"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 pa.s.sages 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-s.p.a.ces 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 leaf.a.ge of the hawthorns, and under the flowering trees gra.s.s was springing up, beautiful silky gra.s.s. "There is nothing so beautiful in the world as grabs," Evelyn thought, "fair spring gra.s.s." 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 sh.e.l.l. 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 gra.s.s, 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 pa.s.s in first.

"Louise, how good of you to come to see me. How did you find my address? Did Merat 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, a.s.sumed 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 apt.i.tude."

"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.