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 the 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?"

"Perhaps I do. But why do you ask?"

"Because your singing seems to affect no one as it does me…. I thought it might affect you in the same way—what is it?"

"I wouldn't worry, Veronica, you will get over it; it will pass."

"I hope it will." Evelyn felt that Veronica had not spoken all her mind, and that the incident was not closed. The novice's eyes were full of reverie, and behind her the open press exhaled a fragrance of lavender. "You see," she said, turning, "Father Ambrose is coming to-morrow. I wonder what he will think of you? He'll know if you have a vocation."

Father Ambrose, an old Carmelite monk and the spiritual adviser of the Prioress, was known to be a great friend of Veronica's, and whenever he came to the convent Veronica's excitement started many little pleasantries among the novices. Next day Evelyn waited for one of these to arise. She had not long to wait; all the novices and postulants with Mother Hilda were sitting under the great tree. The air was warm, and Mother Hilda guided the conversation occasionally. Every one was anxious to talk, but every one was anxious to think too, for every one knew she would be questioned by the aged monk, and that the chance of being accepted as a nun depended, in no small measure, on his opinion of her vocation.

"Have you noticed, Sister Teresa, how beaming Sister Veronica has looked for the last day or two? I can't think what has come to her."

"Can't you, indeed? You must be very slow. Hasn't she been put into the sacristy just before Father Ambrose's visit; now she will be able to put out his vestments herself. You may be sure we shall have the best vestments out every day, and she will be able to have any amount of private interviews behind our backs."

"Now, children, that will do," said Mother Hilda, noticing Veronica's crimson cheeks as she bent over her work.

Evelyn wondered, and that evening in the sacristy Veronica broke into expostulations with an excitement that took Evelyn by surprise.

"How could I not care for Father Ambrose! I have known him all my life. Once I was very ill with pleurisy. I nearly died, and Father Ambrose anointed me, and gave me the last Sacraments. I had not made my first Communion then. I was only eleven, but they gave me the Sacrament, for they thought I was dying, and I thought so too, and I promised our Lord I would be a nun if I got well. I never told any one except Father Ambrose, and he has helped me all through to keep my vow, so you see he has been everything to me; I have never loved any one as I love Father Ambrose. When he comes here I always ask him for some rule or direction, so that I may have the happiness of obeying him till his next visit; and it is so trying, is it not, Sister Teresa, when the novices make their silly little jokes about it? Of course, they don't understand, they can't; but to me Father Ambrose means everything I care for; besides, he is really a saint. I believe he would have been canonised if he had lived in the Middle Ages. He has promised to profess me. It is wrong, I know, but really I should hardly care to be professed if Father Ambrose could not be by. We must have these vestments for him." Evelyn was about to take them out. "No, allow me."

Veronica took the vestments out of her hand, a pretty colour coming into her cheeks as she did so. And Evelyn understood her jealousy, lest any other hands but hers should lay the vestments out that he was to wear, and she turned her head so that Veronica might not think she was being watched. And the little nun was happy in the corner of the sacristy laying out the vestments, putting the gold chalice for him to use, and the gold cruets, which Evelyn had never seen used before."

"You see, being a monk, he has a larger amice than the ordinary priest." And Veronica produced a strip of embroidery which she tacked on the edge of the amice, so that it might give the desired appearance when the monk drew it over his head on entering or leaving the sacristy.

A few days after Evelyn came upon this amice with the embroidery edge put away in a secret corner, so that it should not be used in the ordinary way; and, as she stood wondering at the child's love for the aged monk, Sister Agnes came to tell her she was wanted to bid Sister Mary John goodbye.

"To bid Sister Mary John goodbye!"

"Yes, Sister Teresa, that is what the Prioress told me to tell you."

Evelyn hurried to the library. Sister Mary John was standing near the window, and she wore a long black cloak over her habit, and had a bird-cage in her hand. Evelyn saw the sly jackdaw, with his head on one side, looking at her.

"What is the meaning of this, Sister? You don't tell me you are going away? And for how long?"

"For ever, Sister; we shall never see each other again. I promised the Prioress not to tell you before. It was a great hardship, but I gave my promise, she allowing us to see each other for a few minutes before I left."

"I can't take in what you're saying. Going away for ever? Oh, Sister, this cannot be true!" And Evelyn stood looking at the nun, her eyes dilated, her fingers crisped as if she would hold Sister Mary John back. "But what is taking you away?"

"That is a long story, too long for telling now; besides, you know it. You know I have been very fond of you, Teresa; too fond of you."

"So that's it. And how shall I live here without you?"

"You are going to enter the convent, and as a nun you will learn to live without me; you will learn to love God better than you do now."

"One moment; tell me, it is only fair you should tell me, how our love of each other has altered your love of God?"

"I can never tell you, Teresa, I can only say that I never understood, perhaps, as I do now, that nothing must come between the soul and God, and that there is no room for any other love in our hearts. We must remember always we are the brides of Christ, you and I, Sister."

"But I am not professed, and never shall be."

"I hope you will, Sister, and that all your love will go to our crucified Lord."

They stood holding each other's hands.

"Won't you let me kiss you before you go?"

"Please let me go; it will be better not. The carriage is waiting; I must go."

"But never, never to see you again!"

"Never is a long while; too long. We shall meet in heaven, and it would be unwise to forfeit that meeting for a moment of time on this earth."

"A moment of time on this earth," Evelyn answered. She stood looking out of the window like one dazed; and taking advantage of her abstraction Sister Mary John left the room. The Prioress came into the library.

"Mother, what does this mean? Why did you let her go?"

The Prioress sat down slowly and looked at Evelyn without speaking.

"Mother, you might have let her stay, for my sake."

"I allowed her to see you before she left, and that was the most I could do, under the circumstances."

"The most you could do under the circumstances? I don't understand.
Mother, you might have asked her to wait. She acted on impulse."

"No, Teresa, she came to me some weeks ago to tell me of her scruples."

"Scruples! Her love of me, you mean?"

"I see she has told you. Yes."

The Prioress was about to ask her about her vows; but the present was not the moment to do so, and she allowed Evelyn to go back to the sacristy.