A cold shower struck the windows of the novitiate.
"Was there ever such weather? Will it never cease raining and
blowing?" the novices cried, and they looked through the panes into
the windy garden. Next day the same dark clouds rolled overhead, with
gleams of sunshine now and then lighting up the garden and the
distant common, where sometimes a horseman was seen galloping at the
close of day, just as in a picture.
"How wet he will be when he gets home!" a novice would sometimes say,
and the conversation was not continued.
"I wonder if we shall ever have fine weather again?" broke in
another.
"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 passed 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 passed 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 assure 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."