SISTER ESTHER MAGDALENE
Esther's novitiate in the community of St. Mary Magdalene, Shoreditch,
had lasted six months longer than was usual, because the Mother Superior
while never doubting her vocation for the religious life had feared for
her ability to stand the strain of that work among penitents to which
the community was dedicated. In the end, her perseverance had been
rewarded, and the day of her profession was at hand.
During the whole of her nearly four years' novitiate Esther had not been
home once; although Mark and she had corresponded at long intervals,
their letters had been nothing more than formal records of minor events,
and on St. John's eve he drove with the dogcart to meet her, wondering
all the way how much she would have changed. The first thing that struck
him when he saw her alight from the train on Shipcot platform was her
neatness. In old days with windblown hair and clothes flung on anyhow
she had belonged so unmistakably to the open air. Now in her grey habit
and white veil of the novice she was as tranquil as Miriam, and for the
first time Mark perceived a resemblance between the sisters. Her
complexion, which formerly was flushed and much freckled by the open
air, was now like alabaster; and although her auburn hair was hidden
beneath the veil Mark was aware of it like a hidden fire. He had in the
very moment of welcoming her a swift vision of that auburn hair lying on
the steps of the altar a fortnight hence, and he was filled with a wild
desire to be present at her profession and gathering up the shorn locks
to let them run through his fingers like flames. He had no time to be
astonished at himself before they were shaking hands.
"Why, Esther," he laughed, "you're carrying an umbrella."
"It was raining in London," she said gravely.
He was on the point of exclaiming at such prudence in Esther when he
blushed in the remembrance that she was a nun. During the drive back
they talked shyly about the characters of the village and the Rectory
animals.
"I feel as if you'd just come back from school for the holidays," he
said.
"Yes, I feel as if I'd been at school," she agreed. "How sweet the
country smells."
"Don't you miss the country sometimes in Shoreditch?" he asked.
She shook her head and looked at him with puzzled eyes.
"Why should I miss anything in Shoreditch?"
Mark was abashed and silent for the rest of the drive, because he
fancied that Esther might have supposed that he was referring to the
past, rather than give which impression he would have cut out his
tongue. When they reached the Rectory, Mark was moved almost to tears by
the greetings.
"Dear little sister," Miriam murmured. "How happy we are to have you
with us again."
"Dear child," said Mrs. Ogilvie. "And really she does look like a nun."
"My dearest girl, we have missed you every moment of these four years,"
said the Rector, bending to kiss her. "How cold your cheek is."
"It was quite chilly driving," said Mark quickly, for there had come
upon him a sudden dismay lest they should think she was a ghost. He was
relieved when Miriam announced tea half an hour earlier than usual in
honour of Esther's arrival; it seemed to prove that to her family she
was still alive.
"After tea I'm going to Wych Maries to pick St. John's wort for the
church. Would you like to walk as far?" Mark suggested, and then stood
speechless, horrified at his want of tact. He had the presence of mind
not to excuse himself, and he was grateful to Esther when she replied in
a calm voice that she should like a walk after tea.
When the opportunity presented itself, Mark apologized for his
suggestion.
"By why apologize?" she asked. "I assure you I'm not at all tired and I
really should like to walk to Wych Maries."
He was amazed at her self-possession, and they walked along with
unhastening conventual steps to where the St. John's wort grew amid a
tangle of ground ivy in the open spaces of a cypress grove, appearing
most vividly and richly golden like sunlight breaking from black clouds
in the western sky.
"Gather some sprays quickly, Sister Esther Magdalene," Mark advised.
"And you will be safe against the demons of this night when evil has
such power."
"Are we ever safe against the demons of the night?" she asked solemnly.
"And has not evil great power always?"
"Always," he assented in a voice that trembled to a sigh, like the
uncertain wind that comes hesitating at dusk in the woods. "Always," he
repeated.
As he spoke Mark fell upon his knees among the holy flowers, for there
had come upon him temptation; and the sombre trees standing round
watched him like fiends with folded wings.
"Go to the chapel," he cried in an agony.
"Mark, what is the matter?"
"Go to the chapel. For God's sake, Esther, don't wait."
In another moment he felt that he should tear the white veil from her
forehead and set loose her auburn hair.
"Mark, are you ill?"
"Oh, do what I ask," he begged. "Once I prayed for you here. Pray for me
now."
At that moment she understood, and putting her hands to her eyes she
stumbled blindly toward the ruined church of the two Maries, heavily
too, because she was encumbered by her holy garb. When she was gone and
the last rustle of her footsteps had died away upon the mid-summer
silence, Mark buried his body in the golden flowers.
"How can I ever look any of them in the face again?" he cried aloud.
"Small wonder that yesterday I was so futile. Small wonder indeed! And
of all women, to think that I should fall in love with Esther. If I had
fallen in love with her four years ago . . . but now when she is going
to be professed . . . suddenly without any warning . . . without any
warning . . . yet perhaps I did love her in those days . . . and was
jealous. . . ."
And even while Mark poured forth his horror of himself he held her image
to his heart.
"I thought she was a ghost because she was dead to me, not because she
was dead to them. She is not a ghost to them. And is she to me?"
He leapt to his feet, listening.
"Should she come back," he thought with beating heart. "Should she come
back . . . I love her . . . she hasn't taken her final vows . . . might
she not love me? No," he shouted at the top of his voice. "I will not do
as my father did . . . I will not . . . I will not. . . ."
Mark felt sure of himself again: he felt as he used to feel as a little
boy when his mother entered on a shaft of light to console his childish
terrors. When he came to the ruined chapel and saw Esther standing with
uplifted palms before the image of St. Mary Magdalene long since put
back upon the pedestal from which it had been flung by the squire of
Rushbrooke Grange, Mark was himself again.
"My dear," Esther cried, impulsively taking his hand. "You frightened
me. What was the matter?"
He did not answer for a moment or two, because he wanted her to hold his
hand a little while longer, so much time was to come when she would
never hold it.
"Whenever I dip my hand in cold water," he said at last, "I shall think
of you. Why did you say that about the demons of the night?"
She dropped his hand in comprehension.
"You're disgusted with me," he murmured. "I'm not surprised."
"No, no, you mustn't think of me like that. I'm still a very human
Esther, so human that the Reverend Mother has made me wait an extra year
to be professed. But, Mark dear, can't you understand, you who know what
I endured in this place, that I am sometimes tempted by memories of
him, that I sometimes sin by regrets for giving him up, my dead lover
so near to me in this place. My dead love," she sighed to herself, "to
whose memory in my pride of piety I thought I should be utterly
indifferent."
A spasm of jealousy had shaken Mark while Esther was speaking, but by
the time she had finished he had fought it down.
"I think I must have loved you all this time," he told her.
"Mark dear, I'm ten years older than you. I'm going to be a nun for what
of my life remains. And I can never love anybody else. Don't make this
visit of mine a misery to me. I've had to conquer so much and I need
your prayers."
"I wish you needed my kisses."
"Mark!"
"What did I say? Oh, Esther, I'm a brute. Tell me one thing."
"I've already told you more than I've told anyone except my confessor."
"Have you found happiness in the religious life?"
"I have found myself. The Reverend Mother wanted me to leave the
community and enter a contemplative order. She did not think I should be
able to help poor girls."
"Esther, what a stupid woman! Why surely you would be wonderful with
them?"
"I think she is a wise woman," said Esther. "I think since we came
picking St. John's wort I understand how wise she is."
"Esther, dear dear Esther, you make me feel more than ever ashamed of
myself. I entreat you not to believe what the Reverend Mother says."
"You have only a fortnight to convince me," said Esther.
"And I will convince you."
"Mark, do you remember when you made me pray for his soul telling me
that in that brief second he had time to repent?"
Mark nodded grimly.
"You still do think that, don't you?"
"Of course I do. He must have repented."
She thanked him with her eyes; and Mark looking into their depths of
hope unfathomable put away from him the thought that the damned soul of
Will Starling was abroad to-night with power of evil. Yes, he put this
thought behind him; but carrying an armful of St. John's wort to hang in
sprays above the doors of the church he could not rid himself of the
fancy that his arms were filled with Esther's auburn hair.