Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  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.

  It was as she said; they had to work hard, and they were always behindhand with their work. She learned from Cecilia that, apart from the canonical directions for Divine Service, there existed an unwritten code for pious observances — some saints were honoured by having their banner exhibited during the octave of the feast, while others were allowed little temporary altars on which some relic could be exposed. The Sisters themselves were often mistaken regarding what had been done on previous anniversaries; but the Prioress’s memory was unfailing, and one of the strictest rules of the house was that the sacristan took orders from none but the Prioress. And when a discussion arose between Cecilia and Evelyn, one of them went to the Prioress to ask her to say which was right.

  Sister Cecilia was stupid and slow, and very soon Evelyn had absorbed most of the work of the sacristy doing it as she pleased, until one day, the Prioress coming in to see what progress had been made, found St. Joseph’s altar stripped, save for a single pair of candlesticks and two flower vases filled with artificial flowers. Evelyn was admonished, but she dared to answer that she was not interested in St. Joseph, though, of course, he was a worthy man.

  “My dear Teresa, I cannot allow you to speak in this way of St. Joseph; he is one of the patrons of the convent. Nor can I allow his altar to be robbed in this fashion. Have you not thought that we are looking forward to the time when you should be one of us?”

  Behind them stood Sister Cecilia, overcome with astonishment that a mere novice should dare to speak to the Prioress on terms of equality. When the Prioress left the room she said:

  “You didn’t answer the Prioress just now when she asked if you had forgotten that you were soon to become one of us.”

  “How could I answer… I don’t know.”

  This answer seemed to exhaust Sister Cecilia’s interest in the question, and, handing Evelyn two more candles, she asked, “Do you want me any more?”

  On Evelyn saying she did not, she said:

  “Well, then, I may go and meditate in the chapel.”

  “On what is she going to meditate?” Evelyn wondered; and from time to time her eyes went towards the nun, who sat crouched on her haunches, now and again beating her ears with both hands — a little trick of hers to scatter casual thoughts, for even sacred things sometimes suggested thoughts of evil to Sister Cecilia, and her plan to reduce her thoughts to order was to slap her ears. Evelyn watched her, wondering what her thoughts might be. Whatever they were, they led poor Cecilia into disgrace, for that evening she forgot to fill the lamp which burnt always before the tabernacle, it being the rule that the Easter light struck on Holy Saturday should be preserved through the year, each new wick being lighted upon the dying one. And Sister Cecilia’s carelessness had broken the continuity. She was severely reprimanded, ate her meals that day kneeling on the refectory floor, and for many a day t
he shameful occurrence was remembered. And her place was taken by Veronica, who, delighted at her promotion, wore a quaint air of importance, hurrying away with a bundle of keys hanging from her belt by a long chain, amusing Evelyn, who was now under Veronica’s orders.

  “Yes, it is rather strange, isn’t it, Sister? But I can’t help it. Of course you ought to be in my place, and I can’t think why dear Mother has arranged it like this.”

  Nuns employed in the sacristy might talk, and in a few days Veronica’s nature revealed itself in many little questions.

  “It is strange you should wish to be a nun.”

  “But why is it strange, Veronica?”

  “For you are not like any of us, nor has the convent been the same since you came.”

  “Are you sorry that I wish to be a nun?”

  “Sorry, Sister Teresa? No, indeed. God has chosen you from the beginning as the means He would employ to save us; only I can’t see you as a nun, always satisfied with the life here.”

  “Every one doesn’t know from childhood what she is going to do. But you always knew your vocation, Veronica.”

  “I cannot imagine myself anything but a nun, and yet I am not always satisfied. Sometimes I am filled with longings for something which I cannot live without, yet I do not know what I want. It is an extraordinary feeling. Do you know what I mean, Sister?”

  “Yes, dear, I think I do.”

  “It makes me feel quite faint, and it seizes me so suddenly. I have wanted to tell you for a long time, only I have not liked to. There are days when it makes me so restless that I cannot say my prayers, so I know the feeling must be wrong. Something in the quality of your voice stirs this feeling in me; your trill brings on this feeling worse than anything. You don’t know what I mean?”