by George Moore
“Now, Peter, you must try again.”
At the end of the headland where the plough turned, Peter always wanted to stop and talk about something; but James said they would have to get on with the work, and Peter walked after the plough, straining after it for three hours, and then he said: “James, let me drive the horse. I can do no more.”
“You won’t feel it so much when you are accustomed to it,” said James.
Anything seemed to him better than a day’s ploughing: even getting up at three in the morning to go to a fair.
He went to bed early, as he used to, and they talked of him over the fire, as they used to. But however much they talked, they never seemed to find what they were seeking — his vocation — until one evening an idea suddenly rose out of their talk.
“A good wife is the only thing for Peter,” said Pat.
And they went on thinking.
“A husband would be better for her,” said Pat Phelan, “than a convent.”
“I cannot say I agree with you there. Think of all the good them nuns are doing.”
“She isn’t a nun yet,” said Pat Phelan.
And the men smoked on a while, and they ruminated as they smoked.
“It would be better, James, that Peter got her than that she should stay in a convent.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” said James.
“You see,” said his father, “she did not go into the convent because she had a calling, but because she was crossed in love.”
And after another long while James said, “It is a bitter dose, I am thinking, father, but you must go and tell her that Peter has left Maynooth.”
“And what would the Reverend Mother be saying to me if I went to her with such a story as that? Isn’t your heart broken enough already, James, without wanting me to be breaking it still more? Sure, James, you could never see her married to Peter?”
“If she were to marry Peter I should be able to go to America, and that is the only thing for me.”
“That would be poor consolation for you, James.”
“Well, it is the best I shall get, to see Peter settled, and to know that there will be some one to look after you, father.”
“You are a good son, James.”
They talked on, and as they talked it became clearer to them that some one must go to-morrow to the convent and tell Catherine that Peter had left Maynooth.
“But wouldn’t it be a pity,” said Pat Phelan, “to tell her this if Peter is not going to marry her in the end?”
“I’ll have him out of his bed,” said James, “and he’ll tell us before this fire if he will or won’t.”
“It’s a serious thing you are doing, James, to get a girl out of a convent, I am thinking.”
“It will be on my advice that you will be doing this, father; and now I’ll go and get Peter out of his bed.”
And Peter was brought in, asking what they wanted of him at this hour of the night; and when they told him what they had been talking about and the plans they had been making, he said he would be catching his death of cold, and they threw some sods of turf on the fire.
“It is against myself that I am asking a girl to leave the convent, even for you, Peter,” said James. “But we can think of nothing else.”
“Peter will be able to tell us if it is a sin that we’d be doing.”
“It is only right that Catherine should know the truth before she made her vows,” Peter said. “But this is very unexpected, father. I really—”
“Peter, I’d take it as a great kindness. I shall never do a hand’s turn in this country. I want to get to America. It will be the saving of me.”
“And now, Peter,” said his father, “tell us for sure if you will have the girl?”
“Faith I will, though I never thought of marriage, if it be to please James.” Seeing how heart-sick his brother was, he said, “I can’t say I like her as you like her; but if she likes me I will promise to do right by her. James, you’re going away; we may never see you again. It is all very sad. And now you’ll let me go back to bed.”
“Peter, I knew you would not say no to me; I can’t bear this any longer.”
“And now,” said Peter, “let me go back to bed. I am catching my death.”
And he ran back to his room, and left his brother and father talking by the fire.
V
Pat thought the grey mare would take him in faster than the old red horse; and the old man sat, his legs swinging over the shaft, wondering what he should say to the Reverend Mother, and how she would listen to his story; and when he came to the priest’s house a great wish came upon him to ask the priest’s advice. The priest was walking up his little lawn reading his breviary, and a great fear came on Pat Phelan, and he thought he must ask the priest what he should do.
The priest heard the story over the little wall, and he was sorry for the old man.
It took him a long time to tell the story, and when he was finished the priest said: —
“But where are you going, Pat?”
“That’s what I stopped to tell you, your reverence. I was thinking I might be going to the convent to tell Catherine that Peter has come back.”
“Well it wasn’t yourself that thought of doing such a thing as that, Pat Phelan.”
But at every word the priest said Pat Phelan’s face grew more stubborn, and at last he said: —
“Well, your reverence, that isn’t the advice I expected from you,” and he struck the mare with the ends of the reins and let her trot up the hill. Nor did the mare stop trotting till she had reached the top of the hill, and Pat Phelan had never known her do such a thing before. From the top of the hill there was a view of the bog, and Pat thought of the many fine loads of turf he had had out of that bog, and the many young fellows he had seen there cutting turf. “But every one is leaving the country,” the old man said to himself, and his chin dropped into his shirt-collar, and he held the reins loosely, letting the mare trot or walk as she liked. And he let many pass him without bidding them the hour of the day, for he was too much overcome by his own grief to notice anyone.
The mare trotted gleefully; soft clouds curled over the low horizon far away, and the sky was blue overhead; and the poor country was very beautiful in the still autumn weather, only it was empty. He passed two or three fine houses that the gentry had left to caretakers long ago. The fences were gone, cattle strayed through the woods, the drains were choked with weeds, the stagnant water was spreading out into the fields, and Pat Phelan noticed these things, for he remembered what this country was forty years ago. The devil a bit of lonesomeness there was in it then.
He asked a girl if they would be thatching the house that autumn; but she answered that the thatch would last out the old people, and she was going to join her sister in America.
“She’s right — they’re all there now. Why should anyone stop here?” the old man said.
The mare tripped, and he took this to be a sign that he should turn back. But he did not go back. Very soon the town began, in broken pavements and dirty cottages; going up the hill there were some slated roofs, but there was no building of any importance except the church.
At the end of the main street, where the trees began again, the convent stood in the middle of a large garden, and Pat Phelan remembered he had heard that the nuns were doing well with their dairy and their laundry.
He knocked, and a lay-sister peeped through the grating, and then she opened the door a little way, and at first he thought he would have to go back without seeing either Catherine or the Reverend Mother. For he had got no further than “Sister Catherine,” when the lay-sister cut him short with the news that Sister Catherine was in retreat, and could see no one. The Reverend Mother was busy.
“But,” said Pat, “you’re not going to let Catherine take vows without hearing me.”
“If it is about Sister Catherine’s vows—”
“Yes, it is about them I’ve come, and I must see the Reverend Mothe
r.”
The lay-sister said Sister Catherine was going to be clothed at the end of the week.
“Well, that is just the reason I’ve come here.”
On that the lay-sister led him into the parlour, and went in search of the Reverend Mother.
The floor was so thickly bees-waxed that the rug slipped under his feet, and, afraid lest he might fall down, he stood quite still, impressed by the pious pictures on the walls, and by the large books upon the table, and by the poor-box, and by the pious inscriptions. He began to think how much easier was this pious life than the life of the world — the rearing of children, the failure of crops, and the loneliness. Here life slips away without one perceiving it, and it seemed a pity to bring her back to trouble. He stood holding his hat in his old hands, and the time seemed very long. At last the door opened, and a tall woman with sharp, inquisitive eyes came in.
“You have come to speak to me about Sister Catherine?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“And what have you got to tell me about her?”
“Well, my son thought and I thought last night — we were all thinking we had better tell you — last night was the night that my son came back.”
At the word Maynooth a change of expression came into her face, but when he told that Peter no longer wished to be a priest her manner began to grow hostile again, and she got up from her chair and said: —
“But really, Mr. Phelan, I have got a great deal of business to attend to.”
“But, my lady, you see that Catherine wanted to marry my son Peter, and it is because he went to Maynooth that she came here. I don’t think she’d want to be a nun if she knew that he didn’t want to be a priest.”
“I cannot agree with you, Mr. Phelan, in that. I have seen a great deal of Sister Catherine — she has been with us now for nearly a year — and if she ever entertained the wishes you speak of, I feel sure she has forgotten them. Her mind is now set on higher things.”
“Of course you may be right, my lady, very likely. It isn’t for me to argue with you about such things; but you see I have come a long way, and if I could see Catherine herself—”
“That is impossible. Catherine is in retreat.”
“So the lay-sister told me; but I thought—”
“Sister Catherine is going to be clothed next Saturday, and I can assure you, Mr. Phelan, that the wishes you tell me of are forgotten. I know her very well. I can answer for Sister Catherine.”
The rug slipped under the peasant’s feet and his eyes wandered round the room; and the Reverend Mother told him how busy she was, she really could not talk to him any more that day.
“You see, it all rests with Sister Catherine herself.”
“That’s just it,” said the old man; “that’s just it, my lady. My son Peter, who has come from Maynooth, told us last night that Catherine should know everything that has happened, so that she may not be sorry afterwards, otherwise I wouldn’t have come here, my lady. I wouldn’t have come to trouble you.”
“I am sorry, Mr. Phelan, that your son Peter has left Maynooth. It is sad indeed when one finds that one has not a vocation. But that happens sometimes. I don’t think that it will be Catherine’s case. And now, Mr. Phelan, I must ask you to excuse me,” and the Reverend Mother persuaded the unwilling peasant into the passage, and he followed the lay-sister down the passage to the gate and got into his cart again.
“No wonder,” he thought, “they don’t want to let Catherine out, now that they have got that great farm, and not one among them, I’ll be bound, who can manage it except Catherine.”
At the very same moment the same thoughts passed through the Reverend Mother’s mind. She had not left the parlour yet, and stood thinking how she should manage if Catherine were to leave them. “Why,” she asked, “should he choose to leave Maynooth at such a time? It is indeed unfortunate. There is nothing,” she reflected, “that gives a woman so much strength as to receive the veil. She always feels stronger after her clothing. She feels that the world is behind her.”
The Reverend Mother reflected that perhaps it would be better for Catherine’s sake and for Peter’s sake — indeed, for everyone’s sake — if she were not to tell Catherine of Pat Phelan’s visit until after the clothing. She might tell Catherine three months hence. The disadvantage of this would be that Catherine might hear that Peter had left Maynooth. In a country place news of this kind cannot be kept out of a convent. And if Catherine were going to leave, it were better that she should leave them now than leave them six months hence, after her clothing.
“There are many ways of looking at it,” the Reverend Mother reflected. “If I don’t tell her, she may never hear it. I might tell her later when she has taught one of the nuns how to manage the farm.” She took two steps towards the door and stopped to think again, and she was thinking when a knock came to the door. She answered mechanically, “Come in,” and Catherine wondered at the Reverend Mother’s astonishment.
“I wish to speak to you, dear mother,” she said timidly. But seeing the Reverend Mother’s face change expression, she said, “Perhaps another time will suit you better.”
The Reverend Mother stood looking at her, irresolute; and Catherine, who had never seen the Reverend Mother irresolute before, wondered what was passing in her mind.
“I know you are busy, dear mother, but what I have come to tell you won’t take very long.”
“Well, then, tell it to me, my child.”
“It is only this, Reverend Mother. I had better tell you now, for you are expecting the Bishop, and my clothing is fixed for the end of the week, and—”
“And,” said the Reverend Mother, “you feel that you are not certain of your vocation.”
“That is it, dear mother. I thought I had better tell you.” Reading disappointment in the nun’s face, Catherine said, “I hesitated to tell you before. I had hoped that the feeling would pass away; but, dear mother, it isn’t my fault; everyone has not a vocation.”
Then Catherine noticed a softening in the Reverend Mother’s face, and she asked Catherine to sit down by her; and Catherine told her she had come to the convent because she was crossed in love, and not as the others came, because they wished to give up their wills to God.
“Our will is the most precious thing in us, and that is why the best thing we can do is to give it up to you, for in giving it up to you, dear mother, we are giving it up to God. I know all these things, but—”
“You should have told me of this when you came here, Catherine, and then I would not have advised you to come to live with us.”
“Mother, you must forgive me. My heart was broken, and I could not do otherwise. And you have said yourself that I made the dairy a success.”
“If you had stayed with us, Catherine, you would have made the dairy a success; but we have got no one to take your place. However, since it is the will of God, I suppose we must try to get on as well as we can without you. And now tell me, Catherine, when it was that you changed your mind. It was only the other day you told me you wished to become a nun. You said you were most anxious for your clothing. How is it that you have changed your mind?”
Catherine’s eyes brightened, and speaking like one illuminated by some inward light, she said: —
“It was the second day of my retreat, mother. I was walking in the garden where the great cross stands amid the rocks. Sister Angela and Sister Mary were with me, and I was listening to what they were saying, when suddenly my thoughts were taken away and I remembered those at home. I remembered Mr. Phelan, and James, who wanted to marry me, but whom I would not marry; and it seemed to me that I saw him leaving his father — it seemed to me that I saw him going away to America. I don’t know how it was — you will not believe me, dear mother — but I saw the ship lying in the harbour, that is to take him away. And then I thought of the old man sitting at home with no one to look after him, and it was not a seeming, but a certainty, mother. It came over me suddenly that my duty was not here,
but there. Of course you can’t agree with me, but I cannot resist it, it was a call.”
“But the Evil One, my dear child, calls us too; we must be careful not to mistake the devil’s call for God’s call.”
“Mother, I daresay.” Tears came to Catherine’s eyes, she began to weep. “I can’t argue with you, mother, I only know—” She could not speak for sobbing, and between her sobs she said, “I only know that I must go home.”
She recovered herself very soon, and the Reverend Mother took her hand and said: —
“Well, my dear child, I shall not stand in your way.”
Even the Reverend Mother could not help thinking that the man who got her would get a charming wife. Her face was rather long and white, and she had long female eyes with dark lashes, and her eyes were full of tenderness. She had spoken out of so deep a conviction that the Reverend Mother had begun to believe that her mission was perhaps to look after this hapless young man; and when she told the Reverend Mother that yesterday she had felt a conviction that Peter was not going to be a priest, the Reverend Mother felt that she must tell her of Pat Phelan’s visit.
“I did not tell you at once, my dear child, because I wished to know from yourself how you felt about this matter,” the nun said; and she told Catherine that she was quite right, that Peter had left Maynooth. “He hopes to marry you, Catherine.”
A quiet glow came into the postulant’s eyes, and she seemed engulfed in some deep joy.
“How did he know that I cared for him?” the girl said, half to herself, half to the nun.
“I suppose his father or his brother must have told him,” the nun answered.
And then Catherine, fearing to show too much interest in things that the nun deemed frivolous, said, “I am sorry to leave before my work is done here. But, mother, so it has all come true; it was extraordinary what I felt that morning in the garden,” she said, returning to her joy. “Mother, do you believe in visions?”
