CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Monsignor, who was waiting for her at the steps of the hall which had been hired for the concert, introduced her to Father Daly, the convent chaplain. She shook hands with him, and caught sight of him as she did so. It was but a passing glance of a small, blonde man with white eyelashes, seemingly too shy to raise his eyes; and she was too stringently occupied with other thoughts to notice him further.
Owing to her exertions and Monsignor Mostyn's, a large audience had been collected, and though the month was September, there were many fashionable, influential and musical people present.
The idea of the band, which Evelyn had thought of bringing down in the intention of giving the Forest Murmurs and the Bird Music, had been abandoned, but the finest exponent of Wagner on the piano had come to play the usual things: the closing scene of the "Walküre," the overture of the "Meistersinger" and the Prelude of "Tristan." And, mingled with the students and apostles from London, were a goodly number of young men and women from the various villas. Every degree of Wagner culture was present, from the ten-antlered stag who had seen "Parsifal" given under the eye of the master to the skipping fawns eagerly browsing upon the motives. "That is the motive of the Ride; that, dear, is the motive of the Fire; that is the motive of Slumber in the Fire, and that is the motive of Siegfried, the pure hero who will be born to save Valhalla." The class above had some knowledge of the orchestration. "You see," said a young man, pointing to the score, "here he is writing for the entire orchestra." "Three bars farther on he is writing for three violins and a flute. He withdraws his instruments in a couple of bars; it would take anyone else five-and-twenty." At a little distance the old stag who had never missed a festival at Bayreuth was telling the young lady at his side that the "Walküre" is written in the same style as the "Rheingold" and the first two acts of "Siegfried." Another distinct change of style came with the third act of "Siegfried" and the "Dusk of the Gods," which were not composed till some years later. "Ah, that wonderful later style! That scale of half-notes! Flats and sharps introduced into every bar; C, C sharp; D, D sharp; E, F, F sharp; G, G sharp; A, B flat, B, C. In that scale, or what would seem to be that scale, he balances himself like an acrobat, springing on to the desired key without preparation," and so on until the old stag was interrupted by a friend, a lady who had just recognised him. As she squeezed past, she stopped to tell him that Wagner had spoiled her for all other music. She had been to hear Beethoven's "Eroica" Symphony once more, but it had seemed to her like a pious book.
Evelyn sang "Elsa's Dream," "Elizabeth's Prayer" and the "Liebestod," and when she was recalled at the end of the concert, she sang Senta's ballad as a bonne bouche, something that the audience had not expected, and would send her friends away more than ever pleased with her.
Her father had not been able to come—that was a disappointment—but Ulick had accompanied her beautifully, following her voice, making the most of it at every moment. When she left the platform, she took both his hands and thanked him. She loved him in that instant as a musician and as a mistress. But the joy of the moment, the ecstasy of admiration, was interrupted by Monsignor Mostyn and Father Daly. They too wished to thank her. In his courtly manner, Monsignor told her of the pleasure her singing had given him. But when Father Daly mentioned that the nuns expected her to tea, her courage seemed to slip away. The idea of a convent frightened her, and she tried to excuse herself, arguing that she had to go back to London.
"If you're engaged for dinner, I'm afraid there will not be time," Monsignor said. She looked up, and, meeting his eyes, did not dare to lie to him.
"No; I'm not dining out, but I promised to take Mr. Dean back in my carriage."
"Mr. Dean will, I'm sure, not mind waiting."
It seemed to Evelyn that Monsignor suspected her relations with Ulick, and to refuse to go to the convent, she thought, would only confirm him in his suspicions. So she accepted the invitation abruptly, and when they turned to go, she said—
"My carriage is here; I'll drive you," and, at the same moment, she remembered that Ulick was waiting. But she felt that she could not drive back to London with him after leaving the convent, and she hoped that Monsignor would not correctly interpret the disappointment which was plain upon his face. No; he must go back by train—no, there would be no use his calling that evening at Park Lane.
She wore a black and white striped silk dress, with a sort of muslin bodice covered with lace, and there was a large bunch of violets in her waistband. The horses were beautiful in the sunshine, and their red hides glistened in the long, slanting rays. She put up her parasol and tried to understand, but she could only see the angles of houses, and the eccentricity of every passer-by. She saw very clearly the thin, facial line, and her eyes rested on the touch of purple at the throat to mark his Roman dignity. Father Daly sat opposite, rubbing his thumbs like one in the presence of a superior. He was not ill-looking, but so shy that his features passed unperceived, and it was some time before she saw his eyes; they were always cast down, and his thin, well-cut nose disappeared in his freckled cheeks. The cloth he wore was coarser than Monsignor's; his heavy shoes contrasted with the finely-stitched and buckled shoes of the Papal prelate.
This visit to the convent frightened Evelyn more than the largest audience that had ever assembled to hear her, and, until they got clear of the town, she was not certain she would not plead some excuse and tell the coachman to turn back. But now it was too late. The carriage ascended the steep street, and, at the top of it, the town ended abruptly at the edge of the common. On one side was a high brick wall, hiding the grounds and gardens of the villas; on the other was the common, seen through the leaves of a line of thin trees. In her nervous agitation, she saw very distinctly—the foreground teeming with the animation of cricket, the more remote parts solitary, the windmill hovering in a corner out of the way of the sunset, and two horsemen and a horsewoman cantering along the edge of the long valley into which the plain dropped precipitously. The sun sank in a white sky, and Evelyn caught the point of one of the ribs of her parasol, so that she could hold it in a better position to shade her eyes, and she saw how the houses stretched into a point, the last being an inn, no doubt the noisy resort of the cricketers and the landscape painters. There was a painter making his way towards the valley, his paint-box on his back. But at that moment the carriage turned into a lane where a paling enclosed the small gardens. She then noticed the decaying pear or apple tree, to which was attached a clothes-line. Enormous sunflowers weltered in the dusty corners. The brick was crumbling and broken, beautiful in colour, "And in every one of these cottages someone is living; someone is laughing; someone will soon be dead. Good heavens, how strange!"
"We are nearly there."
Evelyn started; it was Father Daly speaking to her. "The cottages have spoilt the appearance on this side, but the view is splendid from the other."
The lane ascended and Evelyn remembered how the house stood inside a wall behind some trees, looking westward, the last southern end of the common land as the windmill was the last northern end. There had been iron gates when a great City merchant lived in the Georgian house, which had been gradually transformed to suit the requirements of the sisters. The melancholy little peal of the bell hanging on a loose wire sounded far away, and in the interval Evelyn noticed the large double door, from which the old green paint was peeling. A step was heard within, and the little shutter which closed the grated peephole in the panel of the door was drawn back; the eyes and forehead band of a nun appeared for an instant in the opening; and then with a rattle of keys the door was hastily opened and the little porteress, with ruddy cheeks and a shy smile, stood aside to let Evelyn pass in. She kissed the hand of Monsignor as he turned to her with a kindly word of salutation. "The Reverend Mother is expecting you," she said, her agitation being due to the importance of the occasion.
"No doubt they have been praying that I might sing well, poor dears," Evelyn thought, as she followed the nun up the paved, covered way. Through the iron frame-work, woven through and through with creepers and monthly roses, she caught glimpses of the partly-obliterated carriage drive, and of the neatly-kept flower beds filled with geraniums and tall, white asters.
In the hall an Adam's ceiling radiated in graceful lines from a central medallion, and before a statue of the Sacred Heart a light was burning. Evelyn remembered how the poor lay sisters laboured to keep the stone floor spotless, and it was into the parlour on the left, which Evelyn remembered to be the best parlour, that Sister Angela ushered them.
In the old days, before a sudden crisis on the Stock Exchange had obliged the owner to sell the house for much less than its true value to the little community of sisters of the Passion who were then seeking a permanent house, this room, round which Evelyn and the two priests were looking for seats, had been used as a morning-room. Three long French windows looked out on the garden, and the flowers and air made it a bright, cheerful room, in spite of the severe pictures on the walls. She recognised at once the engraving of Leonardo's "Last Supper" which hung over the solid marble chimney piece a little above the statue of Our Lady of Lourdes and the two blue vases, and also the pale, distempered walls, and the coloured, smiling portrait of the Pope, and a full-length photograph of Cardinal Manning, signed in his own clear, neat handwriting.
Evelyn and the priests, still undecided where they should sit, looked at the little horsehair sofa. Monsignor brought forward for her one of the six high, straight-backed chairs, and they sat at the circular table laid out with severe books; a volume of the Lives of the Saints lay under her hand, and she glanced at a little box for contributions. She looked at the priests and then round the room, striving to penetrate the meaning which it vaguely conveyed to her—an indescribable air of scrupulous neatness and cleanliness, a sense of virginal dulness. But suddenly a startling sense of the incongruity came upon her, that she, the opera-singer, Owen Asher's mistress, should be admitted into a convent, should be received, the honoured guest of holy women. And she got up, leaving the two priests to discuss the financial results of the concert, and stood gazing out at the window. There was the rosery with the lilac bushes shutting out the view of the green fields beyond; and this was the portion of the garden given up to visitors and boarders. She used to walk there during the retreat. Away to the right was the big, sunny garden where the nuns went for their daily recreation. By special permission she had once been allowed there; she remembered the sloping lawns, the fringe of stately elms, and over them the view westward of Richmond Park. She thought of the nuns walking under their trees, half ghost-like, half sybil-like they used to seem in their grey habits with their long grey veils falling picturesquely, their thoughts fixed on an infinite life, and this life never seeming more to them than a little passing shadow.
Evelyn returned slowly to the table. The priests were talking of the convent choir; Monsignor turned to address a question to her, but before he spoke, the door opened and two nuns entered, hardly of this world did they seem in their long grey habits.
The Reverend Mother, a small, thin woman, with eager eyes and a nervous, intimate manner, hastened forward. Evelyn felt that the Reverend Mother could not be less than sixty, yet she did not think of her as an old woman. Between her rapid utterances an expression of sadness came upon her face, instilled through the bright eyes, and Evelyn contrasted her with Mother Philippa, the sub-prioress. Even the touch of these women's hands was different. There was a nervous emotion in the Reverend Mother's hand. Mother Philippa's hand when it touched Evelyn's expressed somehow a simpler humanity.
She was a short, rather stout, homely-faced Englishwoman, about thirty-eight or forty, such a woman as is met daily on the croquet lawns in our suburbs, probably one of three plain sisters, and never could have doubted her vocation.
"I cannot tell you how grateful we are, Miss Innes, for what you have done for us. Monsignor will have told you of the straits we are in.... But you are an old friend, I understand of our convent. Mother Philippa, our sub-prioress, tells me you made a retreat here seven or eight years ago."
"I don't think it was more than six years," Mother Philippa said, correcting the Reverend Mother. "I remember you very well, Miss Innes. You left us one Easter morning."
Evelyn liked her plain, matter-of-fact face, a short face undistinguished by any special characteristic, yet once seen it could not be forgotten, so implicit was it of her practical mind and a desire to serve someone.
"That silly Sister Agnes has forgotten the strawberry jam," she said, when the porteress brought in the tea. "I will run and fetch it; I shan't be a moment."
"Oh, Mother Philippa, pray don't trouble; I prefer some of that cake."
"No, no, I've been thinking all the afternoon of this jam; we make it ourselves; you must have some."
The Reverend Mother apologised for having put sugar in Evelyn's tea, for she remembered now that Evelyn had said that she did not like sugar; and Monsignor took advantage of the occasion to reassure the Reverend Mother that the success of the concert had been much greater than he had anticipated.... Thanks to Miss Innes, he hoped to be able to hand her a cheque for more than two hundred pounds. This was more than double the sum she had hoped to receive.
"We shall always pray for you," she said, taking Evelyn's hand. "I cannot tell you what a load you have taken off my shoulders, for, of course, the main responsibility rests upon me."
Evelyn regretted that the nuns could not have tea with her, and wondered whether they were ever allowed to partake of their own excellent home-made cake. She was beginning to enjoy her visit, and to acquire an interest in the welfare of the convent. She had hitherto only devoted her money to selfish ends; but now she resolved that, if she could help it, these poor sisters should not be driven from their convent. Mother Phillippa asked her suddenly why she had not been to see them before. Evelyn answered that she had been abroad. But living abroad meant to the nun the pleasure of living in Catholic countries, and she was eager to know if Evelyn had had the privilege of going to Rome. She smiled at the nun's innocent curiosity, which she was glad to gratify, and told her about the old Romanesque churches on the Rhine, and the hundred marble spires of the Cathedral of Milan. But in the midst of such pleasant conversation came an unfortunate question. Mother Philippa asked if Evelyn had travelled with her father. Any simple answer would have sufficed, but she lost her presence of mind, and the "No," which came at last was so weak and equivocal that the Reverend Mother divined in that moment some part of the truth. Evelyn sat as if tongue-tied, and it was Monsignor who came to her rescue by explaining that she had sung in St. Petersburg, Vienna, Paris, and all the capitals of Europe.
"You must excuse us," the Reverend Mother said, "for not knowing, but these things do not penetrate convent walls."
The conversation dropped, and the Reverend Mother took advantage of the occasion to suggest that they should visit the chapel.
Mother Philippa walked on with the priests in front, leaving Evelyn with the Reverend Mother.
"I am forced to walk very slowly on account of my heart. I hope you don't mind, Miss Innes?"
"Your heart, Reverend Mother? You suffer from your heart? I'm so sorry."
The Reverend Mother said the new chapel had been built by the celebrated Catholic architect, and mentioned how the last three years of the Reverend Mother's life had been given over to this work Evelyn knew that the mouldings and carving and the stained glass had caused the pecuniary embarrassments of the convent, and did not speak of them She was told that the architect had insisted that every detail should be in keeping, and understood that the thirteenth century had proved the ruin of the convent; every minor decoration was faithful to it—the very patterns stitched in wool on the cushions of the prie-dieu were strictly Gothic in character.
Only the lower end of the nave was open to the public; the greater part was enclosed within a high grille of gilded ironwork of an elaborate design, through which Evelyn could vaguely discern the plain oak stalls of the nuns on either side, stretching towards the ornate altar, carved in white stone. And falling through the pointed windows, the long rays slanted across the empty chapel; in the golden air there was a faint sense of incense; it recalled the Benediction and the figures of the departed watchers who had knelt motionless all day before the elevated Host. The faintly-burning lamp remained to inspire the mind with instinctive awe and a desire of worship. And as always, in the presence of the Blessed Sacrament, Evelyn's doubts vanished, and she knelt in momentary prayer beside the two nuns.
Then at her request they went into the garden. It was the part of the convent she remembered best. She recognised at once the broad terrace walk extending the full length of the house, from the new wing to the rose garden whence some steps led to the lower grounds. They were several acres in extent and sloped gently to the south-west. The Reverend Mother and the priests had turned to the left; they had business matters to discuss and were going round the garden by the outer walk. Evelyn and Mother Philippa chose the middle path. The sunset was before them, and the wistfulness of a distant park sinking into blue mist. Evelyn thought that in all her travels she had never seen anything so lovely as the convent garden in that evening light. It filled her soul with an ecstatic sense of peace and joy, and a sudden passionate desire to share this life of calm and happy seclusion brought tears to her eyes. She could not speak, but Mother Philippa, with a single, quick glance, seemed instinctively to understand, and it was in silence that they walked down a grassy path, that led between the narrow beds filled with a gay tangle of old-fashioned flowers, to a little summer-house. Behind the summer-house, at the bottom of the garden, was a broad walk pleasantly shaded by the overhanging branches of the elms.
"We call this St. Peter's path," Mother Philippa said placidly, "and for his feast the novices put up his statue in the summer-house and decorate it with flowers. They always come here for their mid-day recreation."
"Your garden is quite lovely, Mother Philippa; I remember it all so well."
They wandered on, past the apple and plum trees laden with fruit—they made a pretty orchard in one corner; and while the nun passed here and there gathering flowers, Evelyn stood gazing, recalling all her girlish impressions. Almost every turn in the walks recalled some innocent aspiration, some girlish feeling of love and reverence. In every nook there was a statue of the Virgin, or a cross whereby the thoughts of the passer-by might be recalled to the essential object of her life. She remembered how she had stopped one morning before the crucifix which stood on the top of some rocks at the end of the garden. She had stopped as in a dream, and for a long while had stood looking at the face of the dying Redeemer, praying to his Father for pardon for them that persecuted him. She had felt as if crazed with love, and had walked up the pathway feeling that the one thing of worth in the world was to live for him who had died for her. But she had betrayed him. She had chosen Owen!
Mother Philippa added another flower to the bouquet. She looked at it and, regarding it as finished, she presented it to Evelyn.
"I hope I did not say anything that caused you pain in the parlour. If I did you must know that I did not mean it. I I hope your father is quite well."
"Yes, he's quite well. You did not offend me, Mother Philippa," she said, raising her eyes, and in that moment the two women felt they understood each other in some mute and far-off way.
"The day you left us was Easter Sunday. It was a beautiful morning, and you walked round the rose garden with an old lady; she asked you to sing, and you sung her two little songs."
"Yes, I remember; her hair was quite white, and she walked with a stick."
"I am glad you remember; I feared that you had forgotten, as you were so long coming back. I often prayed for you that you might come and see us. I always felt that you would come back, and when one feels like that, it generally happens."
Evelyn raised her eyes, drawing delight from the nun's happy and contented face. She experienced an exquisite idea, a holy intimacy of feeling; there was a breathless exaltation in the heavens and on the earth, and the wild cry of a startled bird darting through the shrubberies sounded like a challenge or defiance. The sunset grew narrower in the slate-coloured sky, and the long plain of the common showed under two bars of belated purple. The priests and the Reverend Mother went up the steps and were about to enter the convent. Evelyn and Mother Philippa lingered by a distant corner of the garden marked by nine tall crosses.
"When I was here there were but six. I remember Sister Bonaventure, thin and white, and so weak that she could not move. She was dying far from all she knew, yet she was quite happy. It was we who were unhappy."
"She was happy, for her thoughts were set upon God. How could she be otherwise than happy when she knew she was going to him?"
A few minutes after, Evelyn was bidding the nuns good-night. The Reverend Mother hoped that when she made another retreat she would be their guest. Mother Philippa was disappointed that they had not heard her sing. Perhaps one day she might sing to them. They would see how it could be arranged: perhaps at Benediction when she came to make another retreat. Evelyn smiled, and the carriage passed into the night.
