After breakfast Veronica came to Evelyn, saying that dear Mother
would like to speak to her. Evelyn nodded, and went gaily to see the
Prioress in her room on the ground-floor. Its long French windows,
opening on to the terrace-walk, appealed to her taste; and the
crowded writing-table, on which stood a beautiful crucifix in yellow
ivory. Papers and tin boxes were piled in one corner. But there was
no carpet, and only one armchair, over-worn and shabby. There were
flowers in vases and bowls, and, in a large cage, canaries uttered
their piercing songs.
"I like your room, dear Mother, and wish you would send for me a
little oftener. All your writing--now couldn't I do some of it for
you?"
"Yes, Evelyn, I should like to use you sometimes as a secretary... if
you are going to remain with us."
"I don't know what you mean, Mother."
"Well, sit down. I have sent for you because I want to have a little
talk with you on this subject." And she spoke of Evelyn's postulancy;
of how long it had lasted. It seemed to the Prioress that it would be
better, supposing Evelyn did not intend to remain with them, for her
to live with them as an oblate, occupying the guest-chamber.
"Your health doesn't permit much religious instruction; but one of
these days you will realise better than you do now what our life is,
and what its objects are."
So did the Prioress talk, getting nearer the point towards which she
was making, without, however, pressing Evelyn to answer any direct
question, leading her towards an involuntary decision.
"But, dear Mother, I am safe here, you know."
"And yet you fear, my dear child, you have no vocation?"
"Well, it seems extraordinary that I--"
"More extraordinary things have happened in the world than that;
besides, there is much time for you to decide. No one proposes that
you should be admitted to the Order to-morrow; such a thing, you
know, is impossible, but the white veil is a great help. Evelyn,
dear, this question has been running in my mind some time back--is it
well for you to remain a postulant any longer? The white veil, again
I say, is such a help."
"A help for what, dear Mother?"
"Well, it will tell you if you have a vocation; at the end of the
year you will know much better than you know now."
"I a nun!" Evelyn repeated.
"In a year you will be better able to decide. Extraordinary things
have happened."
"But it would be extraordinary," Evelyn said, speaking to herself
rather than to the nun.
"I have spoken to Mother Hilda and Mother Philippa on the subject,
and they are agreed that if you are to remain in the convent it would
be better for you to take the white veil."
"Or do they think that it would be better for me to leave the
convent?"
"It would be impossible for us to think such a thing, my dear child."
"But what I would wish to understand, dear Mother, is this--have I to
decide either to leave the convent or to take the white veil?"
"Oh, no; but you have been so long a postulant."
"But when I went to Rome my postulancy--"
"Even so, you have been a postulant for over a year; and, should you
discover that you have no vocation, the fact of having been a novice,
of having worn the white veil, will be a protection to you ever
afterwards, should you return to the world."
"You think so, dear Mother?"
And the Prioress read in Evelyn's face that she had touched the right
note.
"Yes, to have a name, for instance--not only the veil, but the name.
I have been thinking of a name for you--what do you think of
'Teresa'?"
"Teresa!" Evelyn answered. And her thoughts went to the great nun
whose literature she had first read in the garden outside, when she
walked there as a visitor. It was under a certain tree, where she had
often sat since with Mother Hilda and the novices, that she had first
read the "Autobiography" and "The Way of Perfection." There were the
saints' poems, too; and, thinking of them, a pride awoke in her that
for a time, at least, she should bear the saint's name. The Prioress
was right, the saint's name would fortify her against her enemy; and
her noviceship would be something to look back upon, and the memory
of it would protect her when she left the convent.
"I am glad that we shall have you, at all events, for some months
more with us--some months more for sure, perhaps always. But take
time to consider it."
"Dear Mother, I am quite decided."
"Think it over. You can tell me your decision some time in the
afternoon, or to-morrow."
It was a few days after that the Prioress took Evelyn up to the
novitiate, where the novices were making the dress that Evelyn was to
wear when she received the white veil.
"You see, Teresa, we spare no expense or trouble on your dress," said
the Prioress.
"Oh, it is no trouble, dear Mother." And Sister Angela rose from her
chair and turned the dress right side out and shook it, so that
Evelyn might admire the handsome folds into which the silk fell.
"And see, here is the wreath," said Sister Jerome, picking up a
wreath of orange-blossoms from a chair.
"And what do you think of your veil, Sister Teresa? Sister Rufina did
this feather-stitch. Hasn't she done it beautifully?"
"And Sister Rufina is making your wedding-cake. Mother Philippa has
told her to put in as many raisins and currants as she pleases. Yours
will be the richest cake we have ever had in the convent." Sister
Angela spoke very demurely, for she was thinking of the portion of
the cake that would come to her, and there was a little gluttony in
her voice as she spoke of the almond paste it would have upon it.
"It is indeed a pity," said Sister Jerome, "that Sister Teresa's
clothing takes place so early in the year."
"How so, Sister Jerome?" Evelyn asked incautiously.
"Because if it had been a little later, or if Monsignor had not been
delayed in Rome--I only thought," she added, stopping short, "that
you would like Monsignor to give you the white veil--it would be
nicer for you; or if the Bishop gave it," she added, "or Father
Ambrose. I am sure Sister Veronica never would have been a nun at all
if Father Ambrose had not professed her. Father Daly is such a little
frump."
"That will do, children; I cannot really allow our chaplain to be
spoken of in that manner." And Mother Hilda looked at Evelyn,
thinking, "Well, the Prioress has had her way with her."
The recreation-bell rang, and the novices clattered down the stairs
of the novitiate, their childish eagerness rousing Evelyn from the
mild stupor which still seemed to hang about her mind; and she smiled
at the novices and at herself, for suddenly it had all begun to seem
to her like a scene in a play, herself going to take the white veil
and to become a nun, at all events, for a while. "Now, how is all
this to end?" she asked herself. "But what does it matter?" Clouds
seemed to envelop her mind again, and she acquiesced when the
Prioress said:
"I think your retreat had better begin to-day."
"When, Mother?"
"Well, from this moment."
"If Teresa will come into the garden with me," said Mother Hilda.
It was impossible for the Prioress to say no, and a slaty blush of
anger came into her cheek. "Hilda will do all she can to prevent
her." Nor was the Prioress wholly wrong in her surmise, for they had
not walked very far before Evelyn admitted that the idea of the white
veil frightened her a great deal.
"Frightens you, my dear child?"
"But if I had a vocation I should not feel frightened. Isn't that so,
Mother Hilda?"
"I shouldn't like to say that, Teresa. One can feel frightened and
yet desire a thing very much; desire and fear are not incompatible."
Tears glistened in her eyes, and she appealed to Mother Hilda,
saying:
"Dear Mother, I don't know why I am crying, but I am very unhappy.
There is no reason why I should be, for here I am safe."
"Will she ever recover her mind sufficiently to know what she is
doing?" Mother Hilda asked herself.
"It is always," Evelyn said, "as if I were trying to escape from
something." Mother Hilda pressed her to explain. "I cannot explain
myself better than by telling that it is as if the house were burning
behind me, and I were trying to get away."
That evening Mother Hilda consulted the Prioress, telling her of
Evelyn's tears and confusion.
"But, Hilda, why do you trouble her with questions as to whether she
would like to be a nun or not? As I have said repeatedly, the veil is
a great help, and, in a year hence, Teresa will know whether she'd
like to join our community. In the meantime, pray let her be in peace
and recover herself." The Prioress's voice was stern.
"Only this, dear Mother--"
"The mistake you make, Hilda, seems to me to be that you imagine
every one turns to religion and to the convent for the same reason,
whereas the reasons that bring us to God are widely different. You
are disappointed in Teresa, not because she lacks piety, but because
she is not like Jerome or Angela or Veronica, whom we both know very
well. Each seeks her need in religion, and you are not acquainted
with Teresa's, that is all. Now, Hilda, obedience is the first of all
the virtues, and I claim yours in all that regards Teresa." Mother
Hilda raised her quiet eyes and looked into the Prioress's face, and
then lowered them again. "We should be lacking in our duty," the
Prioress continued, "if we don't try to keep her by all legitimate
means. She will receive the white veil at the end of the week; try to
prepare her for her clothing, instruct her in the rule of our house;
no one can do that as well as you."
Lifting her eyes again for a moment, Mother Hilda answered that it
should be as the Prioress wished--that she would do her best to
instruct Teresa; and she moved away slowly, the Prioress not seeking
to detain her any longer in her room.