XXVI

Next day in the novitiate Mother Hilda explained to Evelyn how the centre of their life was the perpetual adoration of the Blessed Sacrament exposed on the altar.

"Our life is a life of expiation; we expiate by our prayers and our penances and our acts of adoration the many insults which are daily flung at our divine Lord by those who not only disobey His commandments, but deny His very presence on our altars. To our prayers of expiation we add prayers of intercession; we pray for the many people in this country outside the faith who offend our Lord Jesus Christ more from ignorance than from malice. All our little acts of mortification are offered with this intention. From morning Mass until Benediction our chapel, as you know, is never left empty for a single instant of the day; two silent watchers kneel before the Blessed Sacrament, offering themselves in expiation of the sins of others. This watch before the Blessed Sacrament is the chief duty laid upon the members of our community. Nothing is ever allowed to interfere with it. Unfailing punctuality is asked from every one in being in the chapel at the moment her watch begins, and no excuse is accepted from those who fail in this respect. Our idea is that all through the day a ceaseless stream of supplication should mount to heaven, that not for a single instant should there be a break in the work of prayer. If our numbers permitted it we should have Perpetual Adoration by day and night, as in the mother house in France; but here the bishop only allows us to have exposition once a month throughout the night, and all our Sisters look forward to this as their greatest privilege."

"It is a very beautiful life, Mother Hilda; but I wonder if I have a vocation?"

"That is the great question, my dear," and a cloud gathered in Mother Hilda's face, for it had come into her mind to tell Evelyn that she hardly knew anything of the religious life as yet; but remembering her promise to the Prioress, she said: "Obedience is the beginning of the religious life, and you must try to think that you are a child in school, with nothing to teach and everything to learn. The experience of your past life, which you may think entitles you to consideration—"

"But, dear Mother, I think nothing of the kind; my whole concern is to try to forget my past life. Ah, if I could only—" Mother Hilda wondered what it must be to bring that look of fear into Evelyn's eyes, but she refrained from questioning her, saying:

"I beg of you to put all the teachings of the world as far from your mind as possible. It will only confuse you. What we think wise the world thinks foolish, and the wisdom of the world is to us a vanity."

"If it were only a vanity," Evelyn answered. And her thoughts moved away from the Mother Mistress to herself, wondering how it was that this conventual life was so sympathetic to her, finding a reason in the fact that her idea had alienated her from the world; she had come here in quest of herself, and had found something, not exactly herself, perhaps, but at all events a refuge from one side of herself, and many other things—a group of women who thought as she did. But would the convent always be as necessary to her as it was to-day? And what a grief it would be to the nuns when the term of her noviceship ended. Would she find courage to tell them that she did not wish to take final vows? But she must listen to Mother Hilda who was instructing her in the virtue of obedience. After obedience came the rule of silence.

"But I don't know how the work in the garden will be done if one isn't allowed to speak."

"The work in the garden must wait until your retreat is over. Now go, my dear; I am waiting for Sisters Winifred and Veronica, who are coming to me for their Latin lesson."

"May I go into the garden?"

It amused Evelyn to ask the question, so strange did it seem that she should ask, like a little child, permission to go into the garden; and as she went along the passages she began to fear that the old Evelyn was on her way back, the woman who had disappeared for so many months. Be that as it may, she was not altogether Sister Teresa on the day of her clothing, though she tried to imitate the infantile glee of the novices, and of the nuns too; for they were nearly as childish as the novices. In spite of herself she wearied of the babble and the laughter over orange-blossoms and wedding-cake, especially of Sister Jerome's babble. She was particularly noisy that afternoon; her unceasing humour had begun to jar, and Evelyn had begun to feel that she must get away from it all, and she asked leave to go into the garden.

Ah, the deep breath she drew! How refreshing it was after the long time spent in church in the smell of burning wax and incense. "The incense of the earth is sweeter," she said; and the sound of the wind in the boughs reminded her of the voice of the priest intoning the "Veni Creator." "Nature is more musical," and her eyes strayed over the great park to its rim miles away, indistinct, though the sky was white as white linen above it, only here and there a weaving of some faint cream tones amid clouds rising very slowly; a delicious warmth fell out of the noonday sky, enfolding the earth; and, discomforted by her habit—a voluminous trailing habit with wide hanging sleeves— she stood on the edge of the terrace thinking that the stiff white head-dress made her feel more like a nun than her vows.

"Of what am I thinking?" she asked herself, for her thoughts seemed to go out faintly, like the clouds; she seemed more conscious of the spring-time than she had ever been before, of a sense of delight going through her when, before her eyes, the sun came out, lighting up the distant inter-spaces and the stems of the trees close by. The ash was coming into leaf, but among the green tufts, every bough could still be traced. The poplars looked like great brooms, but they were reddening, and in another week or two would be dark green again. The season being a little late, the lilacs and laburnums were out together; pink and white blossoms had begun to light up the close leafage of the hawthorns, and under the flowering trees grass was springing up, beautiful silky grass. "There is nothing so beautiful in the world as grabs," Evelyn thought, "fair spring grass." The gardener was mowing it between the flower beds, and it lay behind his hissing scythe along the lawn in irregular lines.

"There is the first swallow, just come in time to see the tulips, the tall May tulips which the Dutchmen used to paint."

So did Evelyn think, and her eyes followed Sister Mary John's jackdaw. He seemed to know the hour of the day, and was looking out for his mistress, who generally came out after dinner with food for him, and speech—the bird seemed to like being spoken to, and always put his head on one side so that he might listen more attentively. A little further on Evelyn met three goslings straying under the flowering laburnums, and she returned them to their mother in the orchard. Something was moving among the potato ridges, and wondering what it could be, she discovered the cat playing with the long-lost tortoise. How funny her great fluffy tom-cat looked, as he sat in front of the tortoise, tapping its black head whenever it appeared beyond the shell. All cats are a beautiful shape, but this one was a beautiful colour, "grey as a cloud at even"; but to leave him playing with the tortoise would be cruel to the tortoise, so she decided to carry the cat to the other end of the garden, where the sparrows were picking up the green peas.

The pear blossom had disappeared some weeks ago, and now the apple was in bloom. Some trees were later than others, and there were still tight pink knots amid the brown boughs. Evelyn sat down and closed her eyes, so that she might enjoy more intensely the magic of this Maytime. Every now and again a breeze shook the branches, shedding white blossom over the bright grass, and faint shadows rushed out and retreated The sun was swallowed up in a sudden cloud. A dimness came and a chill, but not for long enduring; the world was lit up, all the lilac leaves were catching the light and dancing in the breeze. "How living the world is, no death anywhere." Then her eyes turned to the convent, for at that moment she caught sight of one of the lay sisters coming towards her, evidently the bearer of a message. Sister Agnes had come to tell her that a lady had called to see her.

"The lady is in the parlour. Mother Hilda is with her"

"But her name?"

Sister Agnes could not give Evelyn her visitor's name; but on the way to the parlour they were met by the Prioress, who told Evelyn that the lady who had come to see her was a French lady, Mademoiselle Helbrun.

"Louise! Dear Mother, she is an actress, one of the women I used to sing with."

"Perhaps you had better not see her, and you may count upon me not to offend her; she will understand that on the day of your clothing—"

"No, no, dear Mother, I must see her."

"Teresa, one never uses the word 'must' to the Prioress, nor to any one in the convent; and on the day of your clothing it seems to me you might have remembered this first rule of our life."

"Of course I am very sorry, Mother; but now that she has come I am afraid it would agitate me more not to see her than to see her. It was the surprise of hearing her name after such a long while—there is no reason I can think of—"

"Teresa, it is for me to think, it is for you to obey."

"Well, Mother, if you will allow me."

"Ah, that is better. Of course she has come here to oppose your being here. How will you answer her?"

"Louise is an old friend, and knows me well, and will not argue with me, so it seems to me; and if she should ask me why I'm here and if I intend to remain, it will be easy for me to answer her, "I am here because I am not safe in the world."

"But she'll not understand."

"Yes she will, Mother. Let me see her."

"Perhaps you are fight, Teresa; it will be better for you to see her.
But it is strange she should have come this afternoon."

"Some intuition, some voice must have told her."

"Teresa, those are fancies; you mustn't let your mind run on such things."

They were at the door of the parlour. Evelyn opened it for the
Prioress, allowing her to pass in first.

"Louise, how good of you to come to see me. How did you find my address? Did Mérat give it to you?"

"No, but I have heard—we all know you are thinking of becoming a nun."

"If you had been here a little earlier," the Prioress said, "you would have been in time for Teresa's clothing." And there was an appeal in the Prioress's voice, the appeal that one Catholic makes to another. The Prioress, of course, assumed that Louise had been brought up a Catholic, though very likely she did not practise her religion; few actresses did. So did the Prioress's thoughts run as she leaned forward; her voice became winning, and she led Louise to ask her questions regarding the Order. And she told Louise that it was a French Order originally, wearying her with the story of the arrival of the first nuns. "How can Evelyn stop here listening to such nonsense?" she thought. And then Mother Hilda told Louise about Evelyn's singing at Benediction, and the number of converts she had won to the Church of Rome.

"As no doubt you know. Mademoiselle Helbrun, once people are drawn into a Catholic atmosphere—"

"Yes, I quite understand. So you sing every day at Benediction, do you, Evelyn? You are singing to-day? It will be strange to hear you singing an 'Ave Maria.'"

"But, Louise, if I sing an 'O Salutaris,' will you sing Schubert's
'Ave Maria'?"

"No, you sing Schubert's 'Ave Maria' and I will sing an 'O
Salutaris.'"

Evelyn turned to the Prioress.

"Of course, we shall be only too glad if Mademoiselle Helbrun will sing for us."

"The last time we saw each other, Louise, was the day of your party in the Savoy Hotel."

"Yes, didn't we have fun that day? We were like a lot of children.
But you went away early."

"Yes, that day I went to Confession to Monsignor."

"Was it that day? We noticed something strange in you. You seemed to care less for the stage, to have lost your vocation."

"We hope she has begun to find her vocation," Mother Hilda answered.

"But that is just what I mean—in losing her vocation for the stage she has gained, perhaps, her vocation for the religious life."

"Vocation for the stage?"

"Yes, Mother Hilda," the Prioress said, turning to the Mistress of the Novices, "the word vocation isn't used in our limited sense, but for anything for which a person may have a special aptitude."

"That day of your party—dear me, how long ago it seems, Louise! How much has happened since then? You have sung how many operas? In whose company are you now?" Before they were aware of it the two singers had begun to chatter of opera companies and operas. Ulick Dean was secretary of the opera company with which Louise was travelling. They were going to America in the autumn. The conversation was taking too theatrical a turn, and the Prioress judged it necessary to intervene. And without anybody being able to detect the transition, the talk was led from America to the Pope and the Papal Choir.

"May we go into the garden, dear Mother?" Evelyn said, interrupting. Her interruption was a welcome one; the Prioress in her anxiety to change the subject had forgotten Mr. Innes's death and Evelyn's return to Rome. She gave the required permission, and the four women went out together.

"Do you think we shall be able to talk alone?"

"Yes, presently," Evelyn whispered. Soon after, in St. Peter's Walk, an opportunity occurred. The nuns had dropped behind, and Evelyn led her friend through the hazels, round by the fish-pond, where they would be able to talk undisturbed. Evelyn took her friend's arm. "Dear Louise, how kind of you to come to see me. I thought I was forgotten. But how did you find me out?"

"Sir Owen Asher, whom I met in London, told me I would probably get news of you here."

Evelyn did not answer.

"Aren't you glad to see me?"

"Of course I am. Haven't I said so? Don't you see I am? And you have brought beautiful weather with you, Louise. Was there ever a more beautiful day? White clouds rising up in the blue sky like great ships, sail over sail."

"My dear Evelyn, I have not come to talk to you about clouds, nor green trees, though the birds are singing beautifully here, and it would be pleasant to talk about them if we were going to be alone the whole afternoon. But as the nuns may come round the corner at any minute I had better ask you at once if you are going to stop here?"

"Is that what you have come to ask me?"

Evelyn got up, though they had only just sat down.

"Evelyn, dear, sit down. You are not angry with me for asking you these questions? What do you think I came here for?"

"You came here, then, as Reverend Mother suspected, to try to persuade me away? You would like to have me back on the stage?"

"Of course we should like to have you back among us again. Owen
Asher—"

"Louise, you mustn't speak to me of my past life."

"Ulick—"

"Still less of him. You have come here, sent by Owen Asher or by
Ulick Dean—which is it?"

"My dear Evelyn, I came here because we have always been friends and for old friendship's sake—by nobody."

These words seemed to reassure her, and she sat down by her friend, saying that if Louise only knew the trouble she had been through.

"But all that is forgotten… if it can be forgotten. Do you know if our sins are ever forgotten, Louise?"

"Sins, Evelyn? What sins? The sin of liking one man a little better than another?"

"That is exactly it, Louise. The sin and the shame are in just what you have said—liking one man better than another. But I wish, Louise, you wouldn't speak to me of these things, for I'll have to get up and go back to the convent."

"Well, Evelyn, let us talk about the white clouds going by, and how beautiful the wood is when the sun is shining, flecking the ground with spots of light; birds are singing in the branches, and that thrush! I have never heard a better one." Louise walked a little way. Returning to Evelyn quickly, she said, "There are all kinds of birds here—linnets, robins, yes, and a blackbird. A fine contralto!"

"But why, Louise, do you begin to talk about clouds and birds?"

"Well, dear, because you won't talk about our friends."

"Or is it because you think I must be mad to stay here and to wear this dress? You are quite wrong if you think such a thing, for it was to save myself from going mad that I came here."

"My dear Evelyn, what could have put such ideas into your head?"

"Louise, we mustn't talk of the past. I can see you are astonished at this dress, yet you are a Catholic of a sort, but still a Catholic. I was like you once, only a change came. One day perhaps you will be like me."

"You think I shall end in a convent, Evelyn?"

Evelyn did not answer, and; not knowing exactly what to say next,
Louise spoke of the convent garden.

"You always used to be fond of flowers. I suppose a great part of your time is spent in gardening?"

An angry colour rose into Evelyn's cheek.

"You don't wish me," she said, "to talk about myself? You think—
Never mind, I don't care what you think about me."

Louise assured her that she was mistaken; and in the middle of a long discourse Evelyn's thoughts seemed suddenly to break away, and she spoke to Louise of the greenhouse which she had made that winter, asking her if she would like to come to see it with her.

"A great deal of it was built with my own hands, Sister Mary John and I. You don't know her yet; she is our organist, and an excellent one."

At that moment Evelyn laid her hand on Louise's arm, and a light seemed to burst into her face.

"Listen!" she said, "listen to the bird! Don't you hear him?"

"Hear what, dear?"

"The bird in the branches singing the song that leads Siegfried to
Brunnhilde."

"A bird singing Wagner?"

"Well, what more natural than that a bird should sing his own song?"

"But no bird—" A look of wonder, mingled with fear, came into
Louise's face.

"If you listen, Louise." In the silence of the wood Louise heard somebody whistling Wagner's music. "Don't you hear it?"

Louise did not answer at once. Had she caught some of Evelyn's madness… or was she in an enchanted garden?

"It is a boy in the park, or one of the nuns."

"Nuns don't whistle, and the common is hundreds of yards away. And no boy on the common knows the bird music from 'Siegfried'? Listen, Louise, listen! There it goes, note for note. Francis is singing well to-day."

"Francis!"

"Look, look, you can see him! Now are you convinced?"

And the wonder in Louise's face passed into a look of real fear, and she said:

"Let us go away."

"But why won't you listen to Francis? None of my birds sings as he does. Let me tell you, Louise—"

But Louise's step hastened.

"Stop! Don't you hear the Sword motive? That is Aloysius."

Louise stopped for a moment, and, true enough, there was the Sword motive whistled from the branches of a sycamore. And Louise began to doubt her own sanity.

"You do hear him, I can see you do."

"What does all this mean?" Louise said to the Reverend Mother, drawing her aside. "The birds, the birds, Mother Superior, the birds!"

"What birds?"

"The birds singing the motives of 'The Ring.'"

"You mean Teresa's bullfinches, Mademoiselle Helbrun? Yes, they whistle very well."

"But they whistle the motives of 'The Ring!'"

"Ah! she taught them."

"Is that all? I thought she and I were mad. You'll excuse me, Mother
Superior? May I ask her about them?"

"Of course, Mademoiselle Helbrun, you can." And Louise walked on in front with Evelyn.

"Mother Superior tells me you have taught bullfinches the motives of
'The Ring,' is it true?"

"Of course. How could they have learned the motives unless from me?"

"But why the motives of 'The Ring'?"

"Why not, Louise? Short little phrases, just suited to a bird."

"But, dear, you must have spent hours teaching them."

"It requires a great deal of patience, but when there is a great whirl in one's head—"

Evelyn stopped speaking, and Louise understood that she shrank from the confession that to retain her sanity she had taught bullfinches to whistle,

"So she is sane, saner than any of us, for she has kept herself sane by an effort of her own will," Louise said to herself.

"Some birds learn much quicker than others; they vary a great deal."

"My dear Evelyn, it is ever so nice of you. Just fancy teaching bullfinches to sing the motives of 'The Ring,' It seemed to me I was in an enchanted garden. But tell me, why, when you had taught them, did you let them fly away?"

"Well, you see, they can only remember two tunes. If you teach them a third they forget the first two, and it seemed a pity to confuse them."

"So when a bullfinch knows two motives you let him go? Well, it is all very simple now you have explained it. They find everything they want in the garden. The bullfinch is a homely little bird, almost as domestic as the robin; they just stay here, isn't that it?"

"Sometimes they go into the park, but they come every morning to be fed. On the whole, Francis is my best bird; but there is another who in a way excels him—Timothy. I don't know why we call him Timothy; it isn't a pretty name, but it seems suited to him because I taught him 'The Shepherd's Pipe'; and you know how difficult it is, dropping half a note each time? Yet he knows it nearly all; sometimes he will whistle it through without a mistake. We could have got a great deal of money for him if he had been sold, and Reverend Mother wanted me to sell him, but I wouldn't."

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.