II.

Agnes wore a jacket made of some dark material, she held a little fur

muff in her hand, and under a black straw hat her blue eyes smiled;

and when she caught sight of her mother she uttered a happy cry.

Mrs. Lahens looked at Agnes curiously; at this thin girl; for, though

Agnes' face was round and rosy, her waist was slender, and her hands,

and hips, and bosom; and Mrs. Lahens was unconsciously affected by the

contrast that her own regular and painted features, and her long life

of social adventure, presented to this pretty, dovelike girl, this

pale conventual rose, without instinct of the world, and into whose

guileless mind no knowledge of the world would apparently ever enter.

'Oh, father, how are you? I did not see you, the room is so dark.'

Agnes kissed her father, and with her right hand in her mother's left

hand, and her left hand in her father's left she looked at her

parents, overcome by her affection for them. But suddenly remembering,

she said:

'But I haven't introduced you to Father White. How rude of me! Father

White was good enough to see me home. The Mother Abbess was afraid I

should get into a wrong train, or get run over in the streets.'

The little priest came forward shyly. His black cloth trousers were

too short, and did not hide his clumsy laced boots. His features were

small and regular, and his light-brown hair grew thick on his little

round head, which he carried on one side. He was young, seven or eight

and twenty, and so good-looking that some unhappy romantic passion

suggested itself as the cause of his long black coat and penitential

air.

'I'm sure that we're very much obliged to you for your kindness,

Father White,' said Mrs. Lahens.

'I was going to London, and the Mother Abbess asked me to take charge

of Miss Lahens, and surrender her safe into your hands.'

'Won't you sit down, Father White?' said Mrs. Lahens. 'I want to talk

to you about Agnes. I hope you will stop to lunch.... I wish you

would.'

'Thank you, but I'm afraid I cannot. I have an engagement to lunch

with the Dominicans.'

'I'm sorry, but you can spare me a few minutes,' said Mrs. Lahens,

leading him away.

Lord Chadwick came forward and shook hands with Agnes.

'I'm afraid you've forgotten me, Agnes. It is nearly five years---'

'No; I haven't, at least not quite. It was in the country, at the

cottage in Surrey. You're the gentleman who used to go out driving

with mother.'

'Yes; you're right so far, I used to go out driving with Mrs. Lahens.

You used to come too.'

'And very often you used to speak French to mother. I never could

understand why--I used to think and think.'

'And do you remember any of the things he used to say in French?' said

Mr. Moulton.

'No; I didn't understand French then.'

'But you do now?'

'Yes. Our school is one of the best; we are taught everything.'

'I'm sorry for that. There'll be nothing for us to teach you.'

'For you to teach me?' said Agnes, looking at him inquiringly.

At that moment the servant announced Mr. Harding. The Major went

forward and welcomed him cordially.

'You see, you've lost your bet,' Moulton whispered to Harding.

'We were very sorry to lose her,' said Father White, 'and she was

sorry to leave, but it would not be right for her to take vows to

enter a severe order until she has seen the world and had

opportunities of knowing if she has a vocation. On that point I shall

be very firm with her, you can rely on me, Mrs. Lahens.'

'I'm afraid that she will never care for society. I'm afraid that this

experience will not prove of much avail. She'll return to the convent,

I shall be sorry to lose her.'

'She's indeed a good girl, and if she finds that she has a vocation--'

'Now, you are speaking about me,' said Agnes. 'I can hear the word

vocation.'

Mrs. Lahens smiled and was about to reply when the servant announced

Miss Lilian Dare.

Lilian was a red blonde; her rich chestnut hair fell over her ears

like wings, and she was showily dressed in an expensive French gown

which did not suit her, which made her seem older than she was.

'So you have come alone?'

'Yes, dear Lady Duckle was not feeling well this morning; she sends

you her love, and begs you'll excuse her.'

'Oh yes, we'll excuse her. But tell me, Lilian,' said Mrs. Lahens,

taking the girl aside, 'how do you like living with her?'

'It is delightful, you don't know what it means to me to get away from

home--all those brothers and sisters--that hateful suburb.'

'You must never speak of it again. Islington, where is that? you must

say if Islington should happen in the conversation, which is not

likely. I always told you that you'd have to throw your family over.

We want you, not your family. Chaperons nowadays are a make-believe.

Lady Duckle will suit you very well; she'll feel ill when you don't

want her, when you do she'll be all there. She's an honest old thing,

and will do all that's required of her for the money you pay her.

Thirty pounds a month, that's it, isn't it, dear?'

The servant announced Lady Castlerich.

Lady Castlerich disguised her seventy years under youthful gowns and

an extraordinary yellow wig. She wore a large black hat trimmed with

black ostrich plumes, it became her; she looked quite handsome, and

her cracked and tremulous voice was as full of sympathy as her manner

was of high breeding. She seemed very fond of Lilian, and was soon

engaged in conversation with her.

'You mustn't disappoint me, my dear; you must come to my shootin'

party on the twenty-fifth, and dear Lady Duckle, I hope she'll come

too, though she is rather a bore. I shall have plenty of beaux for

you, there is my neighbour Lord Westhorpe, he's young and handsome, a

beautiful place, charmin', my dear. And if you don't like him, there's

my old lover Appletown, you know, my dear, all that is a long while

ago. I said to Appletown more than ten years ago--"Appletown, this

must end, I am an old woman." You've no idea the look he gave me.

"Florence," he said, "don't call yourself an old woman, I can't bear

it. You'll never be an old woman, at least not in my eyes." Charmin',

wasn't it; no one but a nice man could speak like that. So we've

always remained friends, Appletown has his rooms at Morelands, and he

does as he likes. He likes you, dear, he told me so. I've got a

telegram from him, I'll show it to you after lunch.'

The servant announced Mr. Herbert St. Clare, a fastidiously-dressed

man. He was tall and thin, and his eyes were pale and agreeable; his

beard was close-clipped, he played with his eye-glass, and shook hands

absent-mindedly.

'Oh, Mr. St. Clare, I'm enchanted with your last song,' said Lady

Castlerich. 'Every one is talking of it, it is quite the rage,

charmin', I wish I had had it ten years ago, my voice is gone now.'

'You still sing charmingly, Lady Castlerich, not much voice is

required if the singer is a musician.'

'You're very kind,' and the old lady laughed with pleasure, and Mrs.

Lahens smiled satirically, and whispered:

'Oh, you fibber, St. Clare.'

'I'm not fibbing,' he answered; 'she sings the old Italian airs

charmingly.'

Soon after lunch was announced, and Mrs. Lahens once more asked Father

White to stay. He begged her to excuse him, and she went into the

diningroom leaving him in the passage with Agnes.

'Good-bye, my dear child, I shall see you next week. I will write

telling you when I'm coming, and you'll tell me what you think of the

world. The convent is only for those who have a vocation. You can

serve God in the world as well as elsewhere.'

'I wonder,' said Agnes, and she looked doubtfully into the priest's

eyes. 'I wonder. I confess I'm a little curious. At present I do not

understand at all.'

'Of course the convent is very different from the world,' said Father

White. 'You learnt to understand the convent, now you must learn to

understand the life of the world.'

'Must I? Why must I?'

'So that you may be sure that you have a vocation. Good-bye, dear

child. The Lord be with you.'

Agnes went into the dining-room, and she noticed that every one was

listening to her father, who was talking of the success her mother had

had at a concert. She had sung two songs by Gounod and Cherubino's

_Ave Maria_. He declared that he had never seen anything like it. He

wished every one had been there. His wife was in splendid voice. It

was a treat, and the public thought so too.

Agnes listened and was touched by her father's admiration and love for

her mother. But very soon she perceived that the others were listening

superciliously. Suddenly Mrs. Lahens intervened. 'My dear Major,

you're talking too much, remember your promise.' The Major said not

another word, and Agnes felt sorry for her father. She remembered him

far back in her childhood, always a little weak and kind, always

devoted to her mother, always praising her, always attending on her,

always carrying her music, reminding her of something she had

forgotten, and running to fetch it. Looking at him now, after many

years, she remembered that she used to see more of him than she did of

her mother. He used to come to see her in the nursery, and she

remembered how they used to go out together and sit on the stairs, so

that they might hear mother, who was singing in the drawing-room. She

remembered that she used to ask her father why they could not go to

the drawing-room. He used to answer that mother had visitors. She used

to hear men's voices, and then mother would call her father down to

wish them good-bye.

Her memories of her mother were not so distinct. She never saw her

mother except on the rare occasions when she was admitted to the

drawing-room; she remembered her standing in long shining dresses with

long trains curled around her feet, which she kicked aside when she

advanced to receive some visitor; or she remembered her mother on the

stairs, a bouquet in her hand, a diamond star in her hair; the front

door was open, and the lamps of the brougham gleamed in the dark

street. Then her mother would kiss her, and tell her she must be a

good girl, and go to sleep when she went to bed.

There had never seemed to be but one person in the house, and that was

mother. Where was mother going, to the theatre, to a dinner-party, to

the opera? and the phrase 'When shall the carriage come to fetch

mother' had fixed itself on her memory. And in her mother's bedroom--

the largest and handsomest room in the house--she remembered the maid

opening large wardrobes, putting away soft white garments, laces,

green silk and pink petticoats, more beautiful than the dresses that

covered them. The large white dressing-table, strewn with curious

ivories, the uses of which she could not imagine, had likewise fixed

itself on her memory. She remembered the hand-glasses, the scattered

jewellery, the scent-bottles, and the little boxes of powder and

rouge, and the pencil with which her mother darkened her eyebrows and

eyelids. For Mrs. Lahens had always been addicted to the use of

cosmetics, therefore the paint on her mother's face did not shock

Agnes as it might otherwise have done. But she could not but notice

that it had increased. Her mother's mouth seemed to her now like a red

wound. Ashamed of the involuntary comment, Agnes repelled all

criticism, and threw herself into the belief that all her mother did

was right, that she was the best and most beautiful woman in London,

that to be her daughter was the highest privilege.

Her thoughts were entirely with her parents; and she had hardly spoken

to the men on either side of her. Mr. Moulton had asked her if she

were glad to come home, if she rejoiced in the prospect of balls and

parties, if she were sorry to leave her favourite nun. She had

answered his questions briefly, and he had returned to his exchange of

gallantries with Lady Castlerich, who he hoped would invite him to

Morelands. Agnes did not quite like him. She liked Mr. St. Clare

better. St. Clare had asked her if she sang, and when she told him

that she was leading soprano in the convent choir he had talked

agreeably until Miss Dare said:

'Now, Mr. St. Clare, leave off flirting with Agnes.'

Her remark made every one laugh, and in the midst of the laughter Mrs.

Lahens said:

'So my little girl is coming out of her shell.'

'Out of cell,' said Mr. Moulton, laughing.

'Out of her what?' asked Lady Castlerich.

'You don't know, Lady Castlerich, that my Agnes wanted to become a

nun, to enter a convent where they get up at four o'clock in the

morning to say matins.'

'Oh, how very dreadful,' said Lady Castlerich, 'Agnes must come to my

shootin' party.'

'Father White--the priest you saw here just now--brought her home.

Fortunately he took our side, and he told Agnes she must see the

world; it would be time enough a year hence to think if she had a

vocation.'

'Mother dear, he said six months.'

'What, are you tired of us already, Agnes?'

'No, mother, but--' Agnes hung down her head.

'Agnes must come to my shootin' party, we must find a young man for

her, there is Mr. Moulton, or would you like Mr. St. Clare better? I

hope, Mr. Moulton, you'll be able to come to Morelands on the twenty-

fifth.'

Mr. Moulton said that nothing would give him more pleasure, and

feeling that Lady Castlerich intended that his charms should for ever

obliterate Agnes' conventual aspiration he leaned towards her and

asked her if she knew Yorkshire. Morelands was in Yorkshire. His

conversation was, however, interrupted by Lady Castlerich, who said in

her clear cracked voice:

'We must put Agnes in the haunted room amid the tapestries.'

'No, no, don't frighten her,' whispered the Major.

'But, father, I am not so easily frightened as that.'

'Who haunts the tapestry-room?'

'A nun, dear, so they say; Morelands was a monastery once--a nunnery,

I mean. The monastery was opposite.'

'That was convenient,' giggled Mr. Moulton.

'And why does the nun haunt the tapestries?'

'Ah, my dear, that I can't tell you.'

'Perhaps the nun was a naughty nun,' suggested Mr. Moulton. 'Are there

no naughty nuns in your convent?'

'Oh, no, not in my convent, all the sisters are very good, you cannot

imagine how good they are,' said Agnes, and she looked out of eyes so

pale and so innocent that he almost felt ashamed.

'But what a strange idea that was of yours, Agnes,' said Miss Dare

across the table, 'to want to shut yourself up for ever among a lot of

women, with nothing else to do but to say prayers.'

'You think like that because you do not know convent life. There is, I

assure you, plenty to do, plenty to think about.'

'Fancy, they hardly ever speak, only at certain hours,' said Mrs.

Lahens.

'It is the getting up at four o'clock in the morning that seems to me

the worst part,' said Miss Dare.

'The monotony,' said St. Clare, 'must be terrible; always the same

faces, never seeing anything new, knowing that you will never see

anything else.'

Agnes listened to these objections eagerly. 'The nuns are not sad at

all,' she said. 'If you saw them playing at ball in the garden you

would see that they were quite as happy as those who live in the

world. I don't know if you are sad in the world; I don't know the

world, but I can assure you that there is no sadness in the convent.'

Agnes paused and looked round. Every one was listening, and it was

with difficulty she was induced to speak again.... Then in answer to

her mother's questions, she said:

'We have our occupations and our interests. They would seem trivial

enough to you, but they interest us and we are happy.'

'There must be,' said Lilian, 'satisfaction in having something

definite to do, to know where you are going and what you are striving

for. We don't know what we are striving for or where we are going. And

the trouble we give ourselves! Say what you will, it is something to

be spared all that.'

'Yet if we asked the ordinary man,' said Harding, 'what he'd do if he

had ten thousand a year, he would answer that he would do nothing. But

he may not. The only man who does nothing is the man who suddenly

acquires ten thousand a year; he tries to live on his income; he

doesn't, he dies of it.'

'And those who are born rich?' asked Moulton.

'They work hard enough, and their work is the hardest of all, their

work is amusement. For by some strange misunderstanding all the most

tedious and unsatisfactory means of distraction, are termed amusement,

betting, gambling, travelling, dinner-parties, love-making. Whereas

the valid and sufficient form of distraction, earning your livelihood

by the sweat of your brow, is designated by the unpleasant word

Labour.'

'But if you are fortunate in love, you're happy,' said old Lady

Castlerich, 'I think I have made my lovers happy.'