The letter from St. Gildas, bringing with it a breath of salt air, lay
on the table before us. Sweetheart clasped her hands and looked at me.
"I'm in favour of going at once," I said for the third time. Over by
the wall were piled my canvases, the result of three months in Faöuet.
The first was a study of Sweetheart under the trees of the ancient
orchard in the convent grounds. What trouble I had had with that
canvas! I remembered the morning that the old gardener came over
and stood behind me as I painted; and when I had replied to his
"Good-morning," I recalled the pang his next words gave me:
"I am so sorry, monsieur, but it is forbidden to enter the convent
grounds."
My canvas was almost finished, and, as the romancers have it, "my
despair was great!" A month's work for nothing--or next to nothing!
Sweetheart rose from her pose on the low bough of the apple tree and
came over to my side. "Never mind, Jack; I shall go and ask the Mother
Superior about it."
I knew that she would win over the Mother Superior; and when, that
evening, she came back radiant, crying, "She is lovely!--she says you
may finish the picture, and I think you ought to go and thank her," I
put on my cap, and stepping across the street, we rang at the gate.
The old gardener let us in, and in a moment I stood before the latticed
windows behind which some one was moving. In a low voice the invisible
nun told us that the Superior granted to us the privilege of working in
the orchard, but we must be careful of the grass, because it was almost
time to cut it.
"I am sure we may have confidence in you," she said.
"We will not trample the grass, my sister, and I thank you for us both."
The lattice trembled, was raised a little, and then fell.
"You are English," said the hidden nun.
"I am American, my sister."
I looked at the lattice a moment, then dropped my eyes. I may have been
mistaken, but I think she sighed.
Sweetheart came closer to the lattice and murmured her thanks.
There was a pause.
Then came the voice again, sweet and gentle: "May Our Lady of Saint
Gildas protect you"; and we went out by the little iron wicket.
The next picture was another study of Sweetheart in the woods; the
next, another study of Sweetheart; and the others were studies of the
same young lady.
The light in the room had grown dim, and I walked to the window which
overlooked the convent chapel. The chapel windows were open; within,
the nuns stood or knelt chanting. Three white-veiled figures were
advancing to the altar, and the others, draped in black now knelt
behind. I didn't think I had any business to look at them, so I did
not. After all, they were cloistered nuns, and it was only on hot
nights that they opened the chapel windows. Sweetheart was speaking
beside my shoulder.
"Poor things! The ones in white, they are the novices; they will never
see parents or friends again. When they enter the gates they never
leave--never; they are buried there."
I said: "After all, we are much like them. We have left all; we have
nothing now but each other, for the world is dead, and we are bound by
vows which keep us within the narrow confines of our heritage."
"But our heritage is everywhere--as far as we can see."
"Ah, yes, but we can only see to the horizon. There is a world beyond."
"I have renounced it," said Sweetheart faintly.