Sister Teresa Part 29

"One of these days it will cease raining," Mother Hilda said, for she was an optimist; and very soon she began to be looked upon as a prophetess, for the weather mended imperceptibly, and one afternoon the sky was in gala toilette, in veils and laces: a great lady stepping into her carriage going to a ball could not be more beautifully attired. An immense sky brushed over with faint wreathing clouds with blue colour showing through, a blue brilliant as any enamel worn by a great lady on her bosom; and the likeness of the clouds to plumes pa.s.sed through Evelyn's mind, and her eyes wandering westward, noticed how the sky down there was a rich, almost sulphurous, yellow; it set off the white and blue aerial extravagances of the zenith. The garden was still wet and cold, but a warm air was coming in, and the voices of the nuns and novices sounded so innocent and free that Evelyn was moved by a sudden sympathy to join them.

Under yonder trees the three Mothers were walking, looking towards Evelyn now and then; she was the subject of their conversation, the Prioress maintaining it would be a great benefit to her to take the veil.

"But, dear Mother, do you think she will ever recover her health sufficiently for her to decide, and for us to decide, whether she has a vocation?" Mother Hilda asked.

"It seems to me that Evelyn is recovering every day. Do you remember at first whole days pa.s.sed without her speaking? Now there are times when she joins in the conversation."

Mother Mary Hilda did not answer, and a little aggressive glance shot out of the Prioress's eyes.

"You don't like to have her in the novitiate. I remember when she returned from Rome--"

"It seems to me that it would be just as well for her to live in the convent as an oblate, occupying the guest-room as before."

"Now, why do you think that, Hilda? Let us have things precise."

"Her life as an opera singer clings about her."

"On the contrary, I cannot discover any trace of her past life in her. In the chapel she seems very often overcome, and for piety seems to set an example to us all."

"You see, dear Mother, I am responsible for the religious education of some half-dozen young and innocent girls, and, though I like Evelyn herself very much, her influence--"

"But what influence? She doesn't speak."

"No matter; it is known to every one in the convent that she has once been a singer, though they don't know, perhaps, she was on the stage; and she creates an atmosphere which I a.s.sure you--"

"Of course, Hilda, you can oppose me; you always oppose. Nothing is easier than opposition. Your responsibilities, I would not attempt to deny that they exist, but you seem to forget that I, too, have responsibilities. The debts of the convent are very pressing. And Mother Philippa, too, has responsibilities."

"It would be a great advantage if Evelyn could discover she had a vocation. Four or five, perhaps six hundred a year--she must have at least that, for opera singers are very well paid, so I have always heard--would--"

"But, Mother Philippa, the whole question is whether Evelyn has a vocation. We know what the advantages would be," said Mother Hilda in a low, insinuating voice which always exasperated the Reverend Mother.

"I think it would be better to wait," Mother Philippa answered. "You see, she is suffering from a great mental breakdown; I think she should have her chance like another." And, turning to the Prioress, she said, "Dear Mother, do you think when Evelyn recovers her health sufficiently to arrive at a decision that she will stay with us?"

"Not if a dead set is made against her, and if she is made to feel she has no vocation, and that her influence is a pernicious one."

"Dear Mother, I never said--"

"Well, don't let us discuss the matter any more for the moment. Of course, if you decide that Evelyn is not to remain in the novitiate--"

"It is for you to decide the matter. You are Reverend Mother here, it is for us to obey; only since you ask me--"

"Ask you, Hilda? But you tell me nothing. You merely oppose. What is your dislike to Evelyn?"

"Dislike!"

"I am sure there is no dislike on Mother Hilda's part," Mother Philippa said; "I am quite sure of that, Reverend Mother. Evelyn's health is certainly improving, and I hope she will soon be able to sing for us again at Benediction. Haven't you noticed that our congregation is beginning to fall away? And you won't deny that the fact that an opera singer wishes to enter our convent gives a distinction--"

"It depends, Mother Philippa, in what sense you use the word 'distinction.' But I see you don't agree with me; you think with the Prioress that Evelyn is--"

"Don't let us argue this question any more. Hilda, go and tell Evelyn I want her."

"How Hilda does try to thwart me, to make things more difficult than they are!"

"Evelyn, my dear child, I have sent for you to ask if you feel well enough to-day to sing for us at Benediction?"

"Oh, yes, dear Mother, why shouldn't I sing for you? What would you like me to sing?"' The Prioress hesitated, and then asked Evelyn to suggest some pieces, and after several suggestions Evelyn said:

"Perhaps it would be better if I were to call Sister Mary John, if you will allow me, Mother." And she went away, calling to the other nun, who came quickly from the kitchen garden in her big boots and her habit tucked up nearly to her knees, looking very much more like a labouring woman than a musician.

"We were talking just now of what Evelyn would sing for us at Benediction; perhaps you had better go away and discuss the matter between you."

"Will you sing Stradella's 'Chanson d'Eglise' or will you sing Schubert's 'Ave Maria'? Nothing is more beautiful than that."

"I will sing the 'Ave Maria.'"

The nun sat down to play it, but she had not played many bars when Evelyn interrupted her. "The intention of the single note, dear Sister, the octave you are striking now, has always seemed to me like a distant bell heard in the evening. Will you play it so."

XXIII

And the idea of a bell sounding across the evening landscape was in the mind of the congregation when Sister Mary John played the octave; and the broken chords she played with her right hand awoke a sensation of lights dying behind distant hills.

It is almost night, and amid a lonely landscape a harsh rock appears, and by it a forlorn woman stands--a woman who is without friend or any mortal hope--and she commends herself to the care of the Virgin.

She begins to sing softly, tremulous, like one in pain and doubt, "Ave Maria, hearken to the Virgin's cry." The melody she sings is rich, even ornate, but the richness of the phrase, with its two little grace notes, does not mitigate the sorrow at the core; the rich garb in which the idea is clothed does not rob the song of its humanity.

Evelyn's voice filled with the beauty of the melody, and she sang the phrase which closes the stanza--a phrase which dances like a puff of wind in an evening bough--so tenderly, so lovingly, that acute tears trembled under the eyelids. And all her soul was in her voice when she sang the phrase of pa.s.sionate faith which the lonely, disheartened woman sings, looking up from the desert rock. Then her voice sank into the calm beauty of the "Ave Maria," now given with confidence in the Virgin's intercession, and the broken chords pa.s.sed down the keyboard, uniting with the last note of the solemn octaves, which had sounded through the song like bells heard across an evening landscape.

"How beautifully she sings it!" a man said out loud, and his neighbour looked and wondered, for the man's eyes were full of tears.

"You have a beautiful voice, child," said the Prioress when they came out of church, "and it is a real pleasure to me to hear you sing, and it will be a greater pleasure when I know that for the future your great gift will be devoted to the service of G.o.d. Shall we go into the garden for a little walk before supper? We shall have it to ourselves, and the air will do you good."

It was the month of June, and the convent garden was in all the colour of its summer--crimson and pink; and all the scents of the month, stocks and sweetbriar, were blown up from St. Peter's Walk. In the long mixed borders the blue larkspurs stood erect between Canterbury bells and the bush peonies, crimson and pink, and here and there amid furred leaves, at the end of a long furred stalk, flared the foolish poppy, roses like pale porcelain cl.u.s.tered along the low terraced walk and up the house itself, over the stucco walls; but more beautiful than the roses were the delicate petals of the clematis, stretched out like fingers upon the walls.

An old nun was being wheeled up and down the terrace in a bath-chair by one of the lay sisters, that she might enjoy the sweet air.

"I must say a word to Sister Lawrence," the Prioress said, "she will never forgive me if I don't. She is the eldest member of our community; if she lives another two years, she will complete half a century of convent life."

As they drew near Evelyn saw two black eyes in a white, almost fleshless face. The eyes alone seemed to live, and the shrunken figure, huddled in many shawls, gave an impression of patriarchal age. Evelyn saw by her veil that Sister Lawrence was a lay sister, and the old nun tried to draw herself up in her chair as they approached, and kissed the hand of the Prioress.

"Well, Sister, how are you feeling? I have brought you our new musical postulant to look at. I want to know what you think of her.

You must know, Evelyn," said the Prioress, "that Sister Lawrence is a great judge of people's vocations; I always consult her about my new postulants."

Sister Lawrence took Evelyn's hands between hers and gazed into her face so earnestly that Evelyn feared her innermost thoughts were being read. Then, with a little touch of wilfulness, that came oddly from one so old and venerable, the Sister said:

"Well, Reverend Mother, she is pretty anyhow, and it is a long time since we had a pretty postulant."

"Really, Sister Lawrence, I am ashamed of you," said the Prioress with playful severity; "Sister Evelyn will be quite disedified."