Chapter V

IT was Miss Groves, lady's-maid to Mrs. Weston, who firs noticed that the mistress's health was not all that it should be. She was a discreet personage of forty years of age, and had nursed Mary as a child; so not one word was breathed except to Mrs. Reculver, the housekeeper, who had fulfilled the same duties towards Jack. Yet what she had to say amounted to little enough. Mrs. Weston, it seemed, was usually now to be found lying awake in the mornings; she continually dismissed her at nights comparatively early, presumably with the intention of sitting up; she was beginning to be a little dark under the eyes; she fell into silences when her hair was being put up; she did not always drink her early cup of tea. It was not alarming; but the facts were noted.

Other persons also noticed small indications — silence, brooding, and, if it must be confessed, slight irritability. It is a distressing fact that the most august griefs produce such symptoms.

At the convent too it was noticed, though not one 232 word was utto^d on the point, that the charming Mrs. Weston did not come to "see iiu. «nns anv more. She was in the chapel, certainly, at Mass every morning; she was occasionally discerned there by the rustle of her dress at odd times during the day; but the parlour knew her no more. She was as generous as ever; bundles of Pspring vegetables appeared in embarrassing profusion; even a message or two was left that if anything were needed, news was to be sent down immediately: one of the farm light carts was required to call three times a week for instructions. But Mary did not appear.

Sarah's contribution to the mass of evidence is inconsiderable; for Sarah had gone to an aunt, as Jack had foretold, and the two together to Switzer-land as June began. There was an impression too abroad, among Sarah's friends, that Mr. James Fakenham's holidays this year were falling unusually early, and that he mentioned more than once the delightful opportunities for recuperation offered abroad at a time when hotels were comparatively empty, in such places as the Tyrol or even Switzerland itself.

It was on a delicious day about half-way through June that Madeline, one of the nondescript girls in caps and black dresses already mentioned who seem to frequent convent kitchens, was looking out of one of the few windows on the kitchen side of the house that commanded any view whatever of the outside world. The room was on the first floor, ««d ohc could look out over t^» y°-» nedge that rose immediate,!^ oeiow her window straight down a ride that led on level ground into the heart of the wood. There were a few minutes more before she would be wanted in the kitchen; so here she stood and stared, noticing the cool green shadow under the tall trees that met overhead, the flecks of sunlight and the dusty-looking atmosphere in which whirled ceaselessly myriads of tiny summer afternoon insects. It was not an exceedingly wide view, since the lower half of the window was filled with frosted glass, and it was all that she could do, standing at her full height, to raise her eyes over the central window-bar. She was therefore entirely invisible to anyone approaching from without.

As she was on the very point of turning away, she noticed a white figure, with something scarlet moving above it, coming extremely slowly up the ride she was watching. A rabbit that a moment before had suddenly sat up with cocked ears in the middle distance dropped and vanished; and a minute later the girl could see who it was that was coming.

To those who live in convents a comer from the outside world is always slightly interesting; and the sight of Mrs. Weston set in motion in the girl's mind a train of thought not indeed exactly envious, but of a faintly tantalising nature. She herself purposed some day to enter the convent as a lay sister; it was the obvious thing to do. She had been caught somehow in its train; she had been swept off with it to England; there was nothing else she particularly wanted to do. But she was still aware of external interests; and it struck her now as she looked vaguely out at the girl, not ten years older than herself, who came along so leisurely under her red sunshade, bare-headed, in her white dress, that it must be exceedingly pleasant to be the mistress of a large domain, to walk where the mood calls, at four o'clock in the afternoon, to have a quantity of servants, and to have no duties at all which cannot be deputed to somebody else.

The figure came along very slowly, straight towards where a gate in the hedge gave entrance to the path that, straight forward, led to the transept door, and, curving to the right, round to the lodge gate and the front of the convent. Madeline supposed that she was coming to pay a visit to the church, but watched as a child watches, purely, so to speak, for the academic interest of the thing, to see which path she would take.

The latch of the gate seemed a little difficult, and the sunshade, that up to now had hidden the woman's face, suddenly slipped back as she put her hands to it; Madeline still watched, and then, in a moment, was startled by the white pallor of which she caught sight. Was that look, she wondered, merely one of impatience with the latch?

The gate opened and closed; and Mary stood there for an instant hesitating. Her face looked out again, her eyes seemed to meet Madeline's own; and the girl started back, partly from a sense of being caught watching, partly from that look of misery that was now so unmistakable. When she peeped again she was only just in time to see Mary's dress vanishing round the corner in the direction of the lodge.

Madeline ran downstairs, through the cloister at a more discreet pace, and came towards the inner passage leading to the gate as the bell overhead jangled once.

" Can I see the Reverend Mother? " asked Mary without a word or smile of greeting. Then, without waiting for an answer, she turned aside into the parlour.

The Prioress, looking presently through the two gratings, and peering as well as she could at her visitor's face, noticed too that something was wrong.

It was a look of extraordinary weariness that she saw there. During the first sentence or two of ordinary greeting there arose upon the eyes and mouth the conventionally appropriate expression, but it faded again in a moment, leaving the eyes heavy and almost sombre, the corners of the mouth turned down, and that same deadly tiredness she had seen upon her first entrance.

" You have come to see us again, then, madam;

and monsieur your husband? "

"Jack's away for two or three days," said Mary dully. " He comes back to-night."

" And you are lonely? I am not surprised; when so charming a "

Mary jerked slightly with an impatient movement, and the nun broke off. Then there fell a silence.

(It is not very easy at first to exchange confidences through two gratings. It is a little like making love on a telephone. There is a sense of firing a gun and waiting for an indication that it has reached its mark. But it has, too, its advantages.)

The Prioress broke the silence, leaning a little nearer.

" So you have come to see the poor nuns again, madam?"

" I have come to see you, mother," came the dull voice again.

" You are in trouble, madam? " came back after a pause.

Mary bowed her head.

" I am in bitter trouble," she said.

The Prioress shifted her position once more.

" Tell me, my child," she said softly.

" I— I don't think I can."

" Oh, my child, yes. It eases the soul. Tell me simply and quickly."

Mary looked up at the head bent towards her and caught, or thought she caught, the glimmer of kind eyes through the veil.

Then the flood-gates opened. Mary talked rapidly, jerkily, emphatically, her voice rising as she spoke, and the Prioress listened, with scarcely a word of answer.

" I must tell you, but I am a coward, a deadly coward. I — I hesitated even at the gate just now. I never meant to come; but I can't bear it; I can't bear it; it's killing me. Well, it's a long story. It's gone on for nearly a year — since Jack's illness. I've told you about that. You remember? "

" I remember."

" Well, that was the beginning, at least practically. You remember, Jack was dying. The doctors were there and Sarah. I prayed. Oh, yes; but it was no good; I knew it wasn't; it never is.

" Well, then Jack died. I saw him die before my eyes, and the doctors told me so. Then Sarah tried to take me away, and I wouldn't go. I screamed, I think. I wouldn't let myself believe it."

The Prioress leaned forward again, and her voice came clear and almost sharp.

" My child, be tranquil. You must tell me tranquilly."

Mary raised her terrified eyes and let them fall again slowly.

" I will, mother," she said. " Thank you...."

She drew a long breath to steady herself, unclasped her hands, and clasped them again. Then she went on, without the ring of hysteria in her voice. It was more as if she were repeating a lesson.

" Well, Sarah left the room after that, to see the doctors. I told her she must leave me for two minutes with Jack. I knew quite well what I wanted to do. It was quite deliberate; it was that that has made it all so bad. I told Father Banting that, again and again; but he wouldn't believe me. He said it was not a deliberate vow, and that I had no time for consideration.

" But, mother, you know how one can be deliberate at a time like that, even in a second or two; and I had at least three or four minutes."

" What did you do, my child? "

" Well, 1 looked at Jack lying there, and I simply could not bear it. I didn't think Jack had died exactly in mortal sin. Oh, I don't know what I thought. He had received conditional absolution; but I knew his life hadn't been anything particular. But that wasn't the only thing: I wanted him alive again. It wasn't only that I wanted him with me, but I couldn't bear to think of him as dead. Oh, mother, death is so ghastly."

" Tranquilly, my child."

Mary shivered a little and settled herself again. " Well, when Sarah had gone, I knelt down by Jack and looked at him. They had put a crucifix in his hands.... Then I — then I "

" Yes, my child; be tranquil...." Mary was silent a moment.

" It's hard to put it into words, mother. I didn't use any words — at least, out loud; but I meant it, and expressed it, inside, you know, as deliberately as I possibly could.... It was this: I said to God, absolutely knowing and meaning what I said, that if Jack could only be alive again, I'd offer myself entirely to Him for ever, that I wouldn't shrink from anything, that I'd do anything He wished — I meant, of course, in big things "

" Did you have any idea of what you meant by that? "

Mary bowed her head. " Yes, mother," she said in a tiny voice. " Tell me, my child...." There was dead silence.

" Tell me, my child.... No, tranquilly...." Mary, who once more had looked up with a quick movement, looked down again. She began mechanically, yet with an appearance of extreme care, to twist her rings slowly round and round.

" I knew nothing about the Religious Life, mother — about the rules about a husband and wife, and so on

Bu1: the thought of the Religious Life came quite clearly into my mind. I didn't understand in the least how or where, or anything like that; but I inchded it in my mind, though I loathed the thought of it. And I included it; I meant I would do it, if I could, and if God asked it of me. Of course I thought it really impossible."

The Prioress leaned back slowly.

" Yes, my child; continue."

"Well, I did that — I did it twice; with my eyes tight shut and my hands on the bed. It was all perfectly deliberate; and I was quite quiet, and then "

" Yes? "

Mary began to shake. The Prioress's hand rose with a kind of soothing, commanding gesture.

" Then I opened my eyes," said Mary very low indeed, " and I heard something; then I saw Jack opening his eyes; and the crucifix slipped out of his hands — his fingers.... Then he said something.... I screamed...."

" That is enough, my child. Be quite silent a moment"

Mary looked up again. Her lips, her eyelids, her whole head shook so violently that she could scarcely see. She steadied her chin on her hand, her elbow on the ledge, and she saw for a moment, plainly enough, the veiled, quiet old face opposite, with closed eyes. Then the eyes opened, and Mary dropped her own.

11 Continue, my child — quite slowly/'

Mary drew a long breath. The worst was o/er, and the rest comparatively simple.

"Well, ever since then I've been fighting against it all. I tried to make the doctors say that Jack wasn't really dead at all, and of course they said it, and that satisfied me in a sort of way — at least I made it satisfy me."

" I comprehend perfectly."

" Then the awful thing happened." (Mary's voice faltered slightly.) "Jack proposed the very thing itself— I never told you that, mother — the very thing — that we should both enter Religion."

"Yes?"

" I said I wouldn't. (He had found out all about it from books and priests.) I entirely refused. I said all the — the sensible things. You know.... I said them to myself, and to Jack, and to Sarah, over and over again. I persuaded myself; at least I half persuaded "

" But yes; I comprehend perfectly."

" Well, I wasn't happy; I was wretched. I — I caught at things — anything to salve my conscience. The convent was the first thing. (You know I was against that at first? Well, I was.) And then I caught at it; I made myself think it would do for the — for the sacrifice of myself. I did all I could for it; and all the while, right down, I knew it wouldn't do; though I don't think all the time I knew that I kn6w." (The Prioress nodded gently without interrupting.) " And then you came; and I thought that the extra things might make the difference — the getting up earlier; Father Banting being about always Oh, that was before; but it doesn't matter. And then you came "

" Yes, my child."

Mary gripped herself again with an effort.

" Then you came — and you showed me the dead body — you know — the sister." (The Prioress raised her old eyes steadily to the girl's an instant.) " Yes — well, that was another blow; I don't know why, but it showed me it wouldn't do — that I was shamming — playing the fool. And then I talked to Sister Teresa. It was horrible.... She made me understand perfectly, in just a sentence or two. It came down on me like — like a gas, or a hand; and I fought it and got free. That was why I never dared to see Sister Teresa again. I — I couldn't bear myself

" Well, then I began to think about Jack "

"Yes?"

" Well, that distracted me a little. I began to pretend to myself that really and truly it was my duty to keep Jack within bounds — that — that he would never make a monk, that he was a fanatic — and that therefore it was no good my being a nun. (Oh, yes; I had it clear enough by then!) And then Jack went out shooting one day, after, he hadn't for ages, and I made that an excuse. I said to myself that that was a sign, so I backed him up. I pretended that I knew his vocation better than he did. I told him that he must be just a good Catholic. I — I hindered him as much as I could. I had already refused, in spite of everything, to release him; and I made it worse by trying to cheat him. And all the while I knew perfectly well that he ought to be a monk. No, he has said nothing; not a word.. He promised he wouldn't; but — but I'm ruining him, and I'm cheating myself; at least I — I — almost succeeded in cheating. I think I should have... but then — then Lady Carberry died. Oh, it was one thing after another; one thing after another... like — like blows of a hammer. Not one of them alone would have done it. Some of them were just little taps. Oh, there were hundreds more, I've almost forgotten: little sentences in books — a bird flying in a particular way — anything would do.

"Yes.... I know it sounds silly; but Lady Carberry's death woke me up again. I don't know why.... Somehow it made death frightfully real.... Yes: I know she was very old; but that didn't ' matter. She wasn't the sort of person that dies-there was a sort of eternity about her.... And the funeral — all about the saints and the labourers.... Oh, I can't explain, mother — it's endless. But it woke me up again....

" And then.,."

There was a pause. Yes, madam?"

" Well, then I set myself down to kill the thing. Sarah was away — I had plenty of time. I used to go and try to hypnotise myself — yes, before the Tabernacle — into believing it was all nonsense.... I even began to play with my faith — to wish I wasn't a Catholic. Oh, mother "

" Yes, my child? "

" And I can't bear it— I can't bear it."

"There's been no sudden event since then, my child, to make you "

" No, mother. No; no; it's just everything; and — and "

There was a sudden break in the girl's voice, and in an instant she was down, her head on her hands, her hands on the ledge, sobbing as if her heart would break.

Ill

" Now listen to me carefully, my child," went on the Prioress five minutes later. "You are quiet now? You can attend to me? Eh well, I shall make you a little discourse.

" You have done that which is very common in the world. You have attempted to silence the voice of our Lord speaking in the heart. You have played with grace — ah, I know it very well. It is the temptation of all who know anything of the inner life. It is their only temptation after a while. And you have tried to give to our Lord other things — things which He did not ask of you, to serve in place of that which He did ask of you. And in effect you have been unhappy....

" I do not think you know anything yet of what the interior life truly means; no, nothing at all; not so much as a child like our Madeline here. And the very first thing that our Lord has asked of you, you have refused to give it to Him! That is not such a piece of generosity as would show that you have progressed very far! Eh? Is it not so?...

" Yet our Lord is so generous that He has asked that one thing of you, though knowing that you would not give it Him! And your generosity! Ah, a fine one, is it not? — to offer our Lord this and this and this, which He does not want, and to refuse Him that which He does! "

(The Prioress's voice softened suddenly.)

"You have given Him vinegar, my child, instead of the wine He asked.,

" Eh well, listen to me. (No, my child, I did not wish to make you cry.... Be tranquil then, and listen to me.)

" Eh well. We must ask ourselves why it is that our Lord asked such a thing at all.... I will tell you. It was because He saw in you a power, a capacity, is it not so?... A seed (no more than a seed, my child)... yet it was there, and He saw it. Now our Lord does not trouble Himself... I should say that He does not trouble souls for whom He has no intentions — such as can do nothing great for Him.... He leaves them alone, I think.... He gives to them such grace as they need, and He leaves them tranquil. It is a good sign then that you have been unhappy....

"What, then, does He wish from you now?... It is certain. A reparation of your fault. And that fault was as I have said.

" Now listen carefully if you please, for this is a little difficult.

" Our Lord once said, ' The kingdom of heaven is within you.'... There is, that is to say, in each soul an interior castle, as our Holy Mother Saint Teresa tells us, and for many that interior castle is at rest. Our Lord dwells there in peace; He gives such graces as are necessary, but He does not proclaim Himself.

" Now, with you it is not so. He has proclaimed Himself in you; and you have answered Him, We will not have this Man to reign over us.

" It was at monsieur your husband's death-bed that you offered yourself to Him, knowing what you offered; and He answered you from the castle.

Until then you had not known that He was there. And He begged you to give Him the key of that castle — to surrender yourself to His will, and you would not. You have offered Him this and that in its place. There — I will say no more of that.

" But you have kept the innermost place of your heart to yourself. You would not give up all: you had no confidence in Him.

" Whether or no you had indeed a vocation to Religion I do not know; that is not our affair. Our affair is only that we should have no reserves from Him. It may well be that He will send you back to serve Him in the world.... No, my child, you do not believe that, I know well. Eh well, so much the better.

" Well, then, this is what you must do. There is no question of it at all. Monsieur your husband returns this evening, you tell me? You must go to him immediately; you must say to him that you are ready to do anything that he wishes in the matter.... No, be tranquil, my child; listen to me. You must say to him that you believe that you too have a vocation, or at least that you are willing to offer yourself. You need not tell him all the tale; you need but say as I have said.

" And when that is finished, with a full heart, then will be the time to speak of it further, to consider whether or no it is possible. But you will have repaired your fault then; you will have offered yourself fully....

" Now go, my child.... No, not a word further. Come again to-morrow....

" Ah, you are happy now! Is it not so? "