickling of the autumn water, she said, —
“No, they have not forgotten their obligation to me; they resent it.”
A few days after this idea received an unexpected confirmation. Sister Veronica told her that Sister Winifred had said that if the Prioress and Mother Hilda would only consent to a relaxation of the rule of the Order, they could make enough money out of a school to pay Evelyn the eight thousand pounds which she had brought to the convent.
“Then they want to get rid of me.”
“No, I don’t think they want to get rid of you. I shouldn’t put it exactly that way. It is you, Sister, who want to leave, and of course we should not like to keep the money you gave us.”
The garden was full of nuns. Some were walking quickly, for though the sun was shining the air was chill. Others had begun a game of ball; Evelyn thought she would like to join in it, but she was afraid they would not care to play with her, and it was at that moment that the aged Prioress came up to speak to her.
“I do not know if you are strong enough to give me your arm,” she said.
“Oh, yes, dear Mother, I am quite strong now.”
“Your strength has returned, Teresa, but mine will not return. I shall barely see another year. Oh, I know it,” she added, seeing that Evelyn was about to contradict her.
Evelyn did not dare to speak, for she suddenly remembered that the belief of the convent was that she had hastened the Prioress’s end. On account of the old woman she had to walk very slowly. The Prioress was now hardly more than a little handful, and her strength was a dying bird’s. They had not taken many steps before they had to sit down, and something told Evelyn that the moment had come for her to speak to the Prioress about her departure. But she had only to look at the old woman to see that it was impossible to mention such a subject to her. Life seemed to flutter as fitfully in her as in any of the leaves dancing on the stems. A leaf had just fallen at Evelyn’s feet, another was dancing merrily and might hold on a long while, so it was with the Prioress — she might live far into the winter. She had come to speak to her
, and Evelyn waited for her to speak, trembling with anticipation.
The Prioress said not a word, and Evelyn heard the childish laughter of the nuns and the wind thrilled through her habit.
At last the silence became too acute, and she said, —
“Mother, I have escaped from death as by a miracle, but it would have been better, if I had died, for myself and for you. Think, I might be sleeping yonder, under the white crosses.”
“If you did not die, my dear child, it was because God did not will it. Doubtless He did not think you prepared for death, and He resolved to leave you a little longer. God is very good, and He is merciful to those who have loved Him.”
“But, Mother, I have never ceased to love God.”
“We do not judge you, my dear daughter; we all pray for you. We pray for you, and we feel that our prayers will be granted.”
“It is not well for you, Mother, to sit in this cold wind. Had you not better walk a little way?”
“I am rested now.”
And as they walked towards the terrace, Evelyn said, —
“I have caused you pain and suffering. Maybe it is I who am killing you, Mother. My life seems to have been all suffering. I have desired to do right; it seems that I have failed even here. The others cannot understand, but you can, you do understand, Mother.”
“I am older than the others, I am very old, and in old age it is the mind that sees. We are praying for you, my dear child, for we know by instinct when a member of our community is in danger.”
She spoke out of the mystery of age and out of her long convictions, and then Evelyn knew that she could not leave the convent as long as this old woman lived. When she died the closest tie which held her to the convent would be broken, and she resolved to escape as soon as she could after the Prioress’s death. She had considered the various ways of escape that were open to her. for she could not face the will of the convent again; her escape must be clandestine. And the way of escape that seemed most feasible was through the front door when the porteress left her keys on the nail.
The journey to London in her habit would be disagreeable and difficult. It would be difficult because she had no money; nuns have no money. She might have to walk all the way, and when she got to London she did not know where she would go nor how she could get any money. She remembered Owen and she remembered Ulick, but she would go to neither, and she imagined herself knocking at Louise’s door. She thought of herself standing in Louise’s drawing-room in her habit, but she did not smile.
She looked at the Prioress, and the conviction awakened in her that she would not have to wait long, and then she thought of herself, and she asked herself if she possessed sufficient courage to begin life afresh.
CHAP. XXXIX.
THE AUTUMN PASSED into an early winter, and Evelyn caught a cold which dung to her, and it prevented her from singing at Benediction. It seemed to her that the nuns were glad that she could not sing, but the Prioress said that she missed her singing, and it seemed to her sad that the Prioress should not hear her; very soon the Prioress would hear no more music, and Evelyn sang in spite of her ailing throat.
One day she found she had no voice left. A specialist came from London to examine her throat; he said that she had been very imprudent, he prescribed, and said that perhaps with a couple of years’ rest she might be able to sing again. But Evelyn did not believe him; she knew that her voice had gone from her as her mother’s had gone; her voice had left her in the very middle of a piece of music, and in the middle of an opera her mother had lost her voice.
And now that the irreparable had happened the nuns were sorry for her, in a way, though she doubted if any one of them, except perhaps the Prioress, Mother Hilda, and Veronica, would give her back her voice if it were in their power to give it.
Her plan had been to leave the convent soon after the Prioress’s death. She had intended to sing in concerts and oratorios, and to live as economically as possible, and it would not be difficult for her to live economically after her experiences in the convent. Her expenses would consist principally of a few dresses, her rooms would cost her about fifteen shillings a week, and with one little serving-maid she would be able to limit her expenditure to two hundred pounds a year, and her calculation was that she might earn twelve hundred a year. So she would be putting by every year one thousand pounds and when she had saved seven or eight thousand pounds she looked forward to buying the cottage and the large garden, the home for the six little crippled boys that she had written to Monsignor about. She had looked forward to this as the end of her life; it was to be the inevitable packing up that comes to us all sooner or later, the final arrangement. She had believed that all this would happen, for it seemed so natural, so like what would happen, given the circumstances of her life. It had never seemed quite natural to her that her life should end in this convent amid these very good but very childish nuns. The loss of her voice had destroyed all hope of this little dream of hers; the dream had seemed very real while it lasted, but a simple accident, a month’s singing with an ailing throat, had made it as impossible as any dream of fairyland. If she were to leave the convent, and she certainly would have to leave it, the end would be quite different; the only end she could see for herself now was to be a singing mistress, a music teacher. She could see herself living in some distant suburb, coming up to town third class in wet months and cold months, and giving lessons for a few shillings an hour. Her stage career had been forgotten; she had not been long enough on the stage to be remembered. Three or four shillings an hour was the highest remuneration she could expect. Maybe she could succeed in making three hundred pounds a year; if she did that she would be very lucky, for then she would have a margin which she could apply to some charitable purpose, to some less expensive charity than the home for the little children. Well, she must be content with that.
At that moment the Prioress called her. The old woman had awakened suddenly, and not hearing the sound of her pen had asked her what she was doing. Evelyn excused herself. For some months she had been acting as the Prioress’s secretary — they were writing together the history of the convent — but the Prioress’s memory was failing; she could not answer Evelyn’s questions, and Evelyn had to get up to search for some documents.
As she looked for the documents she suddenly remembered Owen Asher; they would be sure to meet sooner or later if she left the convent. The question was, How would they meet? For the moment she was unable to find any answer to this question, but gradually the thought came that they would meet almost as strangers, and this thought gradually settled into profound conviction. For how otherwise could they meet except as strangers? She had changed beyond his powers of recognition. All that she had been was dead; all that he knew her by was dead. Men do not wish to make love to nuns; a nun could never be more than a shadow. The body would be there, but there would be a look in the eyes that would tell of leagues immeasurable. She could easily imagine the meeting. He would ask from her an account of herself; she would tell him of the convent. He would try to be kind, but when she told him that she had lost her voice, neither would know what to say next.
Ulick would recognise her better, for they had been always going towards the same end, though by different roads, and she wondered what progress he had made in the spiritual life. He stirred her imagination a little, but she was able to overcome it, and she knew that he would be able to forego sensual love more easily even than she would, notwithstanding her five years in the convent, notwithstanding her vows. He would want her to marry him, and she shrank from the thought, remembering that she was the bride of Christ. But she would always be interested in his ideas, and she regretted her voice for his sake; perhaps enough voice would come back to her to sing to him in the evenings. She wondered what music he had written, if he had finished “Grania.” How far away all these things seemed now!
It was the wish of the old woman who lay dying in her chair that the history they were writing should be finished before she
died. Her eyes were strangely dim, and her flesh was grey. She looked like a night light burning low in the socket. But her mind was dear, though the flame flickered on the edge of darkness, and Evelyn often grew afraid that the old nun divined her intention of leaving the convent. The dim eyes seemed to see through her; they seemed to see into the very background of her mind. As death approaches the mind sees; and Evelyn trembled. But the Prioress asked no questions. She seemed to Evelyn to acquiesce in her departure. She seemed to have no more fear for Evelyn’s soul than for her own, and this was a great consolation to Evelyn.
Nevertheless, there were times when Evelyn’s conscience nearly overpowered her, and she longed to throw herself at the Prioress’s feet and beg her forgiveness, pledging herself to stay in the convent, and she felt that if that pledge were given she would keep it. Her knees dwindled under her, and her lips were about to speak; but at that moment, as if divining her intention, the Prioress asked her to stir the fire, for she was getting cold. And as she made up the fire Evelyn gave thanks that she had not spoken, for such a confession would surely have embittered the Prioress’s end, and Evelyn knew that the end was assuaged and made happy by her presence. She knew the Prioress loved her, and she knew that she loved the Prioress with the same kind of passionate love with which she had worshipped her father.
CHAP. XL.
WHEN THE PRIORESS died Evelyn’s life seemed a figment, and life, whether she remained in the convent or left it, seemed to her to be equally unbearable. The anguish was heightened in her by the rites, by the black cloths, by the chants, and by the unconsciousness of nature. A keen wind was blowing, and the sky brightened at intervals as the procession moved through the gardens. The bare trees were shaken, and she desired to wave innocently in the air as they did, to mingle with the beautiful, peaceful earth; the earth seemed the only peaceful thing, and she longed to join it and to partake once again of its dark and happy life.
