by George Moore
“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 t
his 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 Ph
ilippa 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.
