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 1.1- .1 ^ h
 
 Sister Teresa 

 
 Sister Teresa 
 
 by 
 George Moore 
 
 Philadelphia 
 
 y. B. Lippincott Company 
 
 Mdcccci
 
 Copyright, ipOI 
 By J. B. Lippincott Company 
 
 EUctrotypfd and Print fd by 
 J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, U. S. A.
 
 
 UNlVrr^oiTY OF ('ALIFORNIA 
 aAJ^TA DAilBAEA COLLEGE Liur^ARl 
 
 Sisfer Teresa 
 
 She was conscious of her indolence : within and 
 without her there was a strange, lifeless calm, a 
 strange inactivity in the air and in her mind. In 
 the landscape and in her there seemed no before 
 and no hereafter. But a glance inwards revealed 
 to her the ripple of some hidden anticipation moving 
 under the sullen surface. The idea of returning 
 to London stirred a little dread in her, yet she felt 
 that for the moment she had seen enough of the 
 convent. For the moment she could assimilate no 
 more of it. The rhythm of the carriage penetrated 
 her indolent body. The thud of the chestnut's hoofs 
 in the empty road stirred a quiet wonder in her, 
 and she looked into the sunset as she might into a 
 veil. 
 
 The mist had gathered in the suburban streets, 
 and over the scraps of waste ground, changing them 
 to blue ; and looking into this dim colour and dimly- 
 suggested form, she seemed to become aware of the 
 presence of a phantom life moving on the hither 
 side of her life, dependent upon it, and yet seem- 
 ingly not concerned by its affairs, occupied by
 
 8 SISTER TERESA 
 
 interests and desires exclusively its own. Her per- 
 ceptions gathered in intensity, and she waited, trem- 
 ulous and expectant, for the moment seemed to have 
 come for the invisible to become visible. But in 
 spite of her efforts to keep her attention fixed, to 
 exclude the natural, her attention wandered or it 
 lapsed, or the natural slipt in between, intercepting 
 her vision, and the phantom folk lost their super- 
 natural appearance and took on the likeness of the 
 nuns. She saw the nuns in their convent garden, 
 playing at ball, or in church, sitting in their stalls, 
 turned sideways, w4th books in their hands. As 
 the carriage entered the Fulham Road, that long, 
 narrow, winding lane, she saw Sister Mary John 
 digging, and she smiled at her strange, brusque 
 ways. Iler quaint bird came towards them, hop- 
 ping over the broken ground, and she remembered 
 how elimination of the spiritual weeds had resulted 
 in other weeds. 
 
 As she drove towards London she pondered Sister 
 Mary John's sensuous enthusiasm for her singing. 
 She knew that she appealed to the nun's imagina- 
 tion, and she kjiew that the Prioress appealed to 
 hers — that she was charmed by a wise, sad nun, 
 by the woman that the nun's veil could not hide, 
 nor an extreme old age. She felt that the Prioress 
 had renounced, whereas the other nuns, or a great 
 many of them, had refused life. 
 
 The still autumn evening was like a magic mir- 
 ror, and looking into it she saw the slow, devotional
 
 SISTER TERESA 9 
 
 pose of the old white hands resting on the table 
 edge, and she heard the calm, even voice telling 
 her of the supremacy of the contemplative orders. 
 
 As the carriage drove up Grosvenor Place the 
 cries of the pea-fowls in the gardens of Buckingham 
 Palace startled her, and she looked round, terrified 
 to find herself in London again. The carriage 
 turned into Hamilton Place. She was returning 
 to the life of the world, the battle with herself was 
 about to begin again; and though she felt quite 
 sure of herself, the fact of finding Owen waiting 
 for her seemed like an omen, or at least a chal- 
 lenge. He was waiting for her at the head of the 
 stairs. There was a little nervous smile on his 
 lips and an anxious look in his eyes. As she went 
 upstairs to meet him, confidence in God, and the 
 confidence in herself, which her prayers and the 
 prayers of the nuns had given her, appeared in her 
 face, and Owen wondered at the extraordinary 
 beauty which looked at him out of her eyes. She 
 seemed capable of a more exalted passion, of a 
 more intense feeling, and his desire to win her 
 back grew more acute than ever. She seemed to 
 read his thoughts in his eyes, and lest she should 
 read them completely he said, — 
 
 " I did not know you were coming home to-day ; 
 I came on the chance of finding you." 
 
 " Well, Owen, I wrote to tell you you were not 
 to come ; but it sounds ungracious to tell you so." 
 
 " You said that I was not to come to see you for
 
 10 SISTER TERESA 
 
 three months, but you broke your promise. You 
 wrote to say you would not see me again; that 
 liberated me from my promise not to come to see 
 you for three months, isn't that so ?" 
 
 She did not answer, and he Avondered if she were 
 trying to remember why she had written him that 
 cruel letter. 
 
 " I am very glad to see you, Owen." 
 
 " Are things diiferent ?" he asked. " Tell me if 
 things are worse, and they are worse if you will not 
 take me back." 
 
 " Owen, you must not speak to me like that now." 
 
 " And why not now ? Where have you come 
 from — is there any secret?" 
 
 " There is none." 
 
 " Merat told me she did not know." 
 
 " And you concluded there was a secret. I have 
 come from the convent. I have been in retreat." 
 
 " Eight days shut up in a convent singing psalms 
 and burning incense — I wonder you're here to tell 
 the tale." 
 
 " It is very easy to speak like that ; such sarcasms 
 are easy." 
 
 ISTeither spoke for a long while, and then they 
 spoke of ordinary things, as if they had forgotten 
 that their lives had come into a crisis. Suddenly, 
 like one retaken by an ache which had left him for 
 a while, Owen said, — 
 
 " Ah ! if I had married you when I first met you. 
 But you would not have been half as happy as you
 
 SISTER TERESA 11 
 
 have been if I had set you up at Riversdale and 
 Berkeley Square to entertain the best people, and 
 had loaded 3'ou with diamonds. The mistake I 
 made, Evelyn, was not to have allowed you to have 
 children. The only Avay a man can keep a woman 
 is through her children. I did not think of that 
 at the time — one cannot think of everything. But 
 I did the best for yoii, Evelyn, didn't I ? Say that 
 I did." 
 
 " Yes, Owen, your conduct was better than mine, 
 for you acted according to your lights." 
 
 He sprang to his feet, and taking a Worcester 
 vase from the table he examined its design; and 
 fearing tliat he would dash it to the ground Evelyn 
 did not say a word ; but his irritation passed with- 
 out the breaking of the jar, and resuming his seat 
 beside her he saw the autumn leaves, and the faintly- 
 flushed sky, and with a sudden pang he remembered 
 that life is passing away while we are arguing how 
 to live it. 
 
 • " You may struggle for a while, but the passion 
 for the stage will overtake you." 
 
 But this did not seem to him true. He remem- 
 bered that the new idea had been growing steadily 
 in hor for some while, and, though it might not 
 absoib her entirely, the chances were against her 
 returning to the stage. Xor could he overcome the 
 feeling that her talent for the stage was an imme- 
 diate inheritance whose roots did not go very deep 
 into her nature. ITer dramatic talent might be a
 
 12 SISTER TERESA 
 
 passing reflection of her mother's temperament. 
 Suddenly she heard him say that it would be the 
 lust of the flesh that would save her from the clois- 
 ter ; it would bring her back to life, to man, maybe 
 to him. And once again he sat down, and with a 
 new set of arguments he tried to convince her she 
 was not intended for a religious life. Merat brought 
 in tea, and the conversation broke down ; and after 
 tea, when they were talking of indifferent things, 
 he noticed that a different mood was preparing in 
 her. She sat, as if fascinated, her huddled knees 
 full of temptation, and following her to the end 
 of the sofa he seemed to lose his reason suddenly in 
 her atmosphere. She did not drive him from her, 
 but once looked up pleadingly. He seemed to dread 
 her displeasure, for he merely kissed her hair, which 
 hung loose and thick over her neck, and he took it 
 in his fingers and lifted it from her neck. He 
 thought that to win her his lips must seek to sur- 
 prise her senses suddenly in her lips, but while 
 holding her face in his hands he was held back by 
 some strange pity, and in that moment of hesitation 
 she recovered her strength to resist him. 
 
 " Owen, you must not make love to me ; all that 
 is over and done between us. Owen, do not make 
 it impossible for me to see you. I want to love you, 
 dearest, but not as I have loved you; leave go my 
 hands; you have never yet disobeyed me, and if 
 you are violent I shall never, never be able to see 
 you again."
 
 SISTER TERESA 13 
 
 For a nionicnt his love of her seemed to move 
 from earth to heaven ; that is to saj, from all that 
 eyes see, that ears hear, and the nostrils inhale; 
 and he felt he must not detain her. Her face ex- 
 pressed snch puritv that he abandoned her hands, 
 compelled bv some grave force which he could not 
 explain or contest. So nothing came of this love 
 meeting except the pinning up of some hair which 
 had fallen ; and Avhen he looked at her again he 
 was not quite sure that he had not misinterpreted 
 the affectionate emotions which had carried her 
 towards him a moment ago. But whatever his mis- 
 take may have been, her manner towards him had 
 changed, and now her face seemed to express sorrow 
 that he could not be to her what she wished him 
 to be, and she seemed to regret that each should be 
 a temptation to the other. She felt that she ought 
 to send him away, but lacking the courage to do so, 
 she asked if he would come into the Park with her, 
 and they walked by the Serpentine, conscious of 
 the melancholy of the autumn evening. And lean- 
 ing on the balustrade of the bridge, looking into 
 the mist which shrouded the long water, he thought 
 of what he had told her of herself, that her artistic 
 instincts Averc but a passing reflection of her 
 mother's spirit, whereas the true romance of her 
 life was in the sexual instinct. 
 
 The stream's banks were shrouded in a thick mist, 
 out of which the tops of the trees emerged. In the 
 middle of the water there was one space free from
 
 14 SISTER TERESA 
 
 mist, and two wild ducks with a whirr of Avings 
 dropped into the pool of light; they swam a little 
 way, and a moment afterwards were swallowed np 
 l)y the mist. He was too sad to be irritated by any- 
 tliing she might say, and he allowed her to say that 
 it was impossible to deny the influence of prayer 
 of others without denying the influence of hypno- 
 tism and telepathy. 
 
 " But Avhat are you going to do ? How is all this 
 to end ? You are not going to shut yourself up in 
 a convent, nor devote yourself to philanthropic 
 work. You have no plans, I believe, except perhaps 
 to live a chaste life." 
 
 " Owen, I had to change my life. Except for 
 a moment I took no pleasure in anything." 
 
 He noticed how her face became suddenly grave, 
 and that the intimate secret of her nature seemed 
 to rise to her lips when she said that whatever 
 spirituality she might attain to she would attain to 
 through chastity. 
 
 " We have only a certain amount of force. A 
 certain amount goes to support life, and the rest 
 we may expend upon a lover, or upon our spiritual 
 life." 
 
 " But this cannot be the last time I shall see you, 
 EvehTi," he said, when she mentioned that it was 
 growing late and that she must be returning home. 
 " How shall I live without you, alone in Berkeley 
 Square, nothing to do but to think of my lost hap- 
 piness ?"
 
 SISTER TERESA 15 
 
 " You are lonely because you will not allow any- 
 one to conic between you and yourself." 
 
 They were walking towards home, and for a mo- 
 ment he believed it to be his lot to be her husband. 
 
 " Will you marry me, Evelyn ?" 
 
 " Owen, you should have asked me before." 
 
 In that moment it seemed to her too that her des- 
 tiny was beside her, and she did not dare to look up 
 lest she should see it, and she was mortally afraid 
 of what was happening. For if he had pressed her 
 for a definite " yes" or " no" she felt sure she would 
 never have had the force to resist, particularly if 
 he had said, " Well, let us go away at once." If he 
 had pressed an immediate flight, she would have 
 assented, and a fate that would have been quite 
 unlike her Avould be her fate. But our fate is more 
 like ourselves than we are aware. 
 
 It was at that moment that Owen decided that 
 when the door opened he would follow her upstairs, 
 he would say he had forgotten his cigarette-case, 
 any excuse would do, and then in the drawing-room 
 he would overpower the will of the nuns and her 
 will in a kiss. So intent Avas he on his plans that 
 he could hardly continue the conversation. 
 
 " Owen, good-bye," she said. " I won't ask you 
 to come up." 
 
 " I have forgotten my cigarette-case." 
 
 " I saw you take it out of your pocket, and you 
 lit a cigarette, do you not remember ?"
 
 16 SISTEE TERESA 
 
 He searched his pockets and admitted she was 
 right. 
 
 The door opened and she entered, hardly pausing 
 on the threshold to say good-bye. 
 
 The memory of the summer evening he had taken 
 her away to Paris arose in his mind, and his con- 
 duct on that occasion seemed to him to have been 
 much wiser, and he could not recognise the man 
 in the first adventure with the man in the present 
 one. If he had not wavered he would have won 
 her — for a while; and he heard her telling him 
 what suffering chastity is in a woman of her tem- 
 perament. If he had asked her to go away with 
 him in The Medusa her face would have darkened, 
 and on the morrow she would come to him, her 
 face set in iron determination, or would have writ- 
 ten him one of those cold, acid letters, which he 
 dreaded even more than the personal interview. 
 He hated suffering, and it was his hatred of suffer- 
 ing which had made him refrain. He could not 
 have acted otherwise; very likely other men could 
 have, but he had never been able to make love to 
 a woman against her will. He seemed on the point 
 of remembering something, and then he began to 
 remember as one remembers a dream; he was not 
 certain whether he were inventing or remembering, 
 but it did seem to him that he had been prevented 
 from making love to Evelyn by some power, gentle 
 and yet irresistible. His reason rebelled against the
 
 SISTER TEEESA 17 
 
 admission that others had been in the room. But 
 it did seem as if these nuns had intervened. He 
 exclaimed against the folly of his thoughts, and 
 wandered on. He eventually turned into a club in 
 hopes of finding Harding.
 
 II 
 
 Merat had come do^ATistairs to tell her mistresa 
 that a pair of stockings Avere missing. But Evelyn 
 did not answer her, and slie ho})ed the footman 
 would not hring the lamp yet. 
 
 " You must have left them at your father's. If 
 you will write to-night . . ." 
 
 " Xo, Merat, I did not leave them at my father's. 
 I left them at the convent." 
 
 She wished her maid to know that her relations 
 Avitli Sir Owen would be different from thenceforth, 
 and it seemed to her that a mention of the convent 
 would he sufficient for the moment. Better the truth 
 than ugly rumours that Owen had left her for 
 another woman, or that she had left him for another 
 man. She wished Merat would leave her, but Merat 
 was much interested in her mistress's visit to the 
 convent ; and Evelyn was surprised to find that her 
 maid's ideas regarding a vocation were more sim- 
 ple and explicit than her own. " There are those,'* 
 she said, " who slip away from life when they are 
 very young, before life has fairly caught them, 
 and those who have had a disappointment, and feel 
 there is nothing else for them." 
 
 " But you, miss, you could never live their life ; 
 
 you are too old, or not old enough." 
 18
 
 SISTEK TEKESA 19 
 
 And ■vvheii Merat left licr, Evelyn considered 
 how she had discovered two instincts in herself, 
 an inveterate sensnality and a sincere aspiration 
 for a spiritual life. Which would survive ? As she 
 sat over the fire ])()ndering, there came to her what 
 seemed like a third revelation — that the sexual 
 trouble was but the surface of her nature, that be- 
 yond it there was a deeper nature whose depths were 
 yet unsounded. But if she had fallen she would 
 have had to confess, and liwv could she go to Mon- 
 signor and tell him that on the very day she came 
 back from the convent she had nearly yielded her- 
 self to Owen. He would lose all faith, all interest 
 in her, and his interest in her meant a great deal 
 to her. She had escaped, how she did not know, 
 by accident seemingly. On another occasion she 
 might not be so lucky, and she would go through 
 agonies of conscience and eventually confess her 
 sins, for any long returning to her old life was out 
 of the qiiestion. So perhaps she had better write 
 to Owen, saying he must not come to see her. But 
 of Avhat use, since she would be sure to meet him 
 at Lady Ascott's ? But Lady Ascott would disap- 
 pear from her life, and her friends too. Yet she 
 had once looked on these people as her life, and 
 on Lady Ascott as a dear and intimate friend. 
 Xow she seemed far away, and her people seemed 
 far away, a sort of distant coast-line, and there 
 Avere others besides Lady Ascott and they all seemed 
 to be receding. There was no reason why she should
 
 20 SISTER TERESA 
 
 not see them, nothing forbade her; but she would 
 not know what to say to them now. There were 
 other friends — men. She feared that men still 
 interested her as much as ever; and the fact that 
 she was going to deny herself did not seem to 
 make any difference. Besides Owen and Ulick 
 there were many men whom she liked, whom she 
 had often looked at as possible lovers, men who 
 sent her flowers and books and music, and whom 
 she met by appointment in jjicture-galleries, men 
 whom she wrote to occasionally, for beyond the 
 single net in which we are caught there is a vaster 
 retriculation. If all these men were to be put away 
 she would receive no more letters — women's letters 
 are from men, as men's letters are from women. 
 For the human animal finds in the opposite sex 
 the greater part of his and her mental life. She 
 had heard Owen say that the arts rose out of sex; 
 that when man ceased to capture women he cut a 
 reed and blew a tune to win her, and that it was 
 not until he had won her that he began to take 
 an interest in the tune for its ovra sake. 
 
 Her own desire of art had been inseparably linked 
 to her desire to please men. Three days ago she 
 had looked down from the organ loft to see if 
 there were any men among the congregation, know- 
 ing she would not sing so well if she were only 
 singing to women. 
 
 " But how am I to fill the days ?" she thought 
 as she rose from her chair, " without lovers, with-
 
 SISTER TERESA 21 
 
 out an occupation. Three parts of my life are 
 gone; nothing remains but religion." 
 
 Hitherto her life had been lived according to 
 rule, and she had enjoyed her life most when the 
 rule that her art had imposed upon her had been 
 severe. Her happiest hours had been those she 
 had spent in Madame Savelli's class-rooms. Then 
 her days had been divided out, and there had been 
 few infractions of tlie rule. The little interruptions 
 Owen had pleaded for were not frequent, nor did 
 tliey last long. His interest in her voice had always 
 been so dominant an interest that he had subordi- 
 nated his pleasures to her voice. It was she who 
 had wislied to play truant and had said, — 
 
 " But you go away to your shooting and your 
 hunting, to your London friends. I am always a 
 prisoner, and Olive is a strict warder." 
 
 During the five years in which she had practised 
 her art, she liad never escaped from the discipline 
 of art ; lier life liad been a routine. 
 
 '' Religion always seems to fling me into a waste 
 of idleness," she said aloud, and she remembered 
 that her first qualms of conscience had led her to 
 the part of Fidelio; she did not think she would 
 have learnt the part of Isolde if she had not met 
 Ulick. Her love of him was her last artistic in- 
 spiration ; the thought amused her for a moment, 
 and slie walked across the room thinking of the 
 weariness of freedom. As she took down a book, 
 she paused to remember how her first notes were
 
 22 SISTER TERESA 
 
 held in view almost from early morning. How, 
 after mid-day, every hour was a preparation for 
 the essential hours. IIow on her singing days she 
 avoided all that might distract her thoughts from 
 her part. She opened no letters, and spoke very 
 little; and after having dined lightly she read 
 her music. 
 
 On the days she was not singing her accom- 
 panist came at ten o'clock, and she was with him 
 for at least three hours; and after we have done 
 three hours' work the rest of the day passes almost 
 without our perceiving that it is passing. We 
 have no need to think how we shall spend it; it 
 just spends itself. It sheds itself like seed. 
 
 On her off days Owen was ready with some pro- 
 ject, a visit to a picture-gallery, a ride in the coun- 
 try; and if Owen were not with her, Olive was 
 waiting to take her shopping. The choice of her 
 clothes, and the making of them, used to take a 
 great deal of her time; henceforth it would take 
 very little of it. She thought of Olive, of Olive 
 with whom she had lived for six years, and who 
 was no more than an appetite for facile amuse- 
 ment. Owen's materialism was deep, but not so 
 deep as Olive's; in her there was no relaxation, 
 no sighing of the flesh after the spirit when the 
 flesh is weary; she was the same through and 
 through like a ball of lard. Evelyn remembered 
 that she would have to write and tell her that she 
 had retired from the stage. Olive would not take
 
 SISTER TERESA 23 
 
 her dismissal easily, and feelinaj she could not 
 argue with her, Evelyn turned in her chair and 
 sat looking into the fire. Suddenly it occurred to 
 her that it was Owen who should break the news 
 to Olive, and she wrote asking him to explain that 
 she had left the stage. It was not necessary to 
 say any more; she thought perhaps it would be 
 as WG«[1 to add that he must try to dissuade Olive 
 from sending any information to the papers. 
 
 The only one of her former friends whose ac- 
 quaintance she cared to continue was Louise. 
 Louise's lovers did not trouble her; Louise must 
 look after her own soul. But what would they talk 
 about ? Hitherto their art had always been a source 
 of intimate interest to them. . . . She had given 
 up singing, so what would they talk about ? She 
 might go through Louise's parts with her. But 
 she knew she w^ould not care to do that, nor could 
 they talk about singing," She did not want to hear 
 of music, especially of the music with which she 
 had been associated. So all her friends must go — 
 composers and conductors, tenors and basses, all her 
 fellow artistes at whose rooms she liked to make 
 appointments. All the adventure of rehearsals 
 would henceforth be unkno^vn to her, and all those 
 whom she used to meet at rehearsals, various dilet- 
 tante Bohemians and critics, all would disappear 
 from her life. 
 
 She sometimes thought of sending away her 
 piano, for there is something sad in the sight of a
 
 24 SISTER TERESA 
 
 person or even of a thing that has absorbed much 
 of our lives, and the sight of her piano and the 
 music scores — the scores which she knew so well, 
 and which she would never open again — caused her 
 to sigh, to yearn, to look back, and this revelation 
 of her life had been brought about by an idea. If 
 Owen were to come to her with proof that there 
 was no future state it would be just the same ! 
 She j)aused like one in front of a great discovery. 
 We have only to change our ideas to change our 
 friends. Our friends are only a more or less im- 
 perfect embodiment of our ideas. 
 
 And as she stood by the window watching the 
 decaying foliage in the Park, she realised that the 
 problem of her life was the discovery of an occu- 
 pation. She had just come from a lunch at Owen 
 Asher's. She had met him a few evenings ago 
 as she came out of a concert-room, whither she had 
 been driven by terror of her lonely drawing-room, 
 rather than by a desire of the music. Owen had 
 spoken to her in the vestibule and she could see 
 that he would always love her, whether she were 
 well or ill, glad or sad, failing or successful. She 
 had perceived this as the crowd jostled past her, 
 and she was touched by it, and had promised to 
 lunch with him. But fearing she would not lunch 
 with him alone, he had mentioned a number of 
 names. She would sooner have lunched with him 
 alone, but she did not dare to say so, and he had 
 invited the usual people, women whom she had
 
 SISTER TERESA 25 
 
 once considered her intimate friends, and men with 
 whom she had flirted. She remembered that she had 
 once thought them all clever, and now they seemed 
 to her like the toys tlie showman winds and allows 
 to run a little way along the pavement before he 
 picks them up. The vivid unreality of these peo- 
 ple she attributed to the fact that they lived in the 
 2nere surface of life ; in the animal sensation rather 
 than in the moral idea; and she reflected that she 
 had not only not been happy, but had never seemed 
 to get even into touch with existence until she had 
 decided that there was a right and a wrong way. 
 
 But these women had asked her to dine with 
 them; they had promised to write, and she would 
 have to invent pretexts, and she had no aptitude 
 for the composition of such letters. If she accepted 
 their invitations she would have to talk to them on 
 subjects which did not interest her. If she were 
 to tell them her ideas — she shrugged her shoulders 
 and walked away from the window. This lunch 
 seemed to have flung her back again. Owen had 
 asked if he might come to see her. He had told 
 her he was going abroad in order that he might 
 forget her, and had asked if he might come again 
 to say good-bye. She hated scenes of parting, but 
 others did not think as she did, and she had given 
 lier consent to a last visit. It would have been diffi- 
 cult and disagreeable for her to have refused, but 
 she would have refused if she had not felt singularly 
 sure of herself. Her sex seemed to have fallen
 
 26 SISTER TERESA 
 
 from her. For many days she did not seem to 
 know that she was a woman, and feeling sure this 
 visit would prove wearisome she tried to look upon 
 it in the light of a mortification. But from such 
 moods there is always a reaction, and the visit had 
 been an agreeable one. He won her affection in 
 spite of herself. Xever had he seemed less hard, 
 less material, and at the end of the week he had 
 won his way into most of his old intimacy. They 
 had been for a walk in the Park and had been to 
 see some pictures, and during the first week of this 
 renewal of their intimacy he neither said nor did 
 anything to which she could raise any objection 
 until one day, after saying he was waiting for a 
 telegram from the yacht, he kissed her on the fore- 
 head. He might never see her again, he said, and 
 she thought that it did not matter much as he was 
 leaving. But no telegram came from Marseilles, 
 and his stay in London was indefinitely prolonged. 
 Soon after he produced a text in support of his 
 contention that sin did not begin in a kiss, and 
 he pleaded to be allowed to kiss her on the fore- 
 head and on the cheek. She begged him not to, 
 but it is impossible to resist always, and he assured 
 her that such kisses would not trouble her con- 
 science. The opinion of the Fathers on the danger 
 of kisses was debated; he struggled with her and 
 got the better of her in the struggle and the argu- 
 ment. But his success did not prevail. For on 
 the following day he saw, when he came into the
 
 SISTER TERESA 27 
 
 room, that there would be but little pleasure in 
 this visit, and regretted his indiscretions. 
 
 " You don't mean to saj that you are so absurd 
 as to have scruples of conscience about that kiss ?" 
 
 " Yes, I think I have. You see, it is all true to 
 me, and things can't be at once absurd and true." 
 
 " It is terrible that vou should be like this. But 
 let us change the subject. What about that song 
 of mine ?" 
 
 She looked in the direction of the clock before 
 beginning to sing, and he guessed something litur- 
 gical — Benediction ? and his hand dropped on her 
 shoulder. 
 
 " Are you offended ?" 
 
 " Xot exactly, but I have often told you I do 
 not approve of kisses unless " 
 
 " Unless what ?" 
 
 " Unless you are going to make love to me, and 
 as that can never be again " 
 
 *' You don't see that an affectionate regard may 
 bo " 
 
 " I must send you away now." 
 
 " When raav I see you again ?" 
 
 " I'll write." 
 
 He had kissed her, and she knew how kisses 
 ended, at least in her case, and she was determined 
 to dally with temptation no longer. She had been 
 walking about nearly all last night, and she had con- 
 vinced herself that as she was determined not to 
 go back to her old life, the only thing to do was
 
 28 SISTER TERESA 
 
 to do as Monsignor had told her, and to refrain 
 from seeing either Owen or Ulick again. To do 
 this she must put her old life completely aside. She 
 must sell her house in Park Lane and get another 
 which would be more in keeping with her ideas. 
 Above all, she must get some work to do ; she could 
 not live without occupation. On all these points 
 no one was so competent to advise her as Mon- 
 signor. 
 
 " You see, Monsignor, one cannot think of one's 
 soul all day. There is Mass in the morning, and 
 Benediction in the afternoon, and nothing else — 
 neither work nor pleasure." 
 
 He deliberated, and she waited, eager to hear 
 what advice he would give. 
 
 " When I advised you to leave the stage, I did 
 not mean you were to abandon art," and he spoke 
 of Handel and Bach, as she expected he would. 
 
 " Well, Monsignor, perhaps you won't understand 
 me at all, and will think me very wilful; but I 
 am not to sing the music I made a success in, I 
 don't want to sing at all. I can't do things by 
 halves. I am either on the stage or " 
 
 " In a convent," he added, smiling, and Evelyn 
 could not help smiling, for she recognised herself 
 in the antithesis ; and it was not until she had got 
 up to go that she remembered she had forgotten 
 to ask him to recommend her a solicitor who w^ould 
 negotiate the sale of her house for her, and invest 
 her capital at reasonable interest.
 
 SISTER TERESA' 29 
 
 " This is a matter on which I cannot speak off- 
 hand, and I ninst send you away now. Bnt I will 
 write to you on the subject, probably to-morrow. 
 Come to see me on Friday." 
 
 To see !Monsignor, to hear him, even to think 
 of him, was a help to her, and in the course of 
 tlie interview she decided she would write that 
 niirht to Owen, telling him he must not come to 
 see her again. She composed her letter as she went 
 along the street, and wrote it the moment she got 
 home. She expected he would send his valet in 
 the course of the morning with a letter, but the 
 only letter that came was one from Monsignor, 
 recommending a solicitor to her, and for three or 
 four da^'s she was busy making arrangements for 
 the sale of her furniture and her pictures, and 
 looking out for a small flat which she could furnish 
 in a simple way. 
 
 " You are very lucky," Monsignor said. " If 
 Mr. Enderwick says you will have four hundred 
 a year you can rely on it, and you will be able to 
 live comfortably and do not a little good. I have 
 been thinking of what you said to me about the 
 need of occupation. I quite agree with you that 
 you cannot live in idleness." 
 
 Returning to the question of concert singing, 
 he begged her to consider the money she could earn, 
 and the good use she could put it to. There 
 Avere so many deserving cases, really sad cases, 
 which he could bring to her notice; and once we
 
 30 SISTER TEKESA 
 
 are brought into touch with the poor it is extraor- 
 dinary the sympathy they discover in our hearts. 
 
 " I'm afraid, Monsignor, you are mistaken in 
 me. I do not think I could be of much use in 
 philanthropic work." 
 
 " But, my dear child, you have not tried." 
 " You will think me very Avicked, Monsignor, 
 hut I fear I do not even wish to try — that is not 
 the direction in which my sj^-nipathy takes me."
 
 ni 
 
 Hee pictures, furniture and china were on view 
 at Christie's at the end of November, and all Owen's 
 friends met each other in the rooms and on the 
 staircase. 
 
 Lady Ascott sailed in one afternoon, sweeping 
 the floor with a flowing tea-gown, which she held 
 up in front. She wore white satin shoes, and it 
 was debated in distant corners whether she did so 
 from choice or because she had worn them at a 
 party the night before. She was escorted by men 
 of culture of different ages. Her art critic Avalked 
 on her right hand. He was tall and dark and 
 solemn, and a few years ago he had been good- 
 looking, but lately he had seriously fattened out 
 in the cheeks and in the waist. He strove to ignore 
 tlie testimony of time by keeping his coat, which 
 was an old one, buttoned, and he still wore the 
 same sized gloves, seven and three-quarters, and 
 his hands looked like little dumplings in them. His 
 eyes were small and malign, and he looked into the 
 corners of the face of the person he was talking 
 to, as he would into the corners of a picture. A 
 lock of coarse black hair trailed across a sallow 
 brow, and he affected an air of aloofness when lis- 
 tening, and there were occasions when he stood 
 
 31
 
 32 SISTER TERESA 
 
 apart in carefully-considered attitudes. He was 
 a dealer by nature and a critic by accident. He 
 had taken notes of all cracks and restorations ; and 
 he had lately returned from Italy where he had 
 been collecting information for his book — Bellini, 
 His Life and Works. 
 
 Lady Ascott's musical critic walked on her left. 
 He was a tall, thin, angular man, with a small, 
 meagre, clean-shaven face, and pale eyes, in which 
 a nervous despair floated for a moment, and then 
 vanished, for his manner was high-spirited and 
 cheerful. He spoke in a thin voice which sug- 
 gested the ecclesiastic, and his eyes seemed to 
 reflect back ritual, and his dry, rigid manner sug- 
 gested one to whom doctrine was a necessity — one 
 to whom rule was essential. He had written on 
 Wagner, Palestrina and the plain chant. He had 
 read all the books; he had been librarian in a 
 ducal library, and curator in a museum. 
 
 At parties a sudden lassitude often invaded his 
 mind, and he strayed from the conversation to the 
 piano; and when he returned to his lodgings after 
 the party he looked round the room frightened, and 
 hurried to bed hoping to escape from thoughts in 
 sleep. 
 
 Lady Ascott's literary critic followed a few yards 
 in the rear, and occasionally in her rapid excursion 
 down the rooms Lady Ascott called to him, address- 
 ing a remark to him, which he answered timidly. 
 He had been lately discovered in the depths of a 
 museum, and had not yet caught the manner of
 
 SISTER TERESA 33 
 
 Society. He was feeling liis way. He was a man 
 of sixty, gaunt, and wrinkled like a pelican about 
 the throat. He meditated, as he walked, on Hard- 
 ing's objections to his article on style. Harding 
 had said he did not believe in the possibility of 
 writing ineptitudes in good style. Harding had 
 said that he had known Hugo, Banville and Tour- 
 gueneff and that they had never spoken of style. 
 He had said that the gods do not talk theology: 
 " they leave theology to the inferior saints and the 
 clergy," and the critic was distressed in his choco- 
 late-coloured overcoat. 
 
 This artistic party was met at the end of the 
 room by a fashionably-dressed young stockbroker 
 in whom Lady Ascott was developing a taste for 
 Aubusson carpets, eighteenth-century j)rints and 
 Waterford glass. On its Avay round the room it 
 was met by a fox-hunter, who \vore his hair long 
 and looked like a tragic actor, by a politician who 
 played Bach, by a noble earl who shot five thousand 
 head of game every year, and painted three hundred 
 water-colours. In the adjoining room this party 
 increased in numbers. Lady Southwick, whose in- 
 fidelities to her husband were often prompted by 
 her desire to succour her poor people, joined it, and 
 Evelyn's conversion Avas discussed by all these 
 fashionable people. 
 
 Everyone was anxious to express an opinion ; 
 but there was a general disposition to hear Lady 
 Southwick's opinion, and smiles hovered round the 
 
 3
 
 34 SISTER TERESA 
 
 corners of mouths when she spoke of the money 
 Eveljn might have contributed to hospitals and 
 other charities if she remained on the stage. These 
 smiles vanished when she said she could not see any- 
 thing for Evelyn but a contemplative order. This 
 seemed reasonable, but Lady Ascott said she could 
 not see Evelyn a good little nun to the end of her 
 days, and her art critic enforced this opinion with 
 a suggestion of suicide. A suicide in a convent had 
 never been heard of; and the idea was considered 
 distinctly amusing. There were fish-ponds in the 
 convent gardens, and the nims might find her float- 
 ing in the morning — a convent Ophelia ! The liter- 
 ary critic, who, till now, had said little, seized this 
 chance to join in the conversation, and strove to 
 redeem his silence by the suggestion that she might 
 leave the convent and proceed to the East in quest 
 of the ultimate learning. lie saw the last of her 
 on board a steamer in the Suez Canal. In the ful- 
 ness of his idea the critic unbuttoned his chocolate 
 overcoat, but just as his audience were beginning 
 to apprehend his idea, Lady Ascott spied Sir Owen 
 at the other end of the room. 
 
 Sir Owen's waistcoat was embroidered, and it 
 still went in at the waist. He wore a tiny mauve 
 necktie, and still a little conscious of the assistance 
 his valet had been to him, he walked down the room 
 with a long swinging stride. Everyone prepared 
 an observation which it was hoped would please 
 him. The art and musical critics spoke of the great
 
 SISTER TERESA 35 
 
 loss that Art had sustained, Lady Ascott of the loss 
 that Society had sustained, but the literary critic, 
 who did not know Sir Owen, spoke sympathetically 
 of the religious idea. It was expected that Sir 
 Owen would blaspheme, but he was unexpectedly 
 gentle and sad ; and eventually he took Lady South- 
 wick round the room, and explained to her that 
 Wedgwood and Hogarth were England's great ar- 
 tists, lie pressed a Wedgwood dinner-service upon 
 her, urging that it would be a souvenir of himself 
 and Evelyn. He told her that the satinwood card 
 tables, Avhicli he had bought for ten shillings a-piece, 
 Avould be sold for thirty or forty pounds a-piece, 
 and that night at dinner Lady Southwick raised a 
 laugh at his expense, so amusingly did she tell how 
 his sentimental affliction w^ould be alleviated if the 
 sale should prove a vindication of his taste. 
 
 The remarkable event of the sale was the selling 
 of the Boucher drawing — a woman lying on her 
 stomach, her legs apart, a drawing in red chalk, 
 drawn very freely and in a voluptuous sense which 
 would make it popular. Sir Owen had bought it 
 at the beginning of the year for eighty-seven pounds, 
 and it was thought that it would fetch three times 
 that sum. All Lady Ascott's set crowded into the 
 auction-room to watch Owen Asher bidding for this 
 drawing. The bidding stopped at a hundred and 
 twenty-five jiounds, and the auctioneer waited for 
 Sir Owen ; his women friends w^ere looking at him ; 
 but he went on explaining his theory on the incom-
 
 36 SISTER TERESA 
 
 patibility of art and empire to a Jew financier, and 
 while he spoke of the Colonies as a Brixton girdle, 
 the drawing was knocked down to a young Russian. 
 Owen cursed the financier and explained how it had 
 all happened, but everyone wanted to know who the 
 young Russian was, and why he had bought the 
 drawing. 
 
 And while her furniture and pictures were being 
 sold at Christie's, Evelyn showed a girl, whom she 
 had met at her father's concerts, over her flat. The 
 interest with which this girl had followed the music 
 had attracted Evelyn's attention ; she had spoken 
 to her after the concert, and had discovered she was 
 a metal worker. She had given her an order for 
 some electric-light fittings. 
 
 " I should like a twist in the middle of the stem 
 like this." 
 
 " I am afraid we could not twist it like this ; 
 this twist was done when the iron was hot ; we could 
 imitate the twist, but you w^ould hardly like that.'' 
 
 " Yes, but how did you learn the work ?" 
 
 " I have only lately taken it up — I go three times 
 a week to a forge in Clerkenwell." 
 
 Evel^Ti could see that this girl wore the same 
 black dress all the year through, and the same black 
 straw hat. She probably lived in a room which she 
 shared with another girl; very likely they cooked 
 their own food and did without their lunch in order 
 that they might save money to pay for a subscription 
 for her father's concerts. She saw their lives por-
 
 SISTER TERESA 37 
 
 tioned out in effort to gain their livelihood, and to 
 got now and then an artistic interest. To be with 
 this girl was like tlie air of the sea-shore after the 
 stale air of London. 
 
 At Christmas her moral impulses compelled her 
 to leave her flat and to go to Dulwich to live with 
 her father. She took Merat with her and lived with 
 him for three months ; and her whole life was sub- 
 jected to his wishes. She copied manuscripts for 
 him, and she relieved him of the most wearisome 
 part of his work by undertaking the teaching of the 
 trebles. She played the viola da gamba at his con- 
 certs ; she sang the old songs ; she taught the girls 
 who came to the concerts how to sing the madrigals, 
 and in the evenings she put aside the subject of her 
 thoughts or her book, and gave him her attention. 
 These hours were the hardest, for she had lost all 
 interest in art for art's sake. She sometimes 
 laughed in her weariness, pretending to herself that 
 she was not certain she hated sin as much as she 
 hated this pattern music ; sin was human, at least, 
 but the musical arabesques of the sixteenth and 
 seventeenth centuries seemed to her to be divorced 
 from all humanity. She often wondered if her 
 father noticed that Bach irritated her, and she was 
 full of remorse when he took the music away from 
 her, and she implored to be allowed to play it again. 
 
 She would not have been able to persevere in the 
 life at Dulwich had it not been for the three days 
 she spent in the convent every week from Saturday
 
 38 SISTER TERESA 
 
 until late on Monday, and every Monday it be- 
 came more difficult to return to the artistic routine 
 of Dowlands. The time was doubtless near when 
 she would not be able to do so any longer, but she 
 could discover no reason for going back to her flat 
 until the nuns lost a further sum of money in Aus- 
 tralian securities and the mortgagees threatened 
 foreclosure. Then it became clear that to be of 
 valid help to the nuns she must return to the stage. 
 She thought of a concert tour in England or 
 America, and was surprised to find herself looking 
 forward to this tour with interest, and when she re- 
 turned to her flat she sent for her agent. He could 
 not help regretting tliat she was not returning to 
 the stage. But the idea of the American tour filled 
 him Avith enthusiasm, and next morning he sent her 
 a large parcel of music. She cut tlie string and 
 placed the " Messiah" on the piano, and played it 
 for about an hour. She could see that it was very 
 beautiful, she could see that, but it did not interest 
 her. Her conversation had not influenced her artis- 
 tic taste. She took out another score; this time it 
 was " Elijah," and Mendelssohn appealed to her 
 even less than Handel. She turned to a modern 
 score and discovered in it all the original ingre- 
 dients hashed up and kneaded into now forms. 
 Then she took a score by Brahms from the heap. 
 " In Handel there are beautiful proportions," slie 
 said ; " it is beautiful, like eighteenth-century 
 architecture, but here I can discover neither pro-
 
 SISTER TERESA 39 
 
 portion nor design." She remoniberod that Caesar 
 Franks' music affected her in mucli the same way. 
 Shrugging her shouhlcr.^, she said, " When I listen 
 I always hear something beautiful, only I don't 
 listen."
 
 lY 
 
 EvEEY morning she said, " ISTow I will get up 
 and begin. The moment I begin I shall feel inter- 
 ested in what I am doing, whereas, if I sit by the 
 fire doing nothing, I shall be mad with melancholy 
 before dinner-time." But she remained reading 
 her paper, and when she rose to her feet she passed 
 the piano and stood by the window, hoping for a 
 visitor. At that moment anyone would have been 
 welcome, and full of contempt for her weakness she 
 yielded to the temptation which the artist spends 
 his life in fighting — the temptation to go and talk 
 to someone. She thought which of her friends she 
 could go to see — Louise? She had been twice to 
 see Louise that week, so she went to Dulwich, but 
 her father was always busy, and feeling like a crimi- 
 nal, she stojDped at St. Joseph's. She had nothing 
 to confess but idleness, and vowing to mend her 
 life, returned home. She returned home to sit all 
 the morning recalling her vows, painfully con- 
 scious of the presence of her piano. At twelve 
 o'clock she thought she was going to study, but she 
 opened instead the score of " Fidelio ;" when it 
 had been looked through she opened " Tannhauser," 
 
 and read Elizabeth's music as a wanderer reads a 
 40
 
 SISTER TERESA 41 
 
 well-known landscape — the liills and the village 
 street he knew when he was a child. The wanderer 
 l^asses on, and Evelyn closed the score witli a sigh, 
 and stood a long while looking into the street, think- 
 ing of nothing definitelv — that some of these scores 
 were beantifnl, that some were ngly, that none 
 meant anything to her. Her thonghts grew more 
 explicit, and she felt that she could only do things 
 from impulse and to please herself. But how would 
 she make her agent understand that the thinking- 
 out a scheme whereby a poor widow might be sent 
 to a convalescent home, and a situation found for 
 her daughter, interested her far more than the sing- 
 ing of all these modern religiosities ? Her agent 
 would never understand, and to attempt any ex- 
 planation would be waste of time. Still, she was 
 glad he was coming, and so worn out was she with 
 loneliness that she asked him to stay to tea. \Ylien 
 he left she looked round the room, wondering what 
 she was going to do. Her dinner would not be 
 ready for at least two hours, and it seemed that she 
 could not stay in the house. Whom should she go 
 to see — Louise ? Louise disliked religion and she 
 looked upon nuns as fools, and an argument with 
 Louise troubled and perplexed Evelyn without 
 changing her. So she went instead to see a philan- 
 thropic woman who lived in her neighborhood. 
 This woman was an excellent journalist and could 
 have earned a considerable income if she had been 
 able to put her own wants before the wants of others.
 
 4:2 SISTER TERESA 
 
 Evelyn was always touched by lier simple disinter- 
 estedness. She had had six eallors tliat morning 
 and had not been able to do any work. There was 
 the woman from the workhouse who wanted a little 
 tea and sugar; there was the woman who wanted 
 a coal-ticket, and there was the woman who wanted 
 to be advised — her husband had just been sent to 
 gaol, and she had three children dependent upon 
 her. 
 
 " And what did you do ?" 
 
 " I had to think out the circumstances of each 
 case, and see what could be done." 
 
 " But that is just what I cannot do. I can spare 
 the money, I can give it, but I cannot think out a 
 plan as you can to start them afresh." 
 
 " It should be eas}^ for one who can think out the 
 gestures, the intonations of voice of Isolde and 
 Elsa, to design a new career for Patrick Sullivan, 
 who has been turned into the street with his five 
 children because he cannot pay his rent." 
 
 At that moment it seemed to her that she was 
 good for nothing except the singing of operas and 
 being Owen Asher's mistress. She could not learn 
 the oratorios, and she could not think out careers 
 for the many Patrick Sullivans who would present 
 themselves. If she could only find something to 
 do which she could do, and which seemed to her to 
 be worth doing. There Avas a root of some good in 
 her. She had not known till now that this root was 
 in her. She did not know how she could cultivate
 
 SISTER TERESA 43 
 
 it; but if she could separate herself from her old 
 circumstances she thought it might grow. 
 
 She went home to her lonely dinner, to a few let- 
 ters to write, and to a book to read, and it seemed 
 as if every day would be the same as the last. BulJ 
 next day as she was turning over some old clothes 
 to send to her philanthropic friend for her poor 
 I)eople, Ulick walked into the room. Merat had 
 suddenly announced him, and she had not had time 
 to thrust the bundle under the table. lie was, how- 
 ever, too much absorbed in the pleasure of seeing 
 her to notice it. 
 
 This was the first meeting for many months. It 
 was their first meeting since she had written to him 
 saying he was not to come and see her. She wished 
 to hear what his life had been in France — what 
 music he had written, and he wished to know what 
 encouragement and help the Church had been to 
 her, and what music she had been singing. For her 
 father had only mentioned that he thought she was 
 going to sing oratorios. But before they could talk 
 of music, they would have to talk of themselves. 
 She wanted to know if he still loved her, and she 
 hoped he did not love her in a way that would pre- 
 vent their being friends; and so intent was she to 
 know this that she did not hear what he was saying 
 about the colourlessness of English music and its 
 want of background. 
 
 " It is very good of you to come to see me," she 
 said. " I'm very glad you've come. This appears
 
 44 SISTER TERESA 
 
 very inconsistent, does it not, after the letter I 
 wrote to you ?" 
 
 She no longer felt as she did when she had last 
 written to him, and he asked her if she wanted to 
 return to the stage, and if she still held to Cathol- 
 icism. She laughed at the question, so impossible 
 did it seem to her that she could ever be anything 
 else but a Catholic again. She could see that he 
 was a little puzzled, and then she told him how 
 much it had cost her in loneliness to send him 
 away. 
 
 " We must live according to our ideas," he said, 
 " and it is by living for our ideas, and by suffering 
 for our ideas, that we raise ourselves above our ani- 
 mal nature. I was not angry with you for your 
 letter. It proved to me that there was a deeper 
 nature in you than that of the mere singer." 
 
 These were the first words of sympathy that had 
 been spoken to her since she had altered her life, 
 and she was deeply touched. She told him she 
 feared she had little aptitude for parochial work. 
 She was not of much use to the poor. It was the 
 poor who were of use to her. It was the poor who 
 helped her to live. He said he understood, and he 
 told her how he had given up writing a certain kind 
 of music, because a schism in a certain hermetic 
 society to which he belonged had scattered his audi- 
 ence. 
 
 " We all require," he said, " a group of people 
 in whom we are in sympathy ; we require our ideas
 
 SISTER TERESA 45 
 
 about us," and the little anecdote told her how well 
 they understood each other. 
 
 He saw that she stood in need of a friend, and 
 she felt that her life would be lonely without one 
 influence. His spiritual ideas interested her, and 
 through their ideas they became extraordinarily 
 intimate. Each visit was looked forward to, and 
 she often went to meet him in the Park by ap- 
 pointment, and walking by the Serpentine in the 
 evening they spoke of the life of the body, which 
 he believed to be an incident in the development 
 of the eternal soul. His creed, that God is every- 
 where, especially in the twilight which gathered in 
 the great trees, did not seem to conflict, though he 
 said it did, with her belief in the sacrament, and he 
 told her she had only to listen to the silence in her 
 own heart to hear God. The spire of Kensington 
 Church shot up above the trees, touching the very 
 heart of the sunset ; and he deprecated a feeble 
 human ritual, exalting the ritual of nature above it. 
 He asked why man should seek God in scrolls 
 rather than in the sky above, and the earth under 
 our feet, and why a foreign land should be more 
 sacred than the earth underfoot. He spoke more 
 excitedly than he had spoken before. He said that 
 her heart would grow grey and that God would de- 
 sert her in the cloister, and when she asked him 
 what he thought would become of her, if he thought 
 she would become a nun, he said, — 
 
 " Onlv marriage can save vou from the cloister.
 
 46 SISTER TERESA 
 
 You have liked me, you seem to like me still ; will 
 you marry me ?" 
 
 He waited a moment for her to answer, and then 
 said, — 
 
 " We must go away to-night, so that there may be 
 no turning back. Yon must meet me at nine 
 o'clock at the railway station — we will go to 
 Dulwich." 
 
 "To-night!" 
 
 As they walked back through the chill spring 
 twilight he questioned her closely. She had been 
 falling in love with him again, and was feeling 
 lonely, miserable, and what was worse, she thought, 
 very weak. She had to admit that her life was 
 lonely — unbearably lonely he said it must be — and 
 he admired her strength of character. That she had 
 given up a great deal for her ideas did not impress 
 him so much as the fact that she was living for her 
 ideas. " But what is the use," she thought, " in 
 having suffered if I am to break down ?" She could 
 see that he sought to overrule her will with his. He 
 said she must promise to go away with him that very 
 night. That promise she could not give. If she 
 were to marry him her life would be lived among 
 artists and musicians. She would be brought back 
 to all that she had renounced. No, she would not 
 go away with him, she said, as she went upstairs 
 to her room ; and she crossed the room certain that 
 she had arrived at an irrevocable decision. Some 
 time passed, and as she went to get a book from the
 
 SISTER TEKESA 47 
 
 bookcase, she reiiienibcred, and with extraordi- 
 nary intensity, that marriage would give her a hold 
 upon life, and that was what she wanted. She 
 could not continue to live her present life. She was 
 certain of that. Her life seemed like a difficult 
 equation ; and after dinner, in spite of the meal, 
 her consciousness increased until she seemed to be 
 trembling in her very entrails. 
 
 " In half an hour I shall have to put on my hat 
 — in twenty minutes — in fifteen minutes — in ten 
 minutes I shall have to go." 
 
 The fire began to burn up, and, worn out witli 
 thinking, her eyes closed and her brain beat like a 
 pulse. She started in her chair twice, and saw the 
 fire burning very red. Then her eyes closed a third 
 time, and she dreamed she was in a stable where 
 there was a savage horse. So long as the groom 
 remained the horse could not attack her; but sud- 
 denly the groom slipped out of the stable, and in- 
 stantly the horse seized her by the sleeve and held 
 her as a dog might, only with twenty times the 
 power. The stable was divided by a wooden parti- 
 tion, in which there was a door, and it was her ob- 
 ject to get behind the door and close it, but the 
 horse held her firmly on the threshold. It seemed 
 to her that the groom had left her to be done to 
 death by the horse, to be trampled and torn by it, 
 and she was unable to imagine any reason why he 
 .^liould have done this. But she saw it was cleverly 
 planned, for her death could not be attributed to
 
 48 SISTER TERESA 
 
 him ; it would be said that she had foolishly strayed 
 into the stable after he had left. 
 
 Her eyes opened, and she sat in a sort of obtuse 
 consciousness, afraid to move, looking into the red 
 glow; and she did not stir, though the fire was 
 burning her legs, until Merat came to ask her if 
 she had any letters for the post. 
 
 " Well, Merat," Evelyn said, " I wonder what 
 will be the end of it all. Shall I end my days in a 
 convent ? What do you think, Merat. you say you 
 know me so well ?" 
 
 " I think mademoiselle will go into the convent, 
 but I do not think she will stay in it." 
 
 " Another failure, that would be worst of all. If 
 I once went into a convent, why should I leave it ? 
 What do you think would have power to draw me 
 out of it ?" 
 
 Leaning against the mantelj)iece, Merat stood 
 looking at her mistress as at an idol. These little 
 chats were her recompense for the sacrifices she had 
 made so that she might remain in Evelyn's service. 
 
 " A cousin of mine, mademoiselle, is going to 
 be professed to-morrow — would you like to see her 
 take the veil ?" 
 
 Merat described her cousin's people as well-to-do 
 trades-people in a midland town. Their business 
 prospered, and there was a nice garden at the back 
 of their house, full of lilac bushes, and on Sunday 
 there was always supper, and the young men stayed 
 to supper. The mother being French, the children
 
 SISTER TERESA 49 
 
 spoke French and English, Julia played the piano 
 and Emily sang. Dnring Merat's profuse descrip- 
 tions Evelyn thought not of Julia and Emily, but 
 of Sophie, who had decided to become a Carmelite 
 nun ? Why a Carmelite nun ? In her own words, 
 because if she were to become a nun, she would 
 like a severe order. She would like her life to be 
 as different from the life of the world as possible. 
 Wliy did she want this? No one knew — she did 
 not know herself. But she wanted this thing above 
 all other things. She had always been a pious girl, 
 but not more pious than her pious brothers and 
 sisters. She used to romp in the garden on Sun- 
 day evenings with the young men. One of the 
 young men had asked her to marry him. She had 
 hesitated at first and then she had refused. Her 
 father had asked her to wait for two years, and 
 she had waited. Young men had come to supper 
 and she had walked with them in the garden, and 
 her voice had been heard laughing. Her sisters 
 had married, and everyone had expected that she 
 would marry. But when the two years her father 
 had asked for were over she had told him that she 
 had not changed. She wished as much as ever to 
 be a Carmelite nun.
 
 Spring was breaking out in the streets — soft 
 white clouds floated at the end of every street, and 
 they drove past green squares. The convent was 
 in a distant suburb, and during the drive there 
 Evelyn hardly spoke. She was far more interested 
 in her own thoughts than in Merat's gossip, and, 
 seeing the sparrows carrying straAvs into the bud' 
 ding trees, she thought of the girl whose destiny 
 had been revealed to her at eighteen, and who had 
 surrendered life without a sigh, perhaps gladly. 
 
 And, seeing lilacs in the convent courtyard, Eve- 
 lyn wondered if the little sister who had opened the 
 door to them would understand any part of what 
 she was thinking if she were to tell lier, or if the 
 cloister had blotted out her human heart. 
 
 When they entered the church the candles were 
 
 being lighted, and on the right of the altar there 
 
 was an open archway railed off by high rails. The 
 
 pews were beginning to fill, and while they waited 
 
 Evelyn thought, " So a girl is going to renounce 
 
 the life of the animal — the individual life, the life 
 
 of conflict. She is led to this, not by instinct, for 
 
 she renounces the instinctive life; not by the light 
 
 of Avisdom, for she has no wisdom !" 
 
 There came a sound of chanting, and looking up 
 50
 
 SISTER TERESA 51 
 
 they saw the priests and acolytes pass in by a side 
 door; and at the same moment, and by the same 
 door by which Merat and Evelyn had come into the 
 church, the bride came out of the sunlight into the 
 smell of the incense — a healthy-looking girl with 
 flushed cheeks, leaning on her father's arm, and 
 Evelyn thought of Christ as of a tender lover wait- 
 ing to receive his bride. Behind her followed her 
 mother, and her brothers and sisters, and they sat 
 on some scattered chairs on either side, while the 
 bride, Avithout visible bridegroom, knelt before the 
 altar. Evelyn heard the voice of the priest intone 
 the Yeiii Creator, and the response came from the 
 nuns in thin, quavering notes; so inexproesibly 
 dreary was the intonation, so like the strewing of 
 ashes, that it seemed to her that her way must be 
 with the sun and the lilacs rather than in the dim 
 church, sickly with incense. 
 
 The ritual proceeded for a while, and then Eve- 
 lyn followed the procession. She was so blinded 
 by excitement that she could not observe anything, 
 and it merely seemed to her that many carried 
 tapers in their hands, and that there were acolytes 
 and priests. She longed to ask what would happen 
 next, but did not dare, so intense was the moment. 
 The procession passed down the aisle and into the 
 courtyard. The doors were wide open, and the pro- 
 cession passed through them into the garden, and 
 Evelyn saw the cloaked nuns holding tajDers, and, 
 in the doorway, the Prioress, tall and graceful, bend-
 
 52 SISTER TERESA 
 
 ing like a mother over the bride kneeling at her feet, 
 begging for admission. The bride's father and 
 mother, her brothers and her sisters, pressed for- 
 ward to kiss her for the last time, and all that re- 
 mained of Owen Asher in Evelyn rose in revolt, 
 she wished, in spite of her reason, to snatch the girl 
 from God and give her back to life. Amid the 
 laburnvims and the lilac, in the heat of this volup- 
 tuous day, the immolation seemed to be pitiful, too 
 awful to be borne. 
 
 " I must see her," Evelyn said ; " she will bo 
 able to tell me the secret of her great discovery and 
 how she came to make it." 
 
 She followed Merat through a side door, and 
 through various passages until they came to a bare 
 room, and at the end of the room she saw merely 
 an iron grating, and behind it a Carmelite nun. 
 She pressed forward, eager to ask her why she had 
 done this, to ask what circumstances in her life had 
 driven her to do this, but the rush of questions 
 escaped with her breath, for the middle-class girl 
 had disappeared, and in her place she saw a being, 
 seemingly more spiritual than human. There were 
 traces of tears drying on the girl's hot cheeks, and 
 her look seemed to enfold Evelyn in its sanctifica- 
 tion, and it followed her when she drove home in the 
 hansom — and she saw nothing of the world around 
 her. All the links in the chain seemed broken — 
 centuries seemed to have passed, and when she en- 
 tered her room she sat down, unable to speak, lost
 
 SISTER TERESA 53 
 
 in the contemplation of something great and noble. 
 All the familiar objects in the room seemed strange 
 and imreal, yet she was clearer in her mind than 
 she had ever felt before, and she seemed to see 
 through life for the first time, and, seeing it, she 
 cared nothing for it. 
 
 She stood like one alone on an empty island, 
 seeing the house-lined shores from a distance, and 
 she did not awake from her dream till the door 
 opened. 
 
 She wore a maroon-coloured dress, and her figure 
 looked very slight in it. She had grown thinner, 
 and her arms were slender in the tight sleeves ; white 
 lace fell over her hands, making them seem fragile 
 and beautiful, and Ulick read in her pale, nervous 
 eyes, that she would be led far from him, and she 
 read misery in his while she told him of the nervous 
 irresolution she could not overcome, but she had to 
 tell him why she had not gone to Victoria. And 
 as she told him of her terror, and of the sudden 
 sleepiness which had fallen upon her, she watched 
 his eyes for any trace of anger that might appear in 
 them. But they only reflected the pain in his heart 
 — the pain which he felt for her. 
 
 He was dressed in the tweed suit which he wore 
 from the beginning of the year to its end, a loose, 
 well-worn cravat floated about his throat, but his 
 simple dignity made Owen's artificial dignities 
 seem small and almost mean in her present eyes. 
 His hair was tossed over his forehead, and she liked
 
 54 STSTEE TEKESA 
 
 it as he wore it. She liked everything about him, 
 even his clumsy boots, for the idea he represented 
 was so much greater than any externals could be. 
 His clothes seemed but a little shadow. The pict- 
 ure was all sky — the quiet of the sky and the wist- 
 fulness of the sky at evening; the sorrow and the 
 pity and the immortality of the sky were reflected 
 in his eyes, at least they were for her ; and when she 
 told him how the sublime act she had witnessed that 
 morning had impressed her, he listened to her with 
 a pity for her in his eyes that nearly broke her 
 do"wn. He seemed to her like some woodland creat- 
 ure who, hearing monks chanting in his woodland^ 
 divines in some half-conscious way that an idea in 
 which he has no part has come into the world.
 
 VI 
 
 The portress's pretty smile seemed less cheerful 
 than usual, and as soon as Mother Philippa came 
 into the parlour Evelyn divined a serious money 
 trouhle. 
 
 " But what is the matter, Mother Philippa ? You 
 must tell me about it. 1 can see there is trouble." 
 
 " Well, my dear, to tell you the truth we have no 
 money at all." 
 
 " At all ! You must have some money." 
 
 " ^o ; we have none. And Mother Prioress is 
 so determined not to get into debt that she will not 
 let us order anything f z'om the tradespeople, and we 
 have to manage with what we have got in the con- 
 vent. Of course there are some vegetables and some 
 flour in the house. But we can't go on long like 
 this. We don't mind so much for ourselves, but we 
 are so anxious about Mother Prioress ; you know 
 how weak her heart is, and all this anxiety may kill 
 her. Then there are the invalid sisters who ought to 
 have fresh meat." 
 
 Evelyn thought of driving to the Wimbledon 
 butcher and bringing back some joints. 
 
 " But, brother, why did you not let me know be- 
 fore? Of course I will help you." 
 
 65
 
 56 SISTER TERESA 
 
 " The worst of it is, Evelyn, we want a great deal 
 of help." 
 
 " Well, never mind, I'm ready to give you a great 
 deal of help. ... As much as I can. Ah, here 
 is the Reverend Mother." 
 
 The door had opened, and the Prioress stood rest- 
 ing, leaning on the door handle. Evelyn was by her 
 side in an instant. 
 
 " Thank you, my child, thank you." 
 
 " I have heard of your trouble, Mother. I'm 
 determined to help you, so you must sit down and 
 tell me all about it." 
 
 " Reverend Mother ought not to be about," said 
 Mother Philippa. " On Monday night she was so 
 ill that we had to get up to pray for her." 
 
 " I'm better to-day." 
 
 And speaking, Evelyn thought, very slowly and 
 feebly, the Reverend Mother told Evelyn the 
 amount of their liabilities. The house and grounds 
 had been mortgaged for twenty thousand pounds, 
 and when the interest on this had been paid, the 
 margin they had to live on was not large, and this 
 year it had been reduced unexpectedly. 
 
 As she was about to explain this new misfortune, 
 she paused for breath. 
 
 " Some other time, dear Mother, you will tell me 
 the details. ISTow I want to think how I can help 
 you out of your difficulties." 
 
 And Evelyn took the nun's hand and looked into 
 the tired, wan eyes, and she understood quite well
 
 SISTER TERESA 57, 
 
 how this woman, so firm and resourceful in her own 
 convent, shrank from the trouble which fate had 
 forced upon her with a material world, eager and 
 merciless in its greed, and anxious to acquire valu- 
 able property regardless of the sufferings of others. 
 The weight of debt on the convent surprised her, 
 but she hoped her face had shown no surprise. She 
 had once been offered a large sum of money to go to 
 America, and it seemed to her a heroic adventure 
 to go there to sing the nuns out of debt. But to do 
 this she would have to return to the stage, and she 
 would if she could overcome herself; and in her 
 anxiety to cheer the two elderly and helpless women, 
 who seemed to have become oddly enough dependent 
 upon her, she thought that she would be able to. To 
 relieve their immediate necessities would be easy; 
 she would send them twenty pounds at once. But 
 how to cope with so large a debt she had not the 
 faintest idea at the time. It was not until she was 
 on her way back to London that the idea of a series 
 of concerts in several large towns, beginning in 
 London and ending in Glasgow, occurred to her. 
 She would make at least a couple of thousand 
 pounds in a six months' tour, and this sum she 
 would give to the nuns to hand over to their mort- 
 gagees. The nuns were paying four per cent., so 
 next year they would be eighty pounds a year richer. 
 It could not be that some Catholics would not be 
 found to subscribe; once an example is set it is 
 quickly followed. But next day her agent told her
 
 58 SISTER TERESA 
 
 he could not hold out any hope to her of a successful 
 tour before the autumn ; during the summer months 
 she would not draw half as much money as she 
 would in September and October, lie thought she 
 could not do better than sing the music she was 
 famed for. . . . London was more ready to wel- 
 come a new departure than the provinces. The 
 provinces were conservative, and would want to hear 
 what she had sung in London. Her agent left her 
 to discuss the matter with Ulick, who had just come 
 in, and after some consultation they decided to go 
 to Dulwich and refer the matter to Mr. Innes. 
 
 Her father did not consider whether it was the 
 sensual or the religious idea which had led her back 
 to her art. He merely rejoiced in the fact that she 
 was to return to art. He began to compose a pro- 
 gramme for her — Wagner and the sixteenth and 
 seventeenth centuries. The provinces had not yet 
 heard the old instruments, and he felt sure they 
 would be appreciated. He went to the harpsichord 
 and asked Evelyn to sing, and then went to the 
 piano, and she sang again. He appealed to Ulick, 
 and Ulick agreed with him, but so readily did he 
 agree with her father that Evelyn guessed he was 
 brooding something. He stood looking into space, 
 or sometimes he looked at her with a sad, pitying 
 expression which troubled her. It was the convent 
 that troubled him. He would have lier return to 
 art for some other reason. She could see that he 
 was hostile to the conventual idea, and she won-
 
 SISTER TERESA 59 
 
 dered why, for she knew no one more truly relig- 
 ious than he. 
 
 She had expected he would have tried to dissuade 
 her, but he refrained, and when she told him of 
 the convent, he listened, and on the first opportunity 
 spoke of something else, and she was touched when 
 he said as he bade her good-night, — 
 
 " You will Avant an accompanist ; let me be your 
 accompanist ; it will save you a great deal of 
 money, and I shall be helping the nuns in my 
 own way. 
 
 The mornings were henceforth passed at the 
 piano. After lunch they went into the Park, and 
 they talked of all the things in the Park in the late 
 afternoons. It was pretty to stray through the 
 groves, talking alternately of art and religion. At 
 any hoiir of the day — even if you were to wake 
 Ulick at three o'clock in the morning, he would not 
 complain, if it were to talk of art or metaphysics. 
 He would, there is not the slightest doubt, sit up in 
 bed, and after rubbing his eyes, begin to discuss 
 Wagner's meaning regarding the Valkyrie, or the 
 meaning of the Druids when they said that men had 
 made the world. Evelyn liked to watch his reveries 
 and hear him say that the meaning of the Druids' 
 saying that man had made the world out of his 
 thoughts was that he had invented metaphysics and 
 the mythologies. As they walked, love of him awoke 
 in her heart when he explained what Father Rail- 
 ston had tried to explain. The priest had prosai-
 
 60 SISTER TEEESA 
 
 cally assured her that she should not expect sensible 
 belief at every hour of the day, that to acquiesce in 
 all the teaching of the Church was sufficient. But 
 Ulick had said that if we believe in the moments 
 when our life reaches its highest point, that is to 
 say, in the moments when our animal nature is at 
 wane, it should matter little to us if we should feel 
 less certain about God in our ordinary, passing life. 
 The conversation passed on, and TJlick told her that 
 he had believed in one God in childhood; he had 
 once believed in Jehovah, and about this great God 
 he imagined a sort of pantheism. Christ had not 
 interested him at that time, and he now understood 
 the Son as a concession to polytheism. Man, he 
 said, alternates between polytheism and mono- 
 theism. 
 
 " And the Virgin," she said, " is another conces- 
 sion, and the canonised saints are further conces- 
 sions, so that the divine idea may be brought within 
 the reach of simple minds." 
 
 It was July, and the leaves were already begin- 
 ning to grow crisp, and a yellow tint to come into 
 the green ; and she said, — 
 
 " We shall never know each other better than we 
 do to-day; our affection can do nothing but de- 
 cline." 
 
 " My heart, Evelyn, is like a mirror in which 
 nothing changes and nothing passes." 
 
 " But I am spoiling your life ; I can give you 
 nothing for your love."
 
 SISTER TERESA 61 
 
 " You give me all my inspiration — you are the 
 source of all of it." 
 
 " I beseech you," he said after a long silence, " do 
 not separate yourself from me because you think 
 that." 
 
 She promised him she would not, and an inde- 
 finable sensation of joy passed into their hearts, and 
 it lasted while they looked into the sunny inter- 
 spaces. 
 
 She feared him no longer; it was herself she 
 feared, for though he did not make love to her his 
 gentleness was compelling her, and she repressed 
 the impulse to take his hand, lest to do so should 
 break the love spell of those long summer days. 
 They had reached the summit of their happiness, 
 and both foresaw the day when they would have to 
 begin the descent.
 
 VII 
 
 In their long strayings by the Serpentine she 
 often -wondered what she should say if they were 
 to meet Owen. He wonld pass them quickly, with 
 a cynical smile on his lips and in his eyes, for he 
 Avould think the worst. 
 
 Ulick had asked her if he might accompany her 
 on her concert tour, but she had refused, feeling she 
 could not hold out against his tenderness much 
 longer. The moment would have come when she 
 would have thrown herself into his arms. He had 
 not tried to kiss her as Owen had done and it would 
 have been easy for any other woman to have seen 
 him every day without danger, but she was dif- 
 ferent. She could resist once, twice, even three 
 times, but the time came when she could resist no 
 longer. Love with her was like one of those poisons 
 which remain in the body ; it is not the actual dose 
 which kills, but the accumulation of doses, and she 
 knew that men had again become a feverish curi- 
 osity in her. 
 
 At Edinburgh the larger part of the stalls was 
 
 taken up by Lady Ascott's party. Lady Ascott had 
 
 had a large house party at Thornton Grange, and 
 
 she brought all her friends to Edinburgh to hear 
 
 Evelyn. She brought many of the county people 
 62
 
 SISTER TERESA 63 
 
 with her, and after the concert came to see Evelyn. 
 Evelyn was thinking of the men whom she heard 
 talking behind her, and almost independently of 
 her will she tnrned from the women who were com- 
 jilimcnting her on her singing, and it was only by 
 an effort of will that she engaged in conversation 
 with Lady Ascott or some amiable old gentleman. 
 
 The temptation pursued her and kept her awake. 
 She lay on her left side, seeing in the darkness the 
 faces she had seen during the evening. And every 
 day the danger seemed to grow more threatening. 
 She would have abandoned her concert tour had it 
 not been for the nuns — for their sakes she was 
 obliged to go on with it. Every day her danger 
 grew more imminent. Lady Ascott asked her to 
 Thornton Grange, and after all Lady Ascott had 
 done to make her Edinburgh concert a success she 
 did not see how she could refuse to spend the in- 
 terval between the Edinburgh and the Glasgow con- 
 cert with her. 
 
 Thornton Grange was thirty miles west of Edin- 
 burgh, so it would be on her way to Glasgow, and 
 as she went there she thought of the people she 
 would meet. She w^ould be sure to meet there some 
 of the men whom she had met last autumn when she 
 lunched with Owen, and the women she had met 
 there too, for they went about in gangs. She knew 
 what the party would be like; she knew it all be- 
 fore it began. On the second would begin an ex- 
 asperated desire to do something to escape from the
 
 64 SISTER TERESA 
 
 tedium of leisure. Everyone would be divided as 
 if the Atlantic divided them, even when thej lay on 
 each other's arms, for their intimacies were merely 
 physical. Physical intimacies are but surface emo- 
 tions, forgotten as soon as they are satisfied, whereas 
 spiritual intimacies live in the heart ; they are part 
 of our eternal life and seem to reach beyond the 
 stars. 
 
 Then why was she going to Thornton Grange? 
 Because it was difficult to refuse Lady Ascott's in- 
 vitation ? Yes, and because she liked to go, and 
 because she was drawn there. She knew these 
 people would weary her; she despised them. She 
 knew that they knew no more of life than animals, 
 but these thoughts were in her brain merely. She 
 felt she had lost control over herself ; her brain was 
 on fire, and outside the country was lit up by swift 
 lightnings. 
 
 A high wind had been blowing all day, and the 
 storm had begun in the dusk, and when she arrived 
 at the station the coachman could hardly get his 
 horses to face the rain and wind. She took the 
 storm for a sign, but she could not go back now, 
 and she tried to think of something else. She had 
 heard of the trees in the Park, and she peered 
 through the wet panes. " It is a miserable thing," 
 she thought, " to linger on the threshold ; it is only 
 the daring spirits who pass across and close the 
 door." But she put these thoughts out of her mind, 
 and for the first time yielded to the temptation to
 
 SISTER TERESA 65 
 
 think of the men she was going to meet that night 
 at dinner. 
 
 " How are yon, my dear Evelyn ? I am so glad 
 to see you; you will find some friends here," said 
 Lady Ascott, who had come forward to meet her. 
 
 They were on tlie threshold of the shadowy draw- 
 ing-room, and out of a background of rich pictures, 
 china vases, books in little inlaid cases on marble 
 consol tables on which stood lamps and tall, shaded 
 candles, Owen came forward to meet her. 
 
 " I am so glad to see you, Evelyn ; you did not 
 expect me. You are not sorry, I hope ?" 
 
 She hardly answered. She Avent past him into 
 the drawing-room, and with a scared look sat down 
 by herself on a sofa as if to watch the card players. 
 
 Lady Ascott asked Owen what he thought was 
 the matter with her. He shrugged his shoulders 
 and went towards Evelyn. But at that moment 
 some other guests arrived. They had come from a 
 different station, and were greeted with little cries 
 of facetious intimacy, and amidst a reiteration of 
 Christian names, they narrated their journeys, and 
 their narratives were chequered with the names of 
 other friends who had been staying in the houses 
 they had just come from. It seemed to Evelyn that 
 the desire of these people was to pretend to be all 
 members of one family. Their jokes implied an 
 intimate acquaintance with the idiosyncrasies of a 
 large niimber of people, and it seemed that they 
 often spoke with a view to giving prominence to
 
 66 SISTER TERESA 
 
 this fact. They knew each others' intrigues, mer- 
 cenary and sensual, and each others' plans for the 
 winter months, and the object of their house parties ; 
 their race meetings and intrigues were vanity and 
 distraction. Suddenly Evelyn heard one of the 
 women say of a poet Avhose acquaintance she had 
 made she was afraid society would get hold of him 
 and spoil him. " She's like me," Evelyn said to 
 herself ; " she sees through it all, but cannot escape 
 from it. I run a little way, and am brought back 
 again." 
 
 And like one watching a revel, she sat apart, 
 hearing the tingling of the temptation in her flesh ; 
 and in despair she went up to her room, where 
 Merat was waiting to dress her for dinner. As she 
 stood before the glass she asked herself what was 
 the meaning that lurked in the dress she wore, in 
 the wine and the meats which awaited them. 
 
 These people did not meet to exchange ideas. 
 Everything — dress, flowers, wine, food, and conver- 
 sation were but pretexts and stimulants ; the pleas- 
 ure of, consciously or unconsciously, sex was the 
 object of this party. 
 
 It was Owen who took her in to dinner, and amid 
 the influence of food, wine, conversation, and the 
 scent of the flowers the combat within her grew 
 denser. 
 
 After dinner the card players withdrew, and 
 Owen sat beside her telling how this meeting had 
 been devised. Her manner implied acquiescence,
 
 SISTER TERESA 67 
 
 and when she was asked to sing she M-alked to the 
 piano gravely like one who had conic to a sudden 
 decision. She sang all that Owen asked her to 
 sing — that song in which lovers sit in the hot 
 July night, under the moon, among flowers that 
 flourished and fell; and that other song in which 
 desire moves mysteriously like wind among tall 
 grasses by the cliff's edge, and nothing else is heard 
 but the vacant pipe of the shepherd. 
 
 She had yielded herself, and the sensual intoxica- 
 tion that flowed through her lips thrilled in every 
 one ; and men and women came forward together 
 to thank her for the pleasure she had given. She 
 was ready to sing again, but Owen excused her, and 
 they went away to sit in the scent of some lilies 
 drooping in a great china vase set on a marquetry 
 table in the library. 
 
 The moment had come, and he spoke to her of 
 love, and only of love, and his conversation alter- 
 nated between descriptions of love's tenderest whis- 
 perings to love's violent gratifications, and all he 
 said was interpenetrated with recollections of pas- 
 sionate hours, and she sat listening, not daring to 
 speak, her nervous eyes alone telling him of the 
 flame he was blowing up in her heart. Their hands 
 touched, sometimes their knees, and she was borne, 
 as it were, out of her reason. 
 
 The roar of the wind up and down the glen was 
 uncanny to listen to; it moaned in the chimneys 
 and threw itself against the house in swift and de-
 
 68 SISTER TERESA 
 
 termined attacks. Rain was dashed against the 
 window-panes, and Owen and Evelyn looked at each 
 other in alarm. He spoke of the high pines, for 
 an admission of his desire was trembling on his 
 lips. In spite of himself he spoke of the love affairs 
 of one of the women present, and in spite of herself 
 she asked him which woman he was making love 
 to. A sudden thickness came into his throat ; their 
 bodies swayed a little, they might have fallen into 
 each other's arms if Lady Ascott had not come upon 
 them, and startled out of her mood, Evelyn looked 
 np and saw Lady Ascott standing by her. 
 
 " The women yonder will go on playing cards till 
 one o'clock in the morning, but as you have been 
 travelling I thought you might be tired." 
 
 Lady Ascott took her to her room and stood talk- 
 ing to her for some time, and Herat, who thought 
 she knew every trick and turn of her mistress's 
 mind, had already guessed that she had given Sir 
 Owen permission to visit her, and no shadow of 
 doubt remained when Evelyn said she would not 
 go to bed yet ; Merat need not stay, she would un- 
 dress herself. 
 
 When the maid had left the room Evelyn walked 
 a few steps forward, and then leaned against the 
 bed, for she was taken in a sudden terror of the 
 inevitable. She felt all resistance to be dead in 
 her; she was helpless as one enfolded in a flame. 
 Her brain would not think for her, and between 
 desire and her terror of it questions flashed. " What
 
 SISTER TEKESA 69 
 
 did Ladj Ascott mean — had she done it on pnr- 
 pose ? Wonld Owen come to her ? Did he know 
 her room? After all, it might end in nothing." 
 Her hands went to her dress to imhook it, but they 
 fell tremblingly. She looked towards the door like 
 one waiting. She took a book and then laid it aside, 
 for she conld not fix her thoughts, and she sat look- 
 ing into the fire, thinking of the delight it would 
 be to hear the handle turn in the door, to see him 
 pass into the room. The moment the door was 
 closed behind him he wonld take her in his arms 
 and hold her, both speechless with desire. 
 
 The storm had abated and there was overhead a 
 large clear space of sky through which the moon 
 was whirling brightly, and in the wind-tossed land- 
 scape she seemed to see her own soul, and the vision 
 was so clear and explicit that she drew the curtains 
 back and returned to the fire and sat looking into it, 
 frightened, like one who has seen a ghost. 
 
 An hour later she heard the card players in the 
 passage. They went to their rooms, and from that 
 time there was no sound in the house, only the 
 soughing of the wind in the trees outside. 
 
 She loved Owen no longer, and if she yielded, an 
 hour's delight, would be followed by a miserable 
 terror and despair so abject that she might kill her- 
 self. But God seemed far away, and as she lay 
 staring into the darkness images of fierce sensuality 
 crowded upon her, the fever that consumed her was 
 unendurable, her will was being stolen from her,
 
 TO SISTER TEEESA 
 
 and with the rape of her will her flesh hardened and 
 was thrnst forward in burning pulsations. She held 
 her breasts in both hands, and bit her pillow like 
 a neck, and her reason seemed to drift and sicken, 
 and her body was her whole reality. Once more she 
 argued it out. This M-as desire separated from im- 
 aginative passion and therefore sin, even according 
 to Ulick's code of ethics. But she could not think ; 
 her only consciousness was of the burning of her 
 blood which would not let her lie down. She got 
 out of bed and she tried to think of Ulick — of any 
 subject that might distract her thoughts from Owen. 
 He was sleeping but a few yards away, and her door 
 was not locked. She lay down again, wearied by 
 this hot struggle with herself. But memories arose, 
 and like ghosts they passed under the sheets and 
 lay beside her, and she was now too exhausted to 
 repulse them. 
 
 Then her eyes closed, and she lay with the temp- 
 tation in her arms, its breath mixing with her 
 breath. It lay still, like a child, between her breasts, 
 and she lay afraid to move. It mastered her slowly. 
 Opening her eyes she saw Owen in his room wait- 
 ing for her. The anguish of the struggle was nearly 
 over, and a sweet ease had begun in her ; and raising 
 herself up in bed she paused to listen, for voices 
 were singing. It was a sad, wailing song; she 
 seemed to have heard it before, voices singing as 
 they walked in procession. She was not sure whence 
 the voices came — outside or within the house, or if
 
 SISTEK TERESA YI 
 
 tliey were echoes borne from afar by the wind, or 
 if they were in her own brain. The voices grew 
 more distinct, and she recognised the hymn — the 
 beantifnl Tenl Creator. One voice was clear and 
 trne — to whom was she listening ? The voices grew 
 louder, they seemed to come nearer, and whether 
 they were echoes borne on the wind, or memories 
 singing in her own brain, she Avas not sure. Soon 
 the room was filled with the plain chant, and then, 
 almost without her being aware of any transition, 
 the voices seemed to grow fainter, suddenly, and 
 she heard them in the far distance. She sat on 
 her bed listening, and when she could hear them no 
 longer the hymn continued in her brain, and she 
 could not tell at what point hallucination ended 
 and memory began. 
 
 She fell back on her pillow, wondering, and hear- 
 ing and seeing only the nuns, her lips began to 
 whisper prayers. Suddenly she awoke. It was 
 morning, and lying between dreams and waking 
 thoughts she remembered the miraculous midnight 
 intervention with a strange distinctness. She could 
 not doubt the miracle, and was overcome by the 
 thought of the great danger she had escaped ; she 
 tlianked God for sending the nuns to help her, and 
 slie realised her ovra un worthiness. She understood 
 tliat her summer spent in the Park with ITlick had 
 been a preparation for this breakdown. Their long 
 talks under the trees, their long musical reveries at 
 the piano, and this concert tour, everything had led
 
 72 SISTER TERESA 
 
 her to this disaster. She thought of the music she 
 had sung last night, and of how she had sung it — 
 of the house she was staying in, and of its inmates, 
 and she resolved to leave at once. She must aban- 
 don what remained of her tour, and this was the 
 sorest part, for the nuns would suffer through her 
 sin. But her first business was to purge herself; 
 she must destroy this terrible sensual beast within 
 her, and she told Merat she was to pack her things 
 and be ready to leave after breakfast. 
 
 And amid the glitter of silver dishes, and the 
 savoury odour of kidneys and omelettes, amid the 
 elaborately-dressed people and the pomp of foot- 
 men she broke the news to Lady Ascott. 
 
 " I am sorry," she said, '' but I am obliged to 
 leave to-day by an early train." 
 
 " Sir Owen, will you try to persuade her ? Get 
 her some omelette and I will get her coffee. Which 
 will you have, dear, tea or coffee ?" 
 
 There was no train till mid-day, and she could 
 not refuse to go into the garden with Owen. 
 
 " You are not leaving ?" 
 
 " Do not let us go through it all again, Owen." 
 
 But he insisted, and reminding her of her last 
 night's mood — how different she was then — he be- 
 sought her to tell him what had haj)pened. 
 
 " You cannot have been to confession — you did 
 not get out of your bed and run to a priest, did 
 you?" 
 
 She smiled; they walked on a few paces, and
 
 SISTER TERESA 73 
 
 then she spoke of the weather, for traces of last 
 night's storm were visible everywhere — in the cold 
 air, and in the long chestnut leaves which filled the 
 roadway. 
 
 A squirrel cracked a nut and let the shells fall. 
 A blackbird whistled, but stopped when the sun 
 was swallowed up in great clouds again. The sweet 
 peas were worn by the wind, the sunflowers hung, 
 shabby on their decaying stalks, and out of a faint 
 odour of dying mignonette they passed through the 
 wicket into the woods. On either side of the path- 
 way two robins were singing their rival roundelays. 
 
 " But where are you going, Evelyn ? You are 
 not going to enter the convent ?" 
 
 " I am determined, Owen, to separate myself 
 from those whose ideas conflict with mine, that is 
 all." 
 
 " But that is everything." 
 
 " Yes, it is everything, Owen. You see the car- 
 riage has come. Good-bye." 
 
 They walked up the drive, and he put her into 
 the carriage, and when it drove away he turned 
 and stood watching the waterfowl swimming in the 
 pool below, stealing mysteriously into the reeds 
 when the guests who walked on the lower terrace 
 approached too close. 
 
 " That damned, stupid creed, which has reduced 
 half Europe to decrepitude, has robbed me of her," 
 he said, as they sat do^^m to lunch, and like one 
 unable to contain himself any longer he told the
 
 74 SISTER TERESA 
 
 whole story, liow he had discovered her in Diilwich 
 and had taken her to Paris and made a great artist 
 of her. For a moment he was ridicnlons, bnt when 
 he said, " A time comes in every man's life when 
 all past passions are as nothing, or seem to collect 
 into one supreme passion, which can never change 
 or leave him," his words awoke an echo in every 
 heart. 
 
 Someone suggested that a spiritual message had 
 come to her in a dream, and instances were given. 
 Owen, nervously irascible, denied all belief in 
 omens, portents, and visions. The others were 
 not so incredulous, and they got up from the table 
 impressed, and anxious for the moment to learn 
 something of the spiritual life. 
 
 " It is all very interesting," someone said, " so 
 long as you are not called upon to practise it;" and 
 the remark sufficed to change the conversation, 
 which had been unduly prolonged. 
 
 Some of the guests were taken to climb the cliffs 
 which commanded an extensive view ; others walked 
 through the woods, and they counted the number of 
 trees which had been blo^\Ti down. 
 
 Evelyn's mysterious departure haunted these 
 pleasure-seekers, and beguiled by the mystery 
 which had collected in the autumn park, they 
 looked into the shadows ; and when they came sud- 
 denly upon some patient cattle standing by the 
 hedge side they were obliged to stop, and they gazed 
 perplexed. Unending flights of rooks came through
 
 SISTER TERESA Y5 
 
 the sky, and the clamour of the wings in the 
 branches was part of the nivstery too. They ques- 
 tioned the light of the first star, and the elliptical 
 flight of the bats. Owen, when he went up to his 
 OAvn room to dress for dinner, drew the curtain, 
 and with a strange grief in his heart he stood look- 
 ing out on the moon-lit world and on the strange 
 silence of the windless night.
 
 VIII 
 
 When Owen left Thornton Grange he sent a tele- 
 gram to Harding asking him to dine with him that 
 night ; and sitting alone in their old-fashioned club 
 the men talked of their sentimental lives till nearly 
 midnight. 
 
 " At the bottom of your heart you are glad you 
 did not marry her," Harding said. " Kature has 
 condemned us to celibacy." 
 
 " So you have often said, my dear fellow ; but 
 will you come to Egypt with me at the end of the 
 month ?" 
 
 The man of letters felt that his life was not with 
 Owen, and Owen sailed from Marseilles alone, re- 
 solved to seek forgetfulness of Evelyn in adventure. 
 So he welcomed the storm off the Algerian coast 
 which began his adventures. He penetrated with 
 a caravan to where summer is stationary, and from 
 well to well of brackish water to Egyj^t, metaphysi- 
 cal and monumental. 
 
 His first attempt in water colours was made on 
 the EujDhrates. In Japan he collected some ivories 
 and indifferent prints, and visited many tea houses. 
 In San Francisco he nearly proposed to a beautiful 
 American girl, and in Xew York he talked so con- 
 tinuously of Evelyn to a Spanish dancer that she 
 76
 
 SISTER TERESA 77 
 
 left him for a young man with a less brilliant 
 past. 
 
 A week after his rupture with the Spaniard he 
 returned home, having been away a little more than 
 a year; and at the beginning of April he was sit- 
 ting in his house in Berkeley Square, perplexed 
 as to how to employ the rest of his life. Men and 
 women, he reflected, married in order to acquire 
 duties. They did not know that was the reason, 
 theirs was the wisdom of the ages, and from the 
 beginning he had avoided all duties. He had not 
 married because he desired to dedicate his life to 
 self-culture. He had avoided marriage and his re- 
 lations, and had swept every duty aside lest it 
 should interfere with his life. He had nephews and 
 nieces, but he did not even know their names, and 
 he had asked himself if he should bring them to 
 live with him, but no sooner was the idea conceived 
 than he thrust it aside. The only sacrifice he had 
 allowed to come between him and the world was 
 Evelyn ; she had saved him from himself, and that 
 was why he loved her. But even towards Eveh-n 
 his conduct had not been what it ought to have 
 been ; many times he had left her for shooting and 
 hunting ; of course he could not be with her always, 
 but when he went to the bottom of things he had 
 to admit to himself that if he had not been a per- 
 fect lover it was because he could not. He had 
 been as kind to her as he knew how. He had done 
 his best.
 
 78 SISTER TERESA 
 
 He took a cigar from a silver box which Evelyn 
 had given him; ho possessed a few other relics, 
 a pocket handkerchief, a pair of shoes and a tortoise- 
 shell comb, and it was always a sad but tender 
 pleasure for him to look at and touch these things. 
 In his secretaire, in a pigeon-hole on the right, were 
 her letters, and one day he counted them over and 
 found there Avere exactly two hundred and ninety- 
 three; not a large number for a liaison that had 
 lasted for six years. Xearly three hundred she had 
 written him, and he had written her many more, 
 and this correspondence, amorous and artistic, had 
 been one of the special pleasures of this liaison. He 
 put away the letters, and taking another cigarette 
 he sat dreaming of the dead years, his eyes fixed 
 on her portrait. It had become the familiar spirit 
 of his room, and in this room he was never lonely — 
 the Evelyn that dweU in his heart he had learnt to 
 think of as an immortal delight as well as a mortal 
 woman, and this idea he could read in Manet's pic- 
 ture. 
 
 The grey background, in which a casual ray of 
 sunlight awoke tints more beautiful than in any 
 eighteenth-century watered silks, delighted the eyes 
 and held the mind prisoner ; and out of all this 
 miraculous grey the figure seemed to have arisen 
 like an incantation, seemed to have grown as natu- 
 rally as a rose grows among its loaves. Out of a 
 grey tint and a rose tint a permanent music had 
 been made, and Owen often remembered the seem-
 
 SISTER TERESA 79 
 
 ing accident which had got him to bring Eveljn 
 to see the great painter, whose genius he had recog- 
 nised always. 
 
 The portrait was one of the most beautiful ; it 
 was not as complete as an Old Master, but Owen's 
 eonnoisscurship rose above such difficulties. Things 
 which the painter had not observed, things which 
 had not interested him, he had omitted; he had 
 not tried to rival the completeness of nature; he 
 had been content to paint a portrait, which, Owen 
 often said to himself, would be like her when the 
 gold faded from her hair, and no pair of stays would 
 discover her hips. 
 
 He had painted the essential, a young woman of 
 genius, who had gone to Paris on the mission of 
 her genius, and in the eyes he had fixed the un- 
 tamable light of genius, and in the thin small mouth 
 a thirst which no spiritual Paradise could wholly 
 allay. It was all this to Owen, but Owen's friends, 
 who saw only the superficial appearance, said it 
 Avas merely a very unflattering portrait of an at- 
 tractive woman. 
 
 One morning Evelyn had happened to sit on the 
 edge of a chair in the same attitude as the painter 
 had seen her sit in by the side of her accompanist 
 one morning, and he had told her not to move ; 
 remembering her grey shawl, he had hurriedly 
 fetched a shawl and had placed it about her shoul- 
 ders. And this seemed to most critics a most com- 
 monplace and inartistic way of painting the portrait
 
 80 SISTER TERESA 
 
 of a great singer. But she was very probable in this 
 picture; her past and perhaps her future was in 
 this disconcerting compound of the commonplace 
 and the rare, and the confusion which this had 
 created in the mind of Owen's friends was aggra- 
 vated by the strange elliptical execution. The face 
 had been achieved with a shadow and a light, the 
 light faintly gradated with a delicate shade of rose ; 
 and in the midst of this almost ungradated colour, 
 the right eye had been drawn without the help of 
 any shadow. In a bad light the picture looked 
 ridiculous, and the loose drawing, which was insep- 
 arable from the genius of the painting, fretted the 
 eye, but with a ray of light the beauties of the pic- 
 ture reappeared. 
 
 Owen knew well that it proclaimed the room in 
 which it hung to be the room of a man of taste. 
 And with his eyes fixed on the picture, his thoughts 
 wandered back and forward from the past when 
 she was his, to the future when she might be his 
 again. He wondered what she was doing now, 
 where she was, and if she would write to him again ; 
 for she sometimes wrote to him, being unwilling, 
 as he thought, to abandon her power over him. 
 
 One evening, wondering at his own credulity, he 
 strove to throw his will out to reach her brain, to 
 overpower her will with his, and force her to come 
 to see him. The next post brought him a letter 
 from Evelyn, and though his subsequent experi- 
 ments in telepathy were not so successful, he re-
 
 SISTER TERESA 81 
 
 taincd sufficient belief in the possibilities of in- 
 fluencing another's mind to try again. Having 
 nothing else to do, he strove to cultivate a visionary 
 power, and he sometimes thought that he saw her; 
 but the room or landscape he saw her in soon re- 
 verted to some room or landscape familiar to him, 
 and he sat wondering if it were the collective will 
 of the convent which thwarted and rendered him 
 unable to reach and influence Evelyn. 
 
 He began to believe she was dead. He drove the 
 thought out of his mind, but it returned, and he 
 felt that he must get news of her. From no one 
 except ]V[r. Innes could he get news of Evelyn. 
 Six years ago he had gone away with his daughter. 
 But what had he done for EveljTi — he had made 
 her a great success, he had made her an artist. Mr. 
 Innes w^ould appreciate that. He remembered, and 
 with satisfaction, that he had asked Evelyn to marry 
 him. His conduct had been irreproachable, and 
 seeing things in a new light he wondered why he 
 had not gone to Mr. Innes long ago. Perhaps Mr. 
 Innes would help him to get Evelyn back again, 
 and conscious of his rectitude he went to Dulwich. 
 
 " Mr. Innes," he said, as he came into the room 
 before the door had closed behind him, " I have 
 come to you for news of Evelyn. She never writes 
 to me now, and I am overborne with anxiety." 
 
 " Evelyn is in London, but she has retired from 
 
 the world, and has asked me not to give her address 
 
 to anyone, that is why she is not here." 
 
 6
 
 82 SISTER TERESA 
 
 " I am sorry that I prevent your daughter from 
 coming to live with you ; but you can tell her that 
 I will not try to seek her out; and will you ask 
 her to write to me sometimes, and if that is im- 
 possible will you Avrite to me ? If you will do this, 
 Mr. Innes, you will confer an obligation. I know 
 
 that But you know the whole story; she has 
 
 told it to you, and truthfully, no doubt; there was 
 no reason why she should not; moreover, she was 
 always very truthful." 
 
 " Yes ; I think I know the whole story, and I am 
 sorry for you." 
 
 They spent the afternoon talking of her, and 
 Owen felt that with her father for an ally he might 
 induce Evehn to marry him. The afternoon had 
 been a charming one ; not once had Mr. Innes re- 
 buked him — yes, once, when he had asked him if 
 Evelyn sang as well as her mother. And Owen re- 
 flected how strangelv her art had been driven out 
 by another instinct. 
 
 The idea of inherited tendency at once interested 
 him, and he began to invent for her a religious 
 grandmother. He came of a scientific generation, 
 and the idea of a sudden revelation did not occur 
 to him. If ITlick had suggested it to him — this 
 would have been Ulick's explanation of Evelyn's 
 conversion — Owen would have repudiated it as 
 ridiculous. And as he walked away from Dow- 
 lands he Avavered between a grandmother and a 
 great-aunt, and the idea did not leave his thoughts
 
 SISTER TERESA 83 
 
 until bis attention Avas attracted by tbc cbestnut 
 bloom wbicb was shedding upon the i:)avement. 
 These trees Avero to him Evelyn's trees, and he 
 stopj^cd to think of the first time he had seen her 
 cross the road. She wore an old dress. She had 
 a letter in her hand, and she had been ashamed of 
 her house slippers. 
 
 But at that moment Illick, who was going to 
 Dowlands, caught sight of this tall, meditative man, 
 and he hurried to the other side of the street. Owen 
 hurried after him, and encouraged by his success 
 M'ith Mr. Innes, he attempted to win Ulick over. 
 He began by asking him if he might walk back 
 with him as far as Dowlands, and on the wa}- there 
 he spoke against doctrinal Christianity and the 
 monastic idea so SATupathetically that Ulick was 
 led into the conversation, and he communicated 
 several ideas on the subject. 
 
 Owen's appearance was distasteful to Ulick — the 
 varnished boots, the turned-up trousers, though the 
 day was dry, the large shirt cuffs, the scarf pin, and 
 some few other suggestions of careful dressing an- 
 noyed Ulick, and he wondered how a man could 
 waste so much time on his appearance. At the same 
 moment Owen wondered at Ulick's rough suit of 
 clothes ; they were creased, but they looked well 
 upon him, and Owen was not wholly displeased by 
 Ulick's rough appearance. He could not imitate it, 
 habit was too strong, but he could admire it. There 
 were moments when Owen was broad minded. He
 
 84 SISTER TERESA 
 
 understood how Evelyn could admire this young 
 man better than Ulick could understand how she 
 could have liked a man whose chief concern, if not 
 his whole concern, Avas with things rather than with 
 ideas. It seemed to him difficult to believe that 
 Owen should have any serious love of music. But 
 his belief on this point was subsequently modified 
 by the very sincere admiration which Owen showed 
 for nearly all Ulick's compositions. He talked of 
 them, and with conviction, because he liked them 
 and because it seemed to him of the very first im- 
 portance that he should see Ulick again. The desire 
 of the moment was with Owen the most important 
 desire, and he was so anxious for Ulick to come to 
 dinner that he pressed him almost indecorously to 
 accept the invitation. To pass the evening with 
 Owen Asher, he knew, would be disagreeable, but 
 Ulick was always prone to find a soul of goodness 
 in evil things ; and Owen's sorrow had put him into 
 a favourable light for Ulick's eyes to see him, and 
 Ulick had suddenly begun to think that he might 
 awaken in Owen some spiritual aspiration; and it 
 was in this absurd hope that he nodded his head 
 when Owen said, — 
 
 " Then at a quarter-past eight." 
 
 If he had said eight, the hour would not have 
 brought into view their hostility, which circum- 
 stances had, for the moment, hidden from them. It 
 was the quarter after that reminded Ulick that he 
 would have to wear evening clothes, and he wrote
 
 SISTER TERESA 85 
 
 to Owen asking that he might be excused going, 
 giving as a reason that he never wore evening 
 clothes. The letter astonished Owen. It was diffi- 
 cult for him to believe that anyone ever sat down to 
 dinner except in evening clothes, at least, anyone 
 whom he could ask to dine with him. But he was 
 so anxious to see Ulick that he wrote a letter saying 
 he might come in any clothes he liked, and he sent 
 his valet with it. 
 
 Ulick had said in his letter that he had not a 
 suit of clothes, and the tone of the letter, though 
 polite, showed Owen that Ulick was indifferent to 
 the honour of Sir Owen's friendship. Owen's face 
 darkened for a moment, but he put the thought 
 aside, for the temptation of the moment was always 
 an irresistible temptation for him, and he desired 
 Ulick's company, for he felt he must find someone 
 to whom he could talk of Evelyn, of her beautiful 
 voice, and the mysterious scruples which had led 
 her away from art and love. jMoreovj^, Ulick was 
 an accomplished musician, and he wo^i^ be able to 
 ask his opinion about some songs he had just fin- 
 ished, in which there were a few passages which 
 Ulick would put right in a moment. 
 
 The meeting of the men was very formal. Owen 
 had put on a smoking suit, so that the discrepancy 
 between his appearance and Ulick's would not be 
 too marked, and he asked, — 
 
 " Have you been writing much lately, Mr. 
 Deane ?"
 
 86 SISTEE TERESA 
 
 The conversation then turned upon Wagner and 
 Mr. Innes's concerts, and a few minutes after the 
 butler announced dinner was ready. Thev sat down 
 in a shadowy room, with tw^o footmen besides a but- 
 ler attending upon them. The footmen moved mys- 
 teriously in the shadows of the sideboard, obeying 
 signs and whispered words, and it seemed to Ulick 
 as if they were assisting at some strange ritual. 
 
 The conversation halted many times, for both men 
 were thinking of Evelyn, and it seemed to Owen 
 that, for the present, at least, her name must not be 
 mentioned. The butler's voice acquired a strange 
 resonance in the still room ; he offered Ulick many 
 different kinds of wine, and Owen intervened in 
 vain — Ulick only drank water. At last Evelyn's 
 name was mentioned, and the conversation at once 
 became more animated, and it seemed to Ulick that 
 even the servants must feel a relief. [N^evertheless, 
 Owen had only mentioned Miss Innes's Elsa, and he 
 passed rapidly on to the inferiority of the tenor, 
 and the inadequacy of the scenery in the second act. 
 But the ice had been broken, and when they left the 
 dining-room and lit their cigarettes, Owen felt that 
 he must speak unconstrainedly. 
 
 " But can nothing be done ?" he said. " Why 
 don't you go to her and tell her that in the interests 
 of art she must return to the stage ? That is a mat- 
 ter which interests you more than anyone, for are 
 you not writing an opera on the subject of Grania^ 
 and who could play Grania but she ?"
 
 SISTER TERESA 8Y 
 
 He was ashamed of his cnriosity, for he burned 
 to know if Evelyn had loved Ulick as joassionately 
 as she had loved him, and he studied the young 
 man, trying to solve the enigma of personal attrac- 
 tion. 
 
 " She talked so much about you," he said, " I 
 know she liked you very much," the words caused 
 him an effort to speak, and yet it was a relief to 
 speak them, " She liked your opera and was en- 
 thusiastic about it. I wish you would use your in- 
 fluence. I think you might persuade her from that 
 infernal convent." 
 
 That he was afraid she would never return to 
 the stage was the only answer Owen could get from 
 Ulick, and as he showed no desire to continue the 
 conversation, Owen told Ulick how Evelyn had 
 studied the part of Leonore. " She used to sit read- 
 ing and re-reading the music, until she became pos- 
 sessed of the character, and when she went on the 
 stage, every look, every gesture, every intonation 
 was inspired." 
 
 Owen spoke like one speaking in a dream ; and 
 as if awaking to its echo, Ulick compared Evel^Ti's 
 spontaneous acting to the beautiful movement of 
 clouds and trees and to tbe growth of flowers, and 
 turning over the leaves of an album Owen read from 
 it an article by a German critic. 
 
 " ' Her nature intended her for the representa- 
 tion of ideal heroines, whose love is pure, and it 
 does not allow her to depict the violence of physical
 
 88 SISTER TERESA 
 
 passion, and the delirium of the senses. She is an 
 artiste of the peaks, whose feet may not descend 
 into the plain and follow its ignominious route;' 
 and then here, ' He who has seen her as the spotless 
 spouse of the son of Parsifal standing by the win- 
 dow has assisted at the mystery of the chaste soul 
 awaiting the coming of the predestined lover,' and 
 ' he who has seen her as Elizabeth ascending the 
 hillside has felt the nostalgia of the skies awaken 
 in his heart.' Then he goes on to say that her special 
 genius and her antecedents led her to ' Fidelio' and 
 designed her as the perfect embodiment of Leonore's 
 soul, that pure, beautiful soul made wholly of sacri- 
 fice and love. But you never saw her as Leonore, 
 so you can form no idea of what she really was." 
 But seeing that Ulick was far away, he wondered 
 how this ambiguous young man thought of her. He 
 divined Ulick's thoughts very nearly, if allowance 
 be made for the translation, which had necessarily 
 caught something of the tone of his mind. " He 
 thinks of her as some legendary heroine, some ab- 
 straction, and not as a real woman to be looked 
 upon with delight and kissed with rapture." 
 
 So far he was right that Ulick hardly thought of 
 her at all as a woman to be kissed, though he remem- 
 bered her mouth and recognised that the senses had 
 enabled him to understand a great deal that he 
 would not have otherwise understood. But in him 
 sensual remembrance was now merged in a spiritual 
 glamour. He thought of her as an eternal loveli-
 
 SISTER TEEESA 89 
 
 ness in life, one of the immortal essences which, as 
 it put off its vesture of sense and circumstance, as 
 it passed beyond the obscuration of the sensual illu- 
 sion, he could see more clearly and understand more 
 devoutly. The difference in their present apprecia- 
 tion of her was merely a slight difference in form. 
 She had become to both what the heart ponders and 
 the imagination perceives, rather than what the flesh 
 enjoys. 
 
 " I will read to you what she wrote me when she 
 was studying ' Fidelio.' ' Beethoven's music has 
 nothing in common with the passion of the flesh; 
 it lives in the realms of noble affections, pity, ten- 
 derness, love, spiritual yearnings for the life beyond 
 the Avorld, and its joy in the external world is as 
 innocent as a happy child's. It is in this sense 
 classical — it lives and loves and breathes in spheres 
 of feeling and thought removed from the ordinary 
 life of men. Wagner's later work, if we except 
 some scenes from The Ring, notably the scenes be- 
 tween Wotan and Brunhilde, is nearer to the life 
 of the senses ; its humanity is fresh in us, deep as 
 Brunhilde's, for essential man lives not in the flesh 
 but in the spirit. The desire of the flesh is more 
 necessary to the life of the world than the aspira- 
 tions of the soul, yet the aspirations of the soul are 
 more human. The root is more necessary to the 
 ])lant than its flower, but it is by the flower and not 
 by the root that we know it.' " 
 
 " Is it not amazing that a woman who could think
 
 90 SISTER TERESA 
 
 like that should be capable of flinging up her art — 
 the art which I gave her — on account of the preach- 
 ing of that wooden-headed Mostyn ?" Suddenly 
 sitting down, he opened a drawer, and taking out, 
 her photograj)!!, he said, " Here she is as Leonore ; 
 but you should have seen her, this gives you no idea 
 of her; but you have not looked at her picture, I 
 suppose it means nothing to you — the most beauti- 
 ful thing that Manet ever painted — the most beau- 
 tiful in the room, and there are a great many 
 beautiful things in the room." 
 
 Surprised by a discriminating remark, Owen was 
 encouraged to take Ulick round the room, and ex- 
 plain to him his pictures, his furniture, and his 
 china; but their thoughts were not with these 
 things, but with Evelyn, and they were glad when 
 they got back to their armchairs in front of her por- 
 trait. 
 
 " Yes, she must have been wonderful as Leonore," 
 Ulick said, waking from his reveries, and getting 
 up from his chair, and forgetful of Owen, he began 
 to walk up and down the room. Owen watched 
 him, silent with anticipation, anxious to hear him 
 tell the tale of his grief. But Ulick paced to and 
 fro, seemingly forgetful of Owen's presence, until 
 at last Owen's patience was over. " She is mad 
 beyond doubt; no one who was not would give up 
 the stage because that wooden-headed Mostyn 
 thought it was wrong. Don't you agree with me ?" 
 he said.
 
 SISTER TERESA 91 
 
 At last, in reply to Owen's importunities whether 
 he could tell Evelyn's future, he said that she had 
 fallen into an entanglement of that most material 
 of all spiritualities — Catholicism, and he seemed to 
 doubt if she would be able to set herself free for a 
 long time. " Monsignor's influence will not en- 
 dure," he said suddenly. " Twice she sailed forth, 
 and he or she who adventures twice will adventure 
 a third time. 
 
 " But this thii*d time ; what will the third adven- 
 ture be ?" 
 
 " We may know that certain things will happen, 
 but we cannot tell how they will happen. After 
 Bram returned from the islands of many delights 
 he was warned that if he set foot on eartlil}' shores 
 he would be turned to dust, so he sailed the ship 
 along the coast of his native land, but did not leave 
 the ship." 
 
 When Ulick had gone Owen sat thinking, won- 
 dering what he had meant by Bram w^ho had sailed 
 the ship close to the shore but had not dared to leave 
 the ship. The first adventure was, as Ulick had put 
 it, in quest of earthly experience ; the second was 
 in quest of spiritual peace — what would the third 
 be? But it was past two o'clock, and still conjec- 
 turing what the third would be he went to bed. He 
 wished these evenings to happen frequently. He 
 was weary of society, of shooting and hunting and 
 all the pleasures of his class, and whenever he had 
 an evening to spare he sent his valet to Bloomsbury
 
 92 SISTER TERESA 
 
 witli a note asking Ulick if he would dine with 
 him. 
 
 But Ulick could not be persuaded after the third 
 dinner to accept another. Owen strove to shake 
 himself free of his habitual thought and to get 
 nearer to Ulick's. But he had to speak of his shoot- 
 ing, and his mistresses and the parties he went to, 
 and Ulick, when he walked home the third evening 
 from Berkeley Square, understood the aversion 
 which had awakened in Evelyn for the life of things 
 — even the monastery seemed to him to be a welcome 
 refuge from the futility of Berkeley Square.
 
 IX 
 
 One day Owen's cabman took a short cut through 
 a slum. Owen hated the way, and as he was about 
 to say so he saw a tall figure in brown holland whom 
 he believed to be Evelyn. lie called to her and 
 put up his stick; but before the driver could stop 
 his horse she had passed through a bare door — a 
 grim-looking place, a sort of workshop or factory! 
 But where Evelyn had gone he must follow. The 
 door was opened at once, and he discovered her 
 among a swarm of children. Children swarmed on 
 the staircase — he thought he must be in a school. 
 Raising his voice above the din, he expressed sur- 
 prise at finding her in such a place ; and no sooner 
 had he spoken than he regretted his words, fearing 
 he had displeased her. Eut she gave him her ad- 
 dress, and told him if he would go there she would 
 be Avitli him in about half an hour. 
 
 And in the full enjoyment of the accident which 
 
 had unexpectedly befallen him, he wondered what 
 
 the flat was like, he thought how she would come 
 
 into the room, and how their long talk would begin. 
 
 He was driving along the Bayswater Road, and the 
 
 world seemed throbbing like his heart ; a soft wind 
 
 carried the foliage to and fro, and the deep blue 
 
 93
 
 94 SISTER TEEESA 
 
 sky seemed brimmed with love like his heart. The 
 cabman stopped before a new cut stone doorway, 
 and in the lift his excitement increased — first floor, 
 second floor, third, fourth. The lift man pointed 
 out the door. The common brass knocker seemed 
 trivial and unworthy of her. Was Mcrat still with 
 her ? She was, and he would learn from Merat all 
 about Evelyn — if she were as religious as ever — if 
 there were any hope of her going back to the stage; 
 he was anxious to know whom she saw and how she 
 spent her time. But first of all he had to tell where 
 he had met her. 
 
 Merat knew that Evelyn had gone to Kclscy Kow 
 to arrange about a day in the country for some 
 school children ; but she was unable to imagine 
 the accident which had brought Sir Owen to such 
 a slum, and he listened to Merat's tale of her mis- 
 tress's foolhardiness in going to such places. 
 
 Fleas had come back with her, and nastier things, 
 and she feared lest Mademoiselle should one day 
 catch a dangerous disease. 
 
 " Such a woman as she is, Merat. Her voice and 
 her talent ! I don't say I don't admire goodness, 
 but there are others who could do that kind of work 
 better than she." 
 
 lie sat with his long legs crossed and his hands 
 clasped, hearing that she Avent to Mass every morn- 
 inc: and that there were few afternoons she did 
 not go to Benediction. All her old friends had 
 dropped away, there was oidy one she cared to see
 
 SISTER TERESA 95 
 
 now — Mademoiselle ITclbriin, and Mademoiselle 
 Ilelbrun was seldom in London. 
 
 " But where does she dine ?" 
 
 " Here, Sir Owen." 
 
 " Alone ?" 
 
 " Yes, Sir Owen." 
 
 " And she spends all her evenings here, alone ?" 
 
 " Yes, here. Sir Owen, reading in that chair or 
 writing at that little table. She spends hours and 
 hours quite contented, writing." 
 
 '' Does she not see Mr. Ulick Dean ?" 
 
 " Mr. Dean comes occasionally to see Mademoi- 
 selle, but " 
 
 " But what, Merat ?" 
 
 " ^Mademoiselle is very much changed, Sir Owen, 
 and Mr. Dean knows it, and he says nothing that 
 clashes with her opinions. You understand. Sir 
 Owen ; I am sure Mademoiselle would like me to 
 speak straightforwardly to you. What I mean is 
 that the opera singer is quite dead in Mademoi- 
 selle." 
 
 " You think slic will never go back to the stage ?" 
 
 " I don't think so, Sir Owen ; it would not be 
 natural after all she has been through." 
 
 " Do you think she will marry ?" 
 
 " I could not say, Sir Owen," 
 
 " Xot Mr. DeanV' 
 
 Merat shook her head. 
 
 " Then Avhat do you think will be the end — there 
 must be an end — the convent ?"
 
 96 SISTER TERESA 
 
 " Mademoiselle goes every week to the convent, 
 and spends from Saturday to Monday there." 
 
 " Good heavens !" 
 
 lie got out of his arm-chair and walked into the 
 small hall, and, looking round, he wondered how 
 she could live in such discomfort; and he asked 
 Merat if he might see the dining-room. 
 
 " This is not what we are used to, is it, Merat ? 
 Not quite up to the level of Park Lane." 
 
 They continued to deplore the change that had 
 come over Evelyn. They exaggerated their disap- 
 proval in the hopes of convincing themselves that 
 they were right and she was wrong, that she was 
 a poor misguided person, worthy of their pity, but 
 they only succeeded in convincing themselves super- 
 ficially. Even while he insisted on her folly, Owen 
 was aware of something great and noble, and the 
 image which did not define itself in his mind, but 
 passed at the back of it, was of a tall tree which 
 had grown above the original scrub. 
 
 Suddenly they heard her latch-key in the door, 
 and when she came into the room he sat looking 
 at her, trying to puzzle out the enigma of the change 
 which, in spite of himself, he could not but admire. 
 She was not cleverer than before, nor more beau- 
 tiful, but she had gained in character, and he could 
 not hide from himself that her present self was 
 superior to her former self, that she was nearer to 
 the truths of life than when she used to act on the 
 stage.
 
 SISTER TEKESA 97 
 
 " I don't think you would ever have understood 
 my love of my poor j^cople if you hud not met me 
 in that slum ; seeing me there explained more than 
 any amount of conversation." 
 
 He swallowed a dryness out of his throat and 
 said it was more than a year since he had seen her ; 
 he spoke of their parting at Thornton Grange, one 
 morning among ruined flowers and blown loaves. 
 That sudden change was more difficult to under- 
 stand than this gradual change which had come 
 over her betAveen midnight and noon. They had 
 stood talking together the night before, an amorous 
 mood had grown up in her, and he had expected 
 her to allow him to go to her room. And he had 
 never understood why she had not come — why she 
 was so different the next morning. 
 
 He waited for her to answer, and to avoid answer- 
 ing, she asked him where he had been. She had 
 heard he had been round the world, and he told her 
 of the silent Arabs passing from one side of the 
 street to the other seeking the shade, and he found 
 it interesting to tell her of his cry when he got to 
 Egypt, — " Give me a drink of clean water." 
 
 She asked him where he had gone when he left 
 Egypt, and he entered into an account of his travels 
 in Mesapotamia, but he had hardly reached the 
 brick mounds of Babylon when he broke down — 
 he could not talk to her of Mesapotamia, nor of 
 Japan nor America. These places were but shadows, 
 hardly more rememberable than shadows. She was 
 
 7
 
 98 SISTER TERESA 
 
 his consciousness of life, lie said, and he took her 
 hand ; and withdrawing her hand, she tokl him her 
 present plan was to enter the convent as a postulant 
 so that she might sing every day at Benediction. 
 She hoped to attract attention to the convent, and 
 Avhen its necessities became known, some pious 
 Catholic would come forward and pay the mort- 
 gages. Her concert tour had not been a success; 
 she might lose money in a second tour ; then the 
 nuns Avould be dispersed, the house and the chapel 
 would be pulled down, and the trees would be cut, 
 and rows of stiflF stucco villas would overlook the 
 Common. 
 
 " Yes, I should like to be a nun," she said, and 
 her face became suddenly absorbed ; " but I am 
 afraid I have not a vocation." 
 
 " And when your postulancy is over you will be 
 a novice — and when your noviceship is over you 
 will pass our of my sight for ever. I shall never 
 see you again; it will be the same as if you were 
 dead." 
 
 She stood looking at him, and he was conscious 
 of the mystery of her character ; it seemed to float 
 round her as she sat on the sofa looking at him. He 
 grew frightened — and in the nervous silence he 
 studied the outline of the freckled face. 
 
 lie had always recognised himself a little in the 
 long straight nose and in the blonde skin, and one 
 of her attractions for him was a curious sense of 
 some mystic kinship of blood which he could not
 
 SISTER TERESA 99 
 
 explain, and from ■\vliicli he could not disentangle 
 himself. It was only in those intense, almost ner- 
 vous eyes that he did not discover himself. He 
 traced some fancied similarity in the deflecting 
 line of her chin and in her thin hands. And they 
 were alike in their feverish desire of life. She 
 had grasped the elusive shadow with the same ob- 
 stinate eagerness ; and in their hearts was the same 
 passionate melancholy. They lived for the sake of 
 the memory of life rather than for life itself. 
 
 " I see," he said, " that all this while the convent 
 has been drawing you nearer — absorbing you. You 
 think I don't understand, but I understand all that 
 concerns you. Every time you go there the spell 
 upon you is a little stronger; is not that so?" 
 
 " Yes, I think it is. I have been dra\vn into love 
 of the convent, and I am conscious of its influence 
 and yield to it ; the aspect of the nuns — their quiet 
 eyes and their tranquil life — their minds always 
 fixed on one thing — attract me, and, as you say, I 
 am draAvn nearer each time." 
 
 " But you once liked the strong, the self-willed 
 — now you seem to like the weak who surrender, 
 not daring to continue the struggle." 
 
 " Yes, I think that is so. It is now the weak 
 who attract me. I have changed in everything. 
 The things that interested me once interest me no 
 longer. Everything is different, that is what you 
 do not seem to understand. You have changed in 
 nothing."
 
 100 SISTER TERESA 
 
 " Yes, I do understand, but I can't believe that 
 our lives are divided. Think, Evelyn, of the years 
 and years we have been together. jSTever to see 
 you again — to knoAv you live, yet never to see 
 you !" 
 
 " You have not seen me for a year, and you would 
 have lived on just the same if we had not happened 
 to meet in that slum." 
 
 " I Avent away determined to forget you, Evelyn, 
 but absence has only made you dearer to me. You 
 see Ulick, and Ulick was your lover and you have 
 not sent him away." 
 
 " Ulick is not my lover now." 
 
 " That is no consolation," he exclaimed passion- 
 ately ; " better Ulick a thousand times than the 
 convent." 
 
 It was the convent he dreaded and hated, and 
 when the strain of argument became intense, when 
 she answered, " It is impossible to live with those 
 who hold different ideas; there is neither happi- 
 ness nor comfort in such relations," he looked at 
 her despairingly, not able to utter a word, and in 
 pity for him she turned the conversation from her- 
 self, and he talked mechanically of indifferent 
 things, hardly aware of what he said; words were 
 as a veil behind which calamity hid itself for a 
 while. 
 
 " But, Evelyn, you cannot become a nun ; nature 
 forbids it," he said, starting from his chair. 
 
 "How is that?"
 
 SISTER TERESA 101 
 
 " Have yoii no thought for your father ?" 
 
 " You mean that I should go to live with him." 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 He told how he had found her father sitting at 
 his lonely dinner. 
 
 *' I lived with my father all this winter; and I 
 hoard of nothing but music all the time I was 
 there." 
 
 " And has music no longer any interest for you ? 
 Do none of your old friends interest you? Lady 
 Ascott ?" 
 
 " I hojoe I remember them kindly ; they were 
 kind to me, as they understood kindness, and they 
 liked me." 
 
 " As they understand liking," he said, starting to 
 his feet. 
 
 " I am sorry, Owen." 
 
 " Your clear duty is by your father's side ; any 
 priest will tell you that. There is no use having a 
 religion and not acting up to it. What are you 
 laughing at?" 
 
 " Only that it seems odd to hear you telling me 
 my duty is towards my father." 
 
 He sat and argued this point with her for a long 
 while, reminding her and forcing her to admit that 
 she had avoided marriage from the first. 
 
 He said the same things over again — things he 
 had said a hundred times before, and when he had 
 said them he felt it would have been better if he had 
 said nothinsr. 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 SANTA BARBARA COLLEGE UBRAR'
 
 103 SISTEK TERESA 
 
 " I must send yon aAvay, Owen." 
 
 " Well," he said at the door, " I may never see 
 you again, Evelyn. But remember truth is truth 
 from whomsoever it comes. Consignor will tell you 
 that you cannot leave your father in his old age."
 
 The truth had come to hor from a strange side, 
 but it does not matter from what side tlio truth 
 comes so long as it is the truth. She liad neglected 
 her father during the last year, and now she was 
 planning to leave him for three, four, or six months. 
 But he did not seem to care whether she came or 
 stayed away. His ideas seemed to fill his life com- 
 pletely — there seemed no place for her in it. When 
 she went to see him, he was glad to see her, but he 
 never seemed to Avant her ; and Wimbledon was 
 but a few miles from Dulwich ; if he wanted her 
 he would be able to go to see her, and she intended 
 to get him a good servant who would look after 
 him and see that he had his meals regularly. But 
 now Owen had awakened a scruple in her, and 
 she could not deny to herself that her place was by 
 her father's side. Yet, to abandon the poor nims 
 seemed cruel, and she thought she might lay the 
 matter before her father — he alone could say 
 whether he wanted her, and if he did not want 
 her she would be wasted. But he would say he 
 did not want her; he would let her go to the con- 
 vent because he would not thwart her wishes. 
 
 Owen had challenged her to lay the matter before 
 
 103
 
 104 SISTER TERESA 
 
 Monsignor, and Owen was right; and she smiled 
 as she sat writing to the priest. That Owen and 
 Monsignor should agree on one subject amused her 
 not a little. Xcxt day she went to Monsignor. 
 
 She told him that the Prioress had said she would 
 not he able to endure the strain of staying with 
 them as a visitor ; and as she would not say that 
 she intended to become a nun, the Prioress had 
 hesitated whether she could accept her under such 
 conditions. To make the Prioress's way a little 
 easier, she had said that her constant visits to the 
 Wimbledon convent had left no doubt in her mind 
 that true spiritual elevation can only be attained 
 through the cloister. She had admitted that she 
 would like to become a nun if she could realise the 
 ideal which some three or four in the convent 
 seemed to her to have realised — the Prioress, Sister 
 Mary John, and ]\Iother Hilda. She knew the nuns 
 very well by this time, and these were the only 
 ones who had reached a high degree of spiritual 
 perfection. The larger number were pious women 
 who had acce];)ted the cloister from commonplace 
 motives. Some had accepted it in order to escape 
 from freedom — to many, freedom is irksome and 
 a rule of life a necessity ; some few, no doubt, had 
 entered the convent from disappointment. 
 
 It seemed strange to Monsignor that the Prioress 
 should accept her as a postulant, knowing that she 
 did not intend to stay in the convent ; and Evelyn 
 had to admit that she had said she hoped that six
 
 SISTER TERESA 105 
 
 months in the convent would discover a vocation 
 in her. 
 
 " And if you find you have a vocation you will 
 leave your father for ever ?" 
 
 ^lonsignor spoke of the duty of children towards 
 iheir parents, and of the age of j\fr. Innes, and he 
 pointed out that his interest in artistic things ren- 
 dered him incapable of dealing with the practical 
 aft'airs of life. lie laid stress on the fact that if 
 she were to leave her father and anything were to 
 happen to him she would never be able to forgive 
 herself, nor did he think she would find in the 
 convent any nobler mission than she would find 
 waiting for her in Dulwich. He said that if the 
 Prioress had consented to relax the rule, as she 
 had been advised, and had built a laundry, these 
 monetary difficulties would not have arisen, and 
 Evelyn, whose sympathies were all with the con- 
 templative orders, gathered up her courage and 
 spoke of Martha and Mary; Mary had been con- 
 tent to worship at the feet of Christ; but Martha 
 had fussed about external things, and these, though 
 intended to give him honour, were not so valuable 
 to him as the mere loving worship of Mary. Christ 
 himself had said that Mary had chosen the better 
 })art, and was not this a vindication of the con- 
 templative orders ? Monsignor answered that 
 Christ had mixed with the publicans and Phari- 
 sees. 
 
 She had put her case in his hands, and was going
 
 106 SISTER TERESA 
 
 to abide by his decision. She would go to her 
 father, live with him, attend upon him, do all that 
 a daughter should do. She had not realised that her 
 postulancy could not have been more than an ex- 
 periment. Consignor had made this clear to her; 
 and, as if to reward her for her obedience to hira, 
 she found a letter from her father on her table, ask- 
 ing her to go to the British ^Vfuseum to copy some 
 music. She had had nothing to do for a long time, 
 and it was a pleasure to spend the morning in the 
 museum; and she went to Dulwich in the after- 
 noon, delighted with her transcriptions. 
 
 And while he praised her copying she waited for 
 an opportunity to tell him she was giving up her 
 flat and coming to live with him. 
 
 lie played the bar twice over, and asked if she 
 had copied it correctly. Yes, she was sure she had 
 copied it correctly. 
 
 " I was beginning to fear that your artistic life 
 was dead, but it will come back to you. I remember 
 the time when a piece of music like this would have 
 interested you. Did it bore you to copy it ?" 
 
 " I liked to copy it because I was copying it for 
 you. I can see that it reflects a time when men's 
 lives must have been very beautiful." 
 
 Her father was sixty years of age, and he might 
 live until he was eighty. So for twenty years she 
 would play the old music and sing Elizabethan 
 songs ; and this was going to be her life, however 
 imlike herself it might seem.
 
 STSTEK TERESA 107 
 
 The absurd dish of liard mutton which her father 
 could not eat and forgot to complain about, helped 
 her to understand that the simple duty of seeing he 
 had wholesome food was her duty before all other 
 duties — her supposed duties towards art, and her 
 duty towards the nuns, the duty she had lately in- 
 vented for herself. Ulick came in after dinner, and 
 she wondered how he could drink the thick mixture 
 which the servant put on the table, calling it coffee. 
 They did not waste much time over it. Ulick had 
 brought part of his second act with him, and she 
 was asked to sing it. " Manuscript music at sight," 
 she said, and though it was Ulick's music she could 
 feel no interest in it. Her thoughts were often car- 
 ried back to the nuns and she forgot her cue. Her 
 inattention annoyed her father, and she wondered 
 what he and Ulick were arguing about so hotly — 
 about a dramatic situation she thought, and all the 
 while she sat thinking what Ulick would say when 
 she told him that she had been intending to enter 
 a convent for six months. She remembered how 
 sympathetic he had been when he returned from 
 Ireland; she could not think of him otherwise than 
 as sympathetic ; but the monastic ideal conflicted 
 as much with his ideas as it did with Owen's tastes. 
 
 They were going back to London together, and on 
 the way back she would tell him. 
 
 " I cannot wait another minute," she said, inter- 
 rupting the conversation, " I shall miss ray last 
 train. Mr. Innes wished her to stay, but she felt she
 
 108 SISTER TEEESA 
 
 must confide to Ulick her decision to live with her 
 father and leave the convent to the mercy of Provi- 
 dence. 
 
 They hurried away; and he felt she had some- 
 thing to confide to him, and she told him the mo- 
 ment they were outside what had happened. 
 
 He took her hands, and he held them, hut he held 
 them so gently and looked at her so fondly that she 
 felt his gentleness to be the most exquisite thing in 
 the world. 
 
 " Ulick, you did not hear me ; I said I was sorry 
 to abandon the nuns, I'm going to live with father." 
 
 " You will go to your father for a while ; you 
 will do all you can to live with him, but something 
 is drawing you from him, Evel^ai; your life is not 
 Avith him, and we cannot live except where our life 
 is." 
 
 He addressed her earnestly about her soul, saying 
 that the grey pieties of the cloister could not en- 
 close all there is of God on earth for her. And be- 
 coming suddenly impassioned, he spoke with scorn 
 of those who renounce a great deal in order to gain 
 a little ; and he told her that she had been appointed 
 to express spiritual truths in art, and that she had 
 done this with extraordinary power and purity, and 
 that she made a great mistake in forsaking the 
 higher medium for the lower. 
 
 He asked her why she believed that God was more 
 in the host on the altar than in the cup of this great 
 lily, and leaning over a pretty paling they held the
 
 SISTER TERESA 109 
 
 flower in their hands. She might have answered, 
 and she was minded to answer, that if we believe 
 God is everyAvhere we ha/dly believe that he is any- 
 where. Bnt she refrained from argument, knowing 
 it to be useless, and she liked to hear him, even when 
 she did not agree with him, and with his wide grey 
 eyes looking at her earnestly, he spoke of the great 
 joy there is in flinging off the fear of creeds and 
 living in onr spiritual instincts and in our bodily 
 instincts; and he asked her if she did not think 
 she could serve God by tendance on flowers, and by 
 tendernesses to the beasts in the fields and the beasts 
 by the hearth. 
 
 She wished he would forget the convent, she 
 wished to forget it herself; it were better to do 
 so since she could never enter it. She was thinking 
 now of the beauty of the night, and of him, and of 
 his ideas, which, though they were not hers, were 
 near enough to her to be appreciated by her; for 
 what Uliek said might easily have been said by 
 Saint Francis d'Assisi. 
 
 As the}' walked along the moonlit road a little of 
 his music came back to her, and she tried to remem- 
 ber it, but it was hardly rememberable. But it 
 pleased him to hear her try to remember it, it 
 pleased them to sit on a bench and try to read the 
 score by the light of the moon. The blossoming 
 branches above them showered white dust upon the 
 manuscript in their hands. 
 
 xVrt was to Ulick what it had become to Evelyn,
 
 110 SISTER TERESA 
 
 a means rather than an end, and seeing her soul 
 in peril he could not talk to her of his music, ob- 
 sessed as his imagination was by the thought that 
 she was going to lose her soul in abstinences and 
 rituals. 
 
 " I think you would sooner see me dead, Ulick, 
 than in a convent/' 
 
 " Many times ; there is something unspeakably 
 painful in the death of a soul." 
 
 " I know what you mean, that piety is not suffi- 
 cient. Many nuns lose themselves in mechanical 
 pieties." 
 
 " Since life has been given to us it is given to us 
 for acceptance and not for refusal. You will lose 
 your soul, Evelyn, by stripping yourself of your 
 womanhood which God gave you to serve him with, 
 and by renouncing your art which was given you 
 that you miarht reveal him to others. You will lose 
 your soul by seeking God in prayer-books rather 
 than in the stars, and by seeking him in scrolls 
 rather than in the sunset and in the morning winds. 
 The convent is an unspeakable degradation of self, 
 and therefore a degradation of God. Nothing j&Us 
 me with such terror as the convent." 
 
 She tried to speak to him of his music, but he 
 only listened for a moment. 
 
 " Music," he said, " is only a medium, the soul 
 is the important thing." 
 
 To keep her soul he said she must fly from the 
 city wdiere men lose their souls in the rituals of
 
 SISTER TERESA 111 
 
 materialism. lie must go with her to the pure 
 country, to the woods and to the places where the 
 invisible ones whom the Druids knew ceaselessly 
 ascend and descend from earth to heaven, and 
 heaven to earth, in flame-coloured spirals. He told 
 her he knew of a house by a lake shore, and there 
 thoy might live in communion with nature, and in 
 the fading lights, and in the quiet hollows of the 
 woods she would learn more of God than she could 
 in the convent. In that house they would live, and 
 their cliild, if the Gods gave them one, would un- 
 fold among the influences of music and love and 
 long traditions. 
 
 " Wandering in the woods and underneath the 
 boughs we shall know that the great immortal pres- 
 ences are by us, and the peace they instil into our 
 hearts will be the proof that they applaud our flight 
 from priests and creeds." 
 
 Every star that the eye can see was visible that 
 night, and the interspaces were filled Avith a pale 
 bloom, the light of stars so distant that their light 
 is but a milky whiteness on the skj'. 
 
 Xothing had been said for some while, and Ulick 
 wondered if what he had said had influenced her in 
 the least, and ho watched for some sign ; but she 
 sat without sjioaking, her eyes fixed on the sky, lost 
 in contemplation of the extraordinary diagram ex- 
 tending into space without end. Iler thoughts re- 
 turned suddenly from the infinite space, and she 
 said, —
 
 112 SISTER TERESA 
 
 "' I shall always consider, Ulick, that the convent 
 ideal is the highest, and that they are wisest who 
 choose it." 
 
 " But you give no reason," he answered. 
 
 " Everything is faith in the end," she said ; " all 
 things come to be matters of faith." 
 
 They had missed their last train, and she was 
 glad of it. She said she would not go back to Dow- 
 lands, for on this dry, windless night she Avould 
 enjoy the long walk under the stars, and he must 
 go on telling her his dreams, his ideas, and his 
 visions.
 
 XI 
 
 One morning at the end of the summer her father 
 came to her with a letter in his hand. 
 
 " It is from Rome. You will never guess what 
 it is about. It is from the Pope asking me to go to 
 Home to reform the singing of the pajial choir." 
 
 They sat down to consider the matter, and when 
 everything had been said they talked it all over 
 again. The invitation had come through Monsig- 
 nor; no one else believed in the reformation of 
 ecclesiastical art, no one else cared. 
 
 Walking to and fro, sometimes stopping to look 
 out of the window, Mr. Innes spoke of the opposi- 
 tion his ideas would meet with in Rome. But he 
 would be given a free hand, otherwise what would be 
 the use of bringing him all the way from London ? 
 
 " When do you go to Rome ?" 
 
 " Go ? Well, I suppose at once. " 
 
 He had read no more than the first page of the 
 Cardinal's letter, and appeared unable to collect his 
 thoughts sufficiently to read the somewhat difficult 
 handwriting. Evelyn took the letter out of his 
 hand, and when she read that it was not necessary 
 for him to go to Rome before the autumn a shade 
 of disappointment passed over his face; he would 
 have preferred that the Cardinal had said that he 
 must be in Rome in forty-eight hours. 
 
 8 113
 
 114 SISTER TERESA 
 
 Then, as if ashamed of his egoism, he asked her 
 when she Avas going back to the stage. The naivete 
 of the question raised a smile to her lips, and he 
 said, — 
 
 " Oh, I know you won't go back to the stage ; but 
 I met Hermann Goetze the other day, and he said 
 he would engage you, that is why I asked." And 
 he stood looking at her, his thoughts divided be- 
 tAveen her and his appointment. 
 
 " Yes, father dear, I feel I am a great failure, 
 and I am sure I wish I were different ; but you see 
 one can't change." 
 
 She stood thinking of the day she had told him 
 she was going away with Owen. They were nearer 
 to each other then than now; and his joy at his ap- 
 pointment reminded her of her delight the day 
 Madame Savelli had told her she had a beautiful 
 voice, 
 
 " But, Evelyn, what about the American tour ? 
 You could easily make the money the nuns need in 
 America." 
 
 " I should like to go to Rome with you, dear." 
 
 " Well that would be very nice, and I might give 
 some concerts of the old music in Rome." 
 
 " We must never be separated again, and I shall 
 be able to help you with your music." 
 
 He seemed to be in Rome already; she could 
 read in his face that he was thinking of the choir 
 that awaited the rule of his baton. And very 
 soon he began to imagine strange intrigues, con-
 
 SISTER TERESxV 115 
 
 spiracies of cardinals to keep liiiii from coming to 
 Rome. 
 
 " But, Evelyn, there is no reason why we should 
 do the journey together ; there is this house to be 
 sold, and you • will have to get rid of your flat. 
 Somebody must be here to look after things ; I 
 cannot stay, I must be in Rome next week. Be- 
 sides, I am going to stay in Rome with the friars. 
 You -would not like to stay in an hotel alone, and 
 it would be expensive. Far better to wait until I 
 find rooms for you. You are in no hurry to get to 
 Rome, I suppose ? The autumn is the better time — 
 early spring the best time of all. But why do you 
 stand looking at me? You are afraid vou will be 
 lonely ? Then come with me ; we can put this 
 business into the hands of an agent." 
 
 She tried to put back her joy but her heart was 
 overflowing. She was going to the convent for a 
 while. Iler escape had come about of itself, and it 
 pleased her to look upon her father's appointment 
 as miraculous. She could not find a protest, her 
 lips seemed scaled, to see him was to know that he 
 was determined to go to Rome, and at once ; and 
 she tried to silence her conscience by packing his 
 clothes, by arranging his journey for him, by giving 
 him a list of the places where he might dine and 
 breakfast, and where he might break the journey 
 if he pleased. He would have to go straight 
 through on account of the harpsichord, and she 
 was afraid the carriage of it before he reached
 
 116 SISTER TERESA 
 
 Rome would nearly equal the price of the instru- 
 ment. 
 
 He superintended the packing of his viols and 
 lutes, but if it had not been for her care he might 
 have forgotten his portmanteau. She packed it 
 herself and she saw that it was labelled, while he 
 looked after the musical part of his luggage. 
 
 Having told him about Avignon, she looked up 
 and down the platform, and thought she had for- 
 gotten nothing; and while she told him that each 
 case had been carefully labelled, the train began to 
 steam out of the station. She might have spoken 
 to the guard. But he only went as far as Dover. 
 The guard to speak to was the guard of the train 
 from Paris to Avignon. She knew the length of the 
 journey, and her father had promised to take a 
 sleeping-car. 
 
 Rome is so beautiful in the autumn, and Owen 
 had only shown her pagan Rome; there was also 
 a Christian Rome, and she began to consider her 
 OAvn journey there. She was bringing with her all 
 her father's books, and they would weigh a great 
 deal, and some silver and pictures. Almost the last 
 words he had spoken were about her mother's pict- 
 ure, and thinking of them, she remembered his let- 
 ter to Owen Asher six years ago : 
 
 " I will arrive about nine with the big harpsi- 
 chord and Evelyn." 
 
 She liked him none the less for his absorption in 
 his art; she envied him rather, and she went to
 
 SISTER TERESA llT 
 
 Dowlands thinking of the great case the harpsichord 
 was packed in and the difficulties that would arise 
 at every frontier town. It had been packed in the 
 music-room, and a charwoman was sweeping the 
 litter away when Evelyn entered. She spoke a few 
 words to the woman and walked through the empty 
 rooms thinking of the passing of Dowlands. Dow- 
 lands had played quite a little part in the history 
 of art; it had been very individual, and some day 
 she thought someone would write its history. It 
 would be a very interesting history — her father, 
 her mother and herself. She threw the windows 
 open and let in the air. These were her mother's 
 class-rooms, and she remembered how she used to 
 sit on the stairs listening to the singing, and how 
 pleased her mother had been one day when she 
 said, though she was only four at the time, " But, 
 mother, that lady can't sing at all." A shelf in the 
 store-room reminded her of the time when she used 
 to wonder if anyone had ever eaten as many apples 
 as she wanted to eat, and a patch in an old brocaded 
 chair of her mother's maid — a discreet woman who 
 never made any definite statement, but who was full 
 of insinuations. 
 
 She found two Chelsea figures which she had not 
 seen for many years in a forgotten corner, and she 
 tried to remember if the old servant had ever men- 
 tioned them to her. The shepherdess had lost an 
 arm, and the bower the sliepherd stood in was also 
 a little broken ; perhaps that was why they had been
 
 118 SISTER TERESA 
 
 put away in the store-room. They were very pretty 
 figures, but she would not take them to Rome. Her 
 father had evidently had them put away. 
 
 She suddenly discovered a book which they had 
 been looking for for many years, a book by Morley 
 on the singing of the plain chant ; and the number 
 of pictures dismayed her. Every picture repre- 
 sented a musician playing some sort of old instru- 
 ment, and so long as these were correctly drawn 
 llr. Innes's artistic taste was satisfied. He had 
 given her explicit instructions regarding all these 
 pictures, indeed for some time he had been uncer- 
 tain if he would not take them with him. But Eve- 
 lyn had at length dissuaded him by exaggerating 
 the cost, and by promising not to forget anything. 
 
 The portrait of our father or our mother is a sort 
 of crystal ball into which we look in the hope of dis- 
 covering our destiny, and Evel}Ti looked a long 
 while on her mother's cold and resolute face. It 
 was exactly as she remembered her — there was the 
 thin wide mouth, there were the cold eyes, and she 
 could hear the smooth, even voice, and she remem- 
 bered how she had often wondered why so many 
 men had been in love with her mother. Her mother 
 had always seemed to her stern and cold, the oppo- 
 site to what she thought she was herself, though 
 sometimes she fancied she was a little cold. It 
 was from her mother she had got her voice — maybe 
 her temperament. 
 
 She turned away from the portrait, perplexed,
 
 SISTER TERESA 119 
 
 and stood listening to the woman who was sweep- 
 ing; and feeling she must talk to someone, she told 
 her what she was to say to the auctioneer who would 
 call next morning. 
 
 Most of her furniture had been sold at Christie's, 
 and the few things that were left she had resolved 
 to sell. She knew how little influence circumstance 
 has on the mind — nevertheless, she wished to rid 
 herself of everything that reminded her of her dead 
 life. She had thought of taking her piano to the 
 convent; it was a beautiful instrument and the 
 nuns would be glad of it^ but she could not bring 
 herself to take it with her, Merat came w^ith a heap 
 of papers, and said, — 
 
 " Will you look through these, mademoiselle, and 
 see if they can be destroyed ?" 
 
 She glanced at them and threw them into the 
 grate, and there was danger of the kitchen chimney 
 catching fire, so great was the flare of the papers. 
 
 It was sad to think that she would never wear any 
 pretty underclothes again, nor any evening dresses. 
 One of her stage dresses remained, and Merat asked 
 for it, saying, " Give me this one, mademoiselle ; 
 I saw you wear it in ' Lohengrin.' " ^lerat said 
 she would keep the dress Evelyn had worn at Owen 
 Asher's ball two years ago. She was more than 
 kind — she was an affectionate human being, and 
 EveljTi was much touched. 
 
 She had worn this hat the last time she had 
 walked with Owen in the Park, and she remem^
 
 120 SISTEK TERESA 
 
 bered having worn the one with the blue feather the 
 evening she and Owen had stood looking across the 
 Long Water. Merat could not think how the feather 
 had got broken. There was a hat she had not worn 
 for many years ; it took her back to St. Petersburg, 
 to one long summer evening on a hilltop overlook- 
 ing the Xeva. She had met a young man there by 
 appointment; they had sat looking at the distant 
 shipping, and he had admired this hat, and she 
 could not think why she had never worn it again. 
 
 One day a man came to buy her clothes. He 
 offered ten shillings apiece for her dresses. IVIerat 
 protested, and he produced a sack and threw her 
 dresses in without even thinking of rolling them up. 
 
 Three days after her furniture, her books, and her 
 china were sold by auction. Ulick bought an ink- 
 stand and a score of " Parsifal," and a china bowl. 
 She could see he was very much moved, and when 
 the Jews began to bid for her writing-table, he said, 
 " Why should we stay here ? The sun is shining, 
 let us go into the Park." 
 
 When they returned the workmen were removing 
 the furniture, and Evelyn remembered the time had 
 come when they must say good-bye. 
 
 " Merat will call me a hansom. I must get to the 
 convent before five." 
 
 " Did I not consent to go and live with my father, 
 and how do you explain my father's appointment ? 
 Does it not look as if the Gods had had a hand 
 in it ?"
 
 SISTER TERESA 121 
 
 With a little humour in his voice, which made 
 his sadness appear all the more real, he said, — 
 
 " I cannot believe the Gods have much to do with 
 convents. My Gods, at least, are only concerned 
 with the earth, the air, and the souls of those who 
 surrender themselves up to these." 
 
 " Perhaps you are right." she said. " We are our 
 own Gods. Xow I must really go. Will you carry 
 my portmanteau downstairs for me ?" 
 
 Merat came downstairs with a parasol ; but para- 
 sols were not conventual, and Merat said she would 
 keep it till mademoiselle came out of the convent, 
 for Merat had agreed to go into another situation 
 only upon the condition that she might return to 
 Evelyn when she came out of the convent. 
 
 She waved her hand to Ulick, and he seemed so 
 sorry for her that it seemed very harsh for her to 
 be glad,, yet she was glad. Providence was de- 
 ciding for her. Sooner or later she would be a nun. 
 Xow that she was on her way to the convent she was 
 quite happy. 
 
 She wished that the next few days were over. 
 Then she would have settled do^vn in her work, and 
 she began to think of the music she would sing, and 
 of the pieces which would be most popular.
 
 XII 
 
 During the winter and spring she had been kept 
 waiting many times in the convent parlour, but this 
 time the Prioress did not keep her waiting. She 
 passed suddenly into the room, and taking Evelyn's 
 hand in hers, kissed her, in convent fashion, on both 
 cheeks. 
 
 " So you have really come to us, Evelyn," she 
 said, " you are really going to be one of my chil- 
 dren?" 
 
 " Well, I have come to try, Reverend Mother." 
 
 " But tell me, Evelyn," said the little old mm, 
 laying her hand on Evelyn's knee, and looking 
 straight into her face, " are you quite happy at 
 coming ?" 
 
 " Yes, I am quite happy, for I know that I am 
 doing what I was appointed to do, and there is 
 always happiness in doing that. I'm not frightened 
 as I used to be. I lived in a state of fear, but to- 
 day I don't feel afraid, though I may be coming 
 here for good." 
 
 " Indeed, I hope you are ; and I may tell you I 
 never wished any postulant to succeed as I wish 
 you to." 
 
 " Dear Reverend Mother, you are much too kind 
 
 to me, I shall never deserve all your kindness ; but a 
 122
 
 SISTER TERESA 123 
 
 vocation is such a mysterious thing. I have come 
 here because I feel that God has sent me to help you 
 and — well, because I feel that outside the convent 
 there is nothing to hold on to." 
 
 She wondered at her own instability of character, 
 and this very instability in the next moment 
 seemed to her like a more elaborate design of life 
 than she had imagined. Looking down the road 
 which had brought her to the present moment of her 
 life, many things which had seemed devious and 
 tangled now seemed simple and plain. She must, 
 just as the Reverend Mother said, put herself into 
 the hands of God; and she listened, deeply inter- 
 ested, for the Prioress said that very often those 
 who least desired a vocation were irresistibly called 
 to a religious life. 
 
 The old nun spoke out of the remembrance of a 
 long life lived and meditated. Her pale blue eyes 
 were fixed on Evelyn, and they looked so weary 
 with wisdom that Evelyn watched them, striving 
 to read in them the secret, the death of some loved 
 one; and in striving to pierce the enigma she felt 
 herself drawn into a new influence. The sensation 
 was not imknown to her, and she remembered sud- 
 denly Lady Duckle and the French cafe. 
 
 " You must not allow yourself, my dear child, to 
 think that you will not succeed. We shall all pray 
 for you, and I feel that the will of Heaven is that 
 you should succeed." 
 
 Mother Hilda and Mother Philippa came in;
 
 124: SISTER TERESA 
 
 and they, too, kissed her affectionately, and their 
 manner showed her that they knew she had decided 
 to enter the novitiate ; they treated her as a member 
 of the community, but she could see they were not 
 of one mind. The Prioress and Mother Philippa 
 had been in favour of admitting her ; Mother Hilda 
 seemed a little doubtful. 
 
 That very morning Mother Hilda had asked if it 
 were wise to admit a girl into the novitiate who con- 
 fessed that she was entering the religious life some- 
 what as an experiment. Even with all that was at 
 stake, was not the risk too great ? Might not Miss 
 Innes's presence have a demoralising effect on the 
 other novices — simple, pious girls with no knowl- 
 edge of the world? And what good would her 
 money be to them if the spirit of the house were to 
 suffer? But her scruples had been overborne by 
 the Prioress, and her objection that she would find 
 Evelyn's moods very hard to understand was not 
 entertained by the Prioress. 
 
 The Prioress was aware of her personal influence 
 over others, and she did not believe that she might 
 fail to mould Evelyn according to her idea. Mother 
 Philippa's motherly heart had been won by the 
 singer the first time they had walked together up 
 and down St. Peter's Path. Her perception of 
 Evelyn's past life was less clear than Mother 
 Hilda's, but she divined a lonely soul, and had gone 
 forth to meet her on the road, as it were ; and it was 
 characteristic of her to think that all things came
 
 SISTER TERESA 125 
 
 right in the end. Moreover, they would pray, and 
 her regret, if she had a regret, was that her pleasant 
 little chats with Evelyn in the parlour must now 
 come to an end; and she thought of the rare op- 
 portunities she would have of talking to her during 
 her noviceship. All they were thinking about her 
 seemed afloat in the manner of the three nuns as 
 they gathered round their new Sister. Mother 
 Hilda diffident. Mother Philippa expansive, and the 
 Prioress confident in the strength of her wisdom, 
 
 " So you have decided to enter the religious 
 life?" Mother Hilda asked, with a note of insist- 
 ence in her quiet voice. 
 
 " I have come to try," Evelyn said, " and I am 
 going to stay, if my father does not call me to 
 Rome." 
 
 " I have not told you," said Mother Philippa, 
 " how delighted I am that you have come. I always 
 believed you would come, didn't I, Reverend 
 Mother? and I began to pray for it long before 
 anyone else. I seemed to see the hand of Provi- 
 dence in your coming here. We shall have your 
 beautiful voice to sing for us every day at Bene- 
 diction. But we must not pay you compliments 
 now you are going to be a nun. Do have some cake, 
 my dear. You look tired after your long drive;" 
 and the kind old nun began fussing round the tea 
 things. 
 
 Suddenly it seemed that there was nothing more 
 to say, and the Prioress put the question to EveljTi
 
 126 SISTER TERESA 
 
 if she would prefer to be a visitor until to-morrow, 
 or to go into the novitiate at once. Evelyn cried 
 impulsively that she would like to begin at once, 
 and the Reverend Mother asked Mother Hilda to 
 take her charge to her cell. 
 
 " And, Mother Pliilippa, will you see that Eve- 
 lyn's box is sent upstairs at once ? You will have 
 just time, Evelyn, to get into your dress and veil 
 before supper; it is half-past five." 
 
 She followed Mother Hilda into the hall, and 
 through the swing door, past which she had never 
 been, and down the short broad corridor, out of 
 which the main rooms of the ground floor opened. 
 
 " That is the refectory," Mother Hilda said ; and 
 Evelyn saw the long narrow tables and tin plates ; 
 " and this," Mother Hilda added, turning to a little 
 winding staircase built in an angle of the passage, 
 " is the way to the novitiate." 
 
 At the top of the staircase there was a short pas- 
 sage, with a door at the further end, and several 
 doors on either side. They were of polished pine, 
 and not of mahogany, and she saw that now they 
 had left the Georgian house, and that this was the 
 new wing. 
 
 " That is the novitiate at the end of the passage, 
 and these are the novices' cells. You are to be next 
 to me." 
 
 The little narrow iron bedstead, without curtains 
 and covered with a check cotton counterpane, nearly 
 filled the space, and there was nothing else in the
 
 SISTER TERESA 127 
 
 room save a wooden chair, a small washstand near 
 the window, with a cupboard underneath. It was 
 in this cupboard she would keep her clothes. The 
 colourless, distcnijK'rcd walls were bare, save for 
 the crucilix over the bed, and the bare window did 
 not look over the garden and the Surrey hills, but 
 northward towards a tall bank of trees, and the 
 apse of the church partly intercepted the view. 
 
 Reading in her silence some inward disappoint- 
 ment, Mother Hilda thought she had better give 
 Evelyn something to do at once. 
 
 " Don't you think, Evelyn, you had better un- 
 pack your things ? Shall I help you ?" 
 
 " Thank you ; but I have only a few things, just 
 what you told me. The greater part of my box is 
 full of music." 
 
 She unfolded her little convent trousseau before 
 the eyes of the Mother Mistress. Her calico night- 
 dress, so plain that she had had to hav'e it made for 
 her; and Merat had nearly wept at the idea of 
 mademoiselle wearing anything so coarse. Her 
 petticoats were frill-less, but on unpacking her black 
 merino dress she discovered that j\[erat at the last 
 moment had added dainty little velvet cuffs, and 
 Evelyn, in her desire to immolate her vanity on 
 the very threshold of the convent, was genuinely 
 vexed. 
 
 " Oh. Mother, I expressly told Merat to make the 
 sleeves quite jdain, but I can take the cuffs off in 
 an instant."
 
 128 SISTER TERESA 
 
 " They are not usual, but there is no necessity for 
 taking them off." 
 
 " Oh, yes, but I must take them off," and in a 
 moment she had found a pair of scissors, and cut 
 through the stitches. " It is entirely my maid's 
 fault. How could she have been so stupid ?" 
 
 The very newness of her plain linen collars made 
 them seem out of place, but Mother Hilda did not 
 seem to think there was anything amiss, and left 
 Evelyn to change her dress, promising to return for 
 her in a few minutes. 
 
 She changed her dress almost gaily, thinking that 
 she had not come to the convent for ever, only till 
 her father wanted her — that would be in three 
 months, maybe six, and in that time she hoped her 
 mission would be accomplished. And it was a very 
 demure Evelyn, in her straight black gown, and her 
 dark gold hair neatly brushed back off her face, who 
 was waiting for Mother Hilda Avhen she returned, 
 bringing with her a white cap and black veil, and 
 a prim little black cashmere cape. 
 
 " Will you come with me to dear Mother's room ?" 
 said the novice mistress ; " she always gives the 
 postulants the cap and veil herself. It is the out- 
 ward sign that they are admitted as aspirants to the 
 religious life." 
 
 The Prioress's room was on the ground floor, and 
 its long French windows opened on to the terrace 
 •walk. Once no doubt it had been a boudoir; and 
 catching sight of the curiously carved scrolls on the
 
 SISTER TERESA 129 
 
 tall wooden mantelpiece, Evel^ni thought of the 
 ■women who had sat there dreaming of their lovers, 
 and waiting for them. iSTow it was the workroom 
 (,)f a busy woman. The crowded writing-table, on 
 which stood a beautiful crucifix in yellow ivory, 
 occupied the space by the window, and papers and 
 tin boxes were piled in one corner. There was 
 no carpet, and the one armchair was worn and 
 shabby. There were flowers in vases and bowls, 
 and in a large cage canaries uttered their piercing 
 songs. 
 
 '' I like your room, Reverend Mother ; will you 
 let me come and see you here sometimes now I am a 
 nun : 
 
 " This is where I do all my scolding ; perhaps 
 you won't like it when you are sent for," said the 
 Prioress, but she smiled at Evelyn when she said it, 
 and the words lost their severity. "K^ow we must 
 hide all this fair hair under a little cap." 
 
 Evelyn knelt in front of the Prioress, so that the 
 little old nun could put the white cap on her head, 
 and pin the black veil over it. When she had done 
 this, she drew Evelyn to her and kissed her. 
 
 " Xow you look like my own child, with all your 
 Avorldly vanities hidden away. I believe Consignor 
 ]\rostyn Avould hardly know his penitent in her new 
 dress. And now," she went on, " let us go to the 
 cliapel together and thank our dear Lord that he 
 has brought you to his feet. Give me your arm, 
 my dear child, I am not very strong to-day."
 
 130 SISTER TERESA 
 
 She laid a faint hand on Evelyn's arm, and they 
 walked sloM'ly down the corridor to the door leading 
 to the nuns' choir, and Evelyn was conscious of a 
 sudden new growth of affection for this frail old 
 woman Avliose spirit stood undaunted amid much 
 adversity. She followed the nun into the choir of 
 the church, and found herself for the first time 
 on the inner side of the high iron grille. The Prior- 
 ess knelt in her stall, and Evelyn remained kneeling 
 on the floor beside her, and those few moments 
 of silent prayer seemed to unite the two women 
 closely in the purpose which had brought them 
 together. 
 
 Mother Hilda had explained to Evelyn that the 
 community assendjled for supper immediately after 
 the Angclus. xA-ll the customs Avere unknoAvn to her, 
 and more nervous than she had ever felt before, she 
 placed herself at the head of the procession next 
 to a giggling novice. The refectory doors Avere 
 thrown open, the Mother Prioress began the pro- 
 cessional psalm in Latin, the Sisters repeated the 
 alternate verses. Evelyn felt the novice nudge her, 
 and they began to walk slowly towards the refectory, 
 their eves fixed on the cround. In the middle of 
 the long room Evelyn and the novice stopped and 
 bowed to the great crucifix which liung between the 
 windows over the table of the Superior. Then they 
 placed themselves in front of one of the tables at 
 the lower end of the room ; they were followed by 
 the rest of the novices ; the lay Sisters occupied a
 
 SISTER TERESA 131 
 
 similar position opposite ; the upper portions of the 
 table Avere reserved for the Choir Sisters, and the 
 places of the three Superiors were in front of the 
 table at the top of the room. The Mother Prioress 
 then recited the larger j^ortion of the grace. There 
 were responses and versicles, and these were re- 
 peated bv the Sisters. The opening sentence of the 
 patenioslcr was spoken by the Prioress, and it was 
 continued in silence by all, and at the Gloria all 
 bowed their heads. 
 
 Then one of the Sisters slipped out of her place, 
 and kneeling before the Prioress murmured a few 
 Latin words, to which was given a Latin reply ; 
 she then went to a high reading desk in the corner 
 by the Superior's table and read aloud a few verses 
 from Holy Scripture. When the reader had fin- 
 ished the whole community responded Deo gratias; 
 and all went to their places in silence, the novices 
 passing this time in front of Evelyn. She found 
 herself at the bottom of the long wooden bench, be- 
 hind the polished oak table. 
 
 In each place there was an enamelled plate and 
 a check blue and white napkin, and a large china 
 nnig. Two Sisters went round with cans in their 
 hands, and filled every mug with hot, weak, sugary 
 tea. A large platter piled high with slices of bread 
 and butter was passed down the table, and above the 
 clatter of the knives upon the tin plates the voice 
 of the reader was heard ; it was a monotonous chant, 
 and the subject of the reading Evelyn gathered to be
 
 132 SISTER TERESA 
 
 the life of some female saint, famous for her aus- 
 terities. 
 
 It was a disappointment to her that she could only 
 see -what was trivial and prosaic, and a long line of 
 silent meals stretched out before her through days 
 and years, and she could not eat. Suddenly she was 
 astonished by Sister Veronica's appearance by her 
 side — slim and straight like a figure in an old Ital- 
 ian picture she stood by her, holding in her hand a 
 plate on which there was a poached egg. None of 
 the .Sisters were eating poached eggs, and Evelyn 
 nearly refused it, but Veronica smiled, saying under 
 her breath, " You must eat it," and she put the }>late 
 down before Evelyn with a resolute little gesture. 
 
 Soon after a very plain cake was handed round, 
 and the eating of this cake was perhaps the hardest 
 part of the meal. She hesitated a moment, and tlien 
 decided that the eating of this cake should be her 
 first act of mortification, and she tried to avoid 
 watching the novice beside her, who she noticed had 
 eaten four slices of bread and butter, and was en- 
 joying her cake. As the nuns finished, they folded 
 their hands and sat with eyes cast down. The mo- 
 notonous voice of the reader droned on, until sud- 
 denly, with a little wooden hanmier, the Prioress 
 struck the table, giving the signal to rise. The long 
 grace was repeated, with the necessary variations, 
 and the i)roccssion passed slowly out in the same 
 order as it had entered. 
 
 In the passage the novice at Evelyn's elbow whis-
 
 SISTER TERESA 133 
 
 pered to her to go up the novitiate stairs. The 
 voiee of tlic professed nuns died away as tliey turned 
 towards their own community room; and it was a 
 little party of five that walked ahead of Mother 
 Hilda into the room at the end of the novitiate 
 passage.
 
 XITI 
 
 TiiEY knelt before the large crucifix which occu- 
 pied the centre of one <»f the walls. 
 
 Mother Hilda recited the Litany of our Ladv, and 
 when it was done, and they had risen to their feet, 
 she said, — 
 
 " Now, Evelyn, you must he introduced to your 
 sisters — Sister Barbara I think you have met, as 
 she sings in the choir. This is Sister Angela ; this 
 tall maypole is Sister Winifred, and this little being 
 here is Sister Jerome, who was the youngest till 
 you came. Are you not jdeased, Jerome, to have 
 one younger than yoiirself ?" The novices said how 
 do you do, and looked shy and awkward for a min- 
 ute, but their interest in Evelyn was forgotten for 
 the moment in their anxiety to know whether recrea- 
 tion was to be spent indoors or out. 
 
 " ]\rother, we may go out, mayn't we ? Oli, thank 
 you so much, it is such a lovely evening. We need 
 not wear cloaks, need we ? Oh, that is all right, just 
 our garden shoes;" and there was a general scurry 
 to the cells for shoes, whilst Evelyn and Motlier 
 Hilda made their way do^^^lstairs and by another 
 door into the still summer evening. 
 
 " How lovely it is," Evelyn exclaimed, and she 
 134
 
 SISTER TERESA 135 
 
 felt that if she and Mother Hilda could have spent 
 the recreation hour together, her first convent even- 
 ing might have heen in a way happy. But the 
 chattering novices had caught them up, and when 
 they were sitting all a-row on a bench or grouped 
 on a variety of little wooden stools, they asked her 
 questions as to her sensations in the refectory, and 
 Evelyn felt a little jarred by their familiarity. 
 
 " Were you not frightened when you felt yourself 
 at the head of the procession ? I was," said Wini- 
 fred. 
 
 " But you didn't get through nearly so well as 
 Sister Evelyn; you turned the wrong way at the 
 end of the passage, and Mother had to go after 
 you," said Sister Angela, " we thought you were 
 going to run away, and they went into the details 
 as to how they had felt on their arrival, and various 
 little incidents were recalled, illustrating the experi- 
 ence of previous postulants, and these were pro- 
 ductive of much hilarity. 
 
 " What did you all think of the cake ?" said Sister 
 Barbara, suddenly. 
 
 " Was it Angela's cake ?" asked Mother Hilda. 
 " Angela, I really must congratulate you, you will 
 be quite a distinguished cJief in time." 
 
 Sister Angela blushed with delight, saying, '" Yes, 
 I made it yesterday, ^Mother ; but of course Sister 
 Rufina stood over me to see that I didn't forget any- 
 thing." 
 
 " Ah, well; I don't think I cared very much for
 
 136 SISTER TEEESA 
 
 the flavouring," said Sister Barbara in pondering 
 tones. 
 
 " You seemed to me to be enjoying it very much 
 at the time," said Sister Evelyn, joining the con- 
 versation for the first time, and when she added 
 that Sister Barbara had eaten four slices of bread 
 and butter, the laugh turned against Barbara, and 
 everyone was hilarious. It was evident that Sister 
 Barbara's appetite was considered an excellent joke 
 in the novitiate. 
 
 Evelyn marvelled that grown-up women should 
 be so easily amused ; and yet was their conversation 
 more silly than that of a London drawing-room ? It 
 was only that it was a different kind of silliness, to 
 which she had not yet grown accustomed ; and with 
 a sinking heart Evelyn tried her best to keep up 
 a polite interest in the recreation. The novices were 
 all dressed alike, but Evelyn had quickly decided 
 that besides Sister Veronica only Sister Winifred 
 was a choir Sister; the others were clearly lay 
 Sisters. Sister Barbara and Sister Angela were 
 very young — not more tha-n one or two and twenty ; 
 Sister Jerome looked over thirty and had a plain, 
 sad face. They worked while they talked, and Eve- 
 lyn had to confess that she hated needlework, and 
 had never learnt to knit. They told her that she 
 had better begin at once or she would have no stock- 
 ings. It was Sister Barbara who was told to teach 
 her, but as neither needles nor wool was available
 
 SISTER TERESA 137 
 
 at the moment, the lesson was postponed till next 
 recreation. 
 
 Presently Sister Veronica came running down 
 the garden path and joined the little group ; she 
 had waited at supper and had had to have her meal 
 afterwards. 
 
 " I came as quickly as T could," she said, " for 
 I didn't wish to miss all of Sister Evelyn's first 
 recreation," and she looked at Evelyn with such 
 a tender little smile of welcome that Evelyn was 
 cheered, and when ]\rother Hilda said Veronica 
 might sit next her, and pulled up a little wooden 
 stool for her, she felt almost absurdly grateful. 
 
 The little babble and talk meandered on, checked 
 and guided by ^Mother Hilda, who saved it from 
 falling into absolute silliness. And iiresently, by 
 a clever turn given by her to the conversation, they 
 were all talking of Italy, and Evelyn found that 
 Mother Hilda knew Rome and ]\Iilan quite well, 
 and she herself was encouraged to talk of her travels, 
 whilst the novices listened open-eyed. Suddenly the 
 bell rang out its warning notes and the recreation 
 hour had come to an end. Mother Hilda stood up 
 and began the De Profundis, the Sisters repeating 
 the alternate verses. The beauty of the prayer, of 
 this appeal for the peace of departed souls sounded 
 strangely beautiful in the still evening air; its 
 beauty entered Evelyn's heart, and in a thrill of 
 anticipation she seemed to foresee that this cloister 
 life would mean a great deal to her one day. She
 
 138 SISTER TERESA 
 
 seemed to divine the spiritual fulness whieh lies 
 beneath the childish triviality which had tried her 
 all the evening; and, kneeling among the com- 
 munity in church, she began to understand the im- 
 portance a church is to a community ; how much 
 it means to each individual member, and how, on 
 entering her church, each enters the mysterious and 
 profound life of prayer. She felt she was no longer 
 a solitary soul fighting a lonely battle ; now she 
 was a member of a spiritual community, and her 
 wandering thoughts would be drawn into the 
 streams of petitions going up to God. A nun whis- 
 pered that she need not stay for the night office, 
 and she refrained from saying that it was nov/ 
 eight, and that for many years she had not been 
 to bed till past midnight. This was her first act of 
 obedience. 
 
 " This mattress," she said to herself as she turned 
 restlessly, " is very trying, but it is a means to an 
 end," and she foresaw a wider life than she could 
 have known in the world.
 
 XIV 
 
 TiiEKE arc hours of the day which are unknown 
 to those who live in the workl, and six o'clock in 
 the morning was an hour unknown to Evelyn. It 
 was at tliat liour she awaked from a shallow, restless 
 sleep, and heard with a drowsy brain that she would 
 be expected in chapel in half an hour. She rolled 
 herself out of bed, and still only half conscious, she 
 hurried through her simjde dressing. Her small 
 basin and water-jug seemed to her miserably insuffi- 
 cient, but her desire not to be late for chapel saved 
 her from further reflection regarding excessive 
 cleaidiness. 
 
 'I'he convent day began with half an hour for 
 meditation, and this was jnst over when Evelyn 
 entered the chapel. At half-past six there were 
 morning prayers, followed by Prime and Tierce; 
 at seven IMass and Exposition, and at a quarter 
 to eight breakfast ; and a breakfast of weak tea 
 and bread and butter made Evelyn feel tliat before 
 the end of the week she would be back in her Bays- 
 water flat. But taking her pur])ose between her 
 teeth, she determined not to yield so easily. She 
 followed Mother Hilda and the novices to the novi- 
 tiate, and tied on the blue apron that was given to 
 
 her. Every novice was expected to make her own 
 
 139
 
 140 SISTER TERESA 
 
 bed, and tidv and sweep out her cell before she 
 did any other work. They divided between them 
 such work as dusting the novitiate and sweeping 
 the stairs and passage, and keeping the Mother Mis- 
 tress's cell in cleanliness and order. 
 
 Evelyn had done plenty of housework in her 
 young-er days, but she seemed to have forgotten 
 how to use a broom, and the making of her bed 
 had exhausted her, and she felt more inclined to 
 get into it than to follow the Mother Mistress down 
 to Sext and Xone at nine o'clock. She managed, 
 however, to overcome her weakness, and she and 
 Sister Winifred and Sister Veronica preceded 
 Mother Hilda in the cloister, Avhere they joined 
 the rest of the community. After Sext and iSTone 
 a pause came, and none too soon did it come for 
 Evelyn, who felt she was giving way; and per- 
 ceiving her condition the Mother Mistress asked 
 her to come to the novitiate. Evelyn felt that to 
 sit in a cheerful sunny room, with windows look- 
 ing on to the garden, hearing the voice of the quiet 
 nun speaking to her, was the pleasantest hour she 
 could hope for. 
 
 " The centre of our life," said Mother Hilda, 
 " is the perpetual adoration of the blessed Sacra- 
 ment exposed on the altar. Our life is a life of 
 expiation ; we expiate by our prayers and our pen- 
 ances and our acts of adoration the many insults 
 wdiich are daily flung at our divine Lord by those 
 who not only disobey his commandments but deny
 
 SISTER TERESA 141 
 
 his very presence on our altars. To our prayers 
 of expiation ^ve add prayers of intercession ; we 
 pray for the many j^eoplc in this country outside 
 the faith who otTend our Lord Jesus Christ more 
 from ignorance than from malice. All our little 
 acts of mortification are oiTered with this intention. 
 From morning Mass until Benediction, our chapel, 
 as you know, is never left empty for a single in- 
 stant of the day; two silent watchers kneel before 
 the blessed Sacrament, oifering themselves in ex- 
 piation of the sins of others. This watch before the 
 blessed Sacrament is the chief duty laid upon the 
 members of our community. ]S[othing is ever al- 
 lowed to interfere with it. Unfailing punctuality 
 is asked from everyone in being in the chapel at 
 the moment her watch begins, and no excuse is 
 accepted from those who fail in this respect. Our 
 idea is that all through the day a ceaseless stream 
 of supplication should mount to heaven, that not 
 for a single instant should there be a break in the 
 work of prayer. Our Sisters are taught to feel 
 that, next to receiving Holy Communion, this hour 
 of prayer and meditation in the jDrcsence of our 
 Lord is the central factor in their spiritual life, 
 the axis on which their spiritual progress revolves. 
 If our numbers permitted it, we should have per- 
 petual adoration by day and night, as in the mother 
 house in France; but here the bishop only allows 
 us to have Exposition once a month throughout the
 
 142 SISTER TERESA 
 
 night, and all onr Sisters look forward to this as 
 their greatest privilege." 
 
 " It is a very beautiful life, Mother Hilda ; but 
 it is hard to bear." 
 
 " Only at first; you will bear it more and more 
 easily as you realise its beauty. Onee a week, in 
 the novitiate, I give instruetions to the novices on 
 our rule and its object, and perhaps this will prove 
 a help to you." 
 
 " And when shall I take my Avatch ?" 
 
 " I don't think dear Mother has fixed your hour 
 yet. She did not wish you to begin to-day ; we 
 must not overburdcu you with piety in the begin- 
 ning. In any case, the novices are not allowed more 
 than half an hour's watch in the day — only the 
 professed choir Sisters take an hour." 
 
 Obedience, the Mother Mistress declared, was the 
 beginning of the religious life, and Evelyn must 
 bear in mind she was a child in school, with noth- 
 ing to teach and everything to learn. 
 
 " The experience of your past life," said Mother 
 Hilda with a smile, " which you may think entitles 
 you to consideration, will probably only be a hin- 
 drance to 3'ou in the new life that you are begin- 
 ning. I would beg you to put all the teaching of 
 the world as far from your mind as possible, it 
 will only confuse you. What we think wise, the 
 world thinks foolish, and the wisdom of the world 
 is to us a vanity." 
 
 After the rule of obedience came the rule of
 
 SISTER TERESA 143 
 
 silence, and that, too, had to bo followed in what 
 seemed to her a painfully literal sense. Silence 
 from the saving of the Dc Profundls, after even- 
 ing recreation, until after Mass the next morning! 
 
 " Conversation is never allowed except at recrea- 
 tion, and all whispering in the passages and visits 
 to each others' cells are forbidden. The novices," 
 ^lother Hilda added, " are not allowed to speak 
 to any of the professed without special jiermission ; 
 but in your case the Mother Prioress has decided 
 that an exception Avill be made in favour of Sister 
 !^^ary John, as you and she will of course have 
 music to discuss ; but you must keep the rules 
 strictly as regards everyone else." 
 
 " Ma^Ti't I even speak to Mother Philippa ?" 
 
 " Xot unless Mother Philippa first speaks to 
 you." 
 
 Evelyn had not expected this complete interrup- 
 tion of all human intercourse, not only from the 
 outside world, but even from those who were ac- 
 tually M'ithin the walls of the convent. 
 
 Perhaps Mother Hilda saw what was passing in 
 her mind, and feeling that her new postulant had 
 received as much instruction as she could absorb in 
 one day, she looked at her watch, remarking that 
 she expected Sister Winifred and Sister Veronica 
 for their Latin lesson ; and a few minutes after 
 the two novices appeared, each with her breviary in 
 her hand. 
 
 The Latin lesson consisted mainly of explanation
 
 14:4: SISTEK TERESA 
 
 of the offices for the day, and reading alond for 
 practice and pronunciation, and the translation of 
 one or two of the psalms. Evelyn applied herself 
 to the lesson which ]\rother Hilda made interesting 
 by her enthusiasm for the subject and her intimate 
 knowledge of all that the breviary contains; and 
 the books were only closed when the Angelus rang 
 at twelve o'clock.
 
 XV 
 
 Then Evelyn remembered that she had not had a 
 word with the Mother Prioress, nor had she had a 
 Avord with Sister Mary John, though this was neces- 
 sary and could not be delayed much longer if she 
 Avcre going to sing at Benediction. She had looked 
 forward to speaking to this nun in the recreation 
 hour; but Mother Hilda, having regard for their 
 health, had kept them walking up and down St. 
 Peter's Path. The sun was hot, and the conversa- 
 tion seemed more trivial and disjointed than it had 
 done the night before ; and in her weariness Evelyn 
 had asked herself if she could endure this life to 
 the end of a week. 
 
 Rosary followed recreation, and Vespers followed 
 Rosary, and Evelyn had just gone up the novitiate 
 stairs, feeling that her patience and her piety were 
 equally exhausted, and wondering what would be 
 the next duty required of her, when Sister Veronica 
 appeared, and with her sweet, demure smile, she 
 said, " Reverend Mother would like to speak to you 
 in her room." 
 
 " Oh, thank you so much; I had just begun to 
 think I was never to see Mother Prioress again." 
 
 " I expect you are tired, aren't you ? The life 
 is hard at first." 
 
 lu 145 '
 
 146 SISTER TERESA 
 
 " Yes, I ain dreadfully tired," Evelyn said, con- 
 scious of a sudden inclination to tears. 
 
 '' I am sorry, but you know we shall all help you, 
 and you will feel better when you have had a little 
 talk with dear Mother. But you must come at 
 once," the little novice added in sudden alarm, for 
 Evelyn had shown no sign of immediate obedience. 
 " You must never keep Reverend Mother waiting ; 
 and please take off your apron; we never go into 
 her room with our aprons on." 
 
 Evelyn untied her apron, and flinging it on a 
 chair, hastened from the room. Veronica picked 
 up the discarded garment with a smile, and folded 
 it neatly in four, rolled it up and twisted the strings 
 carefully round it, and laid it on Evelyn's bed in 
 her cell. 
 
 At the same moment EvehTi was impetuously 
 knocking at the Prioress's door, with all the effusive- 
 ness of the actress, and none of the demurencss of 
 the novice. Sitting with the Prioress was Sister 
 Mary John, her strong, expectant face full of 
 pleasure at the sight of Evelyn. 
 
 " Dear Mother, it is nice of you to have sent for 
 me ; I was pining to see you." 
 
 " Oh, but postulants must learn patience, you 
 know ; and how are you getting on, my dear child ? 
 Have Mother Mistress's instructions filled you with 
 misgivings ?" 
 
 " I do feel rather bewildered, ]\rotlier, and I 
 am beginning to realise that no one outside the
 
 SISTER TERESA 147 
 
 convent has tlie slightest idea of what it is like 
 inside." 
 
 " Well, perhaps vou will feel more at home talk- 
 ing music with Sister Mary John for a bit." 
 
 Evelyn saw that Sister Mary John was longing 
 to interrupt the Reverend Mother, but she man- 
 aged to restrain herself. 
 
 " Well," the Prioress continued in her clear, even 
 tones, " it is she and you who must be responsible 
 for the convent music in future, and you must talk 
 over what is best for you to sing. You will both see, 
 I am sure, that in the little musical reformation you 
 are going to undertake, you should be guided in 
 your choice of music by wdiat will best serve the 
 interests of the community. Now, as regards the 
 reformation and the singing of the plain chant, the 
 Benedictine gradual versus the Ratisbon, do you 
 really think that our little lay congregation would 
 take an interest in the question ? Is the difference 
 between the two sufficient for the uncultivated to 
 distinguish ? That must be a question for the 
 future; the immediate question is, how can we ren- 
 der our daily Benediction service more popular ? 
 You have brought some music with you, Evelyn, I 
 believe ?" 
 
 " I have brought a good deal. Mother ; whatever 
 seemed most likely to be of use." 
 
 " Well, you and Sister Mary John had better, 
 take it into the library and look through it together,
 
 148 SISTER TERESA 
 
 and decide what to begin with. Yon can use the 
 harmonium there." 
 
 " The library harmonium is out of tune, 
 Mother," broke in Sister Mary John. 
 
 " If it is out of tune, we Avill send for the tuner 
 to-morrow, and you will be glad to hear that I am 
 going to arrange for more time to be given to choir 
 practice, but it will require some consideration." 
 
 " Well, that is a comfort at any rate," said Sister 
 Mary John, as they left the Prioress's room ; " your 
 coming amongst us has accomplished something 
 already. For years I have been telling the Rever- 
 end Mother that two hours a week are insufficient 
 for practising, but I could never make her see the 
 necessity for more." 
 
 " But we must practise every day if we are to ac- 
 complish anything," said Evelyn. 
 
 " I have not yet told you," said Sister Mary 
 John, " how glad I am that you have come. You 
 don't know how I have prayed for you," and the 
 brown eyes gazed at Evelyn with their radiant 
 smile. " I do hope you will stay ; you must try 
 your hardest." 
 
 " I don't know, I am sure ; at recreation to-day 
 I began to think I could not stand it much longer." 
 
 " Why, Sister Evelyn, you have only been here 
 half a day. You do not yet know what our life is. 
 Y^ou must not judge by the mere outside like that; 
 is it the food, or what ? Of course, I knew the food 
 is a trial to everyone at first."
 
 SISTER TERESA 149 
 
 " No, it is not so much the food," said Evelyn, aa 
 the two friends laid their bundles of music on the 
 library table, " that is trying, but one can outlive 
 the food. ]!^o, it is the sense of having all one's day 
 parcelled out for one in a round of trivial little 
 duties ; not a minute to call one's own, not a mo- 
 ment left to oneself, and I, Avho have been my own 
 mistress for years, I feel as though I should choke, 
 or scream and do something desperate." 
 
 " Yes, I understand," said Sister Mary John, 
 kindly, " I know^ the feeling." 
 
 " I knew you were the one person here who would 
 understand. I wonder if I shall be able to bear it — 
 oh, those recreations, I don't think I can get used 
 to them." 
 
 " I know, I know," repeated Sister Mary John, 
 and her clear comprehension soothed Evelyn's spirit. 
 " I know our life seems trivial from an outside 
 point of view. But is the conversation of the 
 novices sillier than that of the ordinary society 
 woman ? You are troubled because you do not yet 
 see the spiritual life that lies so close beneath the 
 trifling surface — all our real love of our Lord, all 
 our eager desire to serve Him, all our anxious en- 
 deavour not to be wholly unworthy of our vocation." 
 
 As Sister Mary John talked, her face lit up and 
 her eyes shone, with a clear, passionate joy, and 
 Evelyn saw that her submission was no lialf-hearted 
 one, that she had embraced the life with her heart 
 and her intellect, and if the yoke fretted here and
 
 150 SISTER TERESA 
 
 there, it was borne with the splendid courage of a 
 strong nature. In lier there was nothing petty or 
 narrow, her warm sympathies had never been chilled 
 by separation from the world, and though Sister 
 Evelyn recognised that Sister Mary John might 
 have many human faults — impatience and rash 
 judgment and self-will, from which Mother Hilda's 
 well-balanced and deeply religious nature was free 
 — yet it seemed to her that she would receive more 
 help from the impulsive enthusiasm of the one than 
 the delicate spirituality of the other. 
 
 " The first thing," the nun said, " is to grasp the 
 great ideal that permeates our life ; I am sure 
 Mother Mistress has spoken to you of it already," 
 
 Evelyn nodded. 
 
 " We must keep it always in the front of our 
 thoughts ; to us it must be the only real thought that 
 life has to offer. The externalities of our life are of 
 no account. What can they matter in the light of 
 eternity ? The pett}- routine which distresses you 
 is only the envelope, which will fade from your 
 eyes, you may be sure, and you will soon enter into 
 the enjoyment of the spiritual life, without which 
 life lived here would be unendurable, with it the 
 convent is an earthly paradise." 
 
 " Yes, but how may I arrive at this enviable state 
 of detachment?" 
 
 " By prayer," said Sister Mary John, and Evelyn 
 noticed how her face became suddenly absorbed. 
 " We must learn to pray. We come here because
 
 SISTER TERESA 151 
 
 we can pray bottor liero than in the world. We 
 can do nothing witliout pravor; but by prayer 
 we can do almost everything. Once we enter the 
 life of prayer this miserable world falls behind ns, 
 and we enter the real world. Let ns kneel down at 
 once and pray, before we do anything else." 
 
 They fell on their knees before the almost life- 
 sized crnciflx which linng between the windows, and 
 they rose from their knees with shining eyes which 
 smiled at one another. 
 
 " There, you look better already," said Sister 
 Mary John. " Now, what about the music ?" 
 
 When they had looked through all the music, 
 making separate heaps of pieces that seemed within 
 the compass of their little choir, Sister ]\rary John 
 said, " What will you sing to-day at Benediction ? 
 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 dis- 
 tant bell heard in the evening. Will you play 
 it so?"
 
 iXVI 
 
 And the idea of a bell sounding across the even- 
 ing landscape was in the mind of the congregation 
 when Sister Mary John played the octave ; and the 
 broken chords she played with her right hand awoke 
 a sensation of lights dying behind distant hills. 
 
 It is almost night, and amid a lonely landscape 
 a harsh rock appears, and by it a forlorn woman 
 stands — a woman who is without friend or any 
 mortal hope — and she commends herself to the care 
 of the Virgin. She begins to sing softly, tremulous 
 like one in pain and doubt, " Ave Maria, hearken to 
 the Virgin's cry." The melody she sings is rich, 
 even ornate, but the richness of the phrase with its 
 two little grace notes does not mitigate the sorrow at 
 the core ; the rich garb in which the idea is clothed 
 does not rob the song of its humanity. 
 
 Evelyn's voice filled with the beauty of the mel- 
 ody, and she sang the phrase which closes the stanza, 
 a phrase which dances like a puff of wind in an 
 evening bough, so tenderly, so lovingly, that acute 
 tears trembled under the eyelids. And all her soul 
 was in her voice when she sang the phrase of pas- 
 sionate faith which the lonely, disheartened woman 
 
 sings, looking up from the desert rock. Then her 
 152
 
 SISTER TERESA 153 
 
 voice sank into the calm beauty of the Ave Maria, 
 now given with confidence in the Virgin's interces- 
 sion, and the broken chords passed down the key- 
 board, uniting with the last note of the solemn oc- 
 taves, which had sounded through the song like bells 
 heard across an evening landscape. 
 
 " How beautiful she sings it," a man said out 
 loud, and his neighbour looked and wondered, for 
 the man's eyes were full of tears. 
 
 " You have a beautiful voice, child," said the old 
 nun, when they came out of church, " and it is a 
 real pleasure to me to hear you sing, and to know 
 that for the future your great gift will be devoted 
 to the service of God. Shall we go into the garden 
 for a little walk before supper ? We shall have it 
 to ourselves, and the air will do you good." 
 
 It was the month of June, and the convent garden 
 was in all the colour of its summer — crimson and 
 pink ; and all the scents of the month, stocks and 
 sweetbriar, were blown up from St. Peter's Walk. 
 In the long mixed borders the blue larkspurs stood 
 erect between Canterbury bells, and the bushy peo- 
 nies, crimson and pink, and, over all, the great va- 
 grant poppies showered their gay petals. Roses, 
 like pale porcelain, clustered along the low ter- 
 raced walk and up the house itself, over the stucco 
 walls; but more beautiful than the roses were the 
 delicate petals of the clematis stretched out like 
 fingers upon the walls. 
 
 An old nun was being wheeled up and down the
 
 154 SISTEK TERESA 
 
 terrace in a chair by one of the lay Sisters, that she 
 might enjoy the sweet air. 
 
 " I nuist introduce you to Sister Lawrence," the 
 Prioress said, '^ she will never forgive me if I don't. 
 She is the eldest member of our community; if 
 she lives another two years she will complete half 
 a century of convent life." 
 
 As they drew near Evelyn saw two black eyes 
 in a white, almost fleshless face. The eyes alone 
 seemed to live, and the shrunken figure, huddled 
 in many shawls, gave an impression of patriarchal 
 age. Evelyn saw by her veil that Sister Lawrence 
 was a lay Sister, and the old nun tried to draw her- 
 self up in her chair as they approached, and kissed 
 the hand of the Prioress. 
 
 " Well, Sister, how are you feeling ? I have 
 brought you our new musical postulant to look at. 
 I want to know what you think of her. You must 
 know, Evelyn," said the Prioress, " that Sister Law- 
 rence is a great judge of people's vocations; I 
 always consult her about my new postulants." 
 
 Sister Lawrence took Evelyn's hands between 
 hers, and gazed into her face so earnestly that Eve- 
 lyn feared her innermost thoughts were being read. 
 Then with a little touch of wilfulness, that came 
 oddly from one so old and venerable, the Sister 
 said, — 
 
 " Well, Reverend Mother, she is pretty, anyhow, 
 and it is a long time since we had a pretty postu- 
 lant."
 
 SISTER TERESA 155 
 
 " Really, Lawrence, I am ashamed of you," said 
 the Prioress with ])lavfnl severity; " Sister Evelyn 
 will be quite discdified." 
 
 " Mother, if I like them to be pretty it is only 
 because they have one more gift to bring to the feet 
 of our dear Lord. I see in Sister Evelyn's face that 
 she has a vocation. I believe she is the providence 
 that God has sent to help us through our diffi- 
 culties." 
 
 " We're all praying," said the Prioress, " that it 
 may be so."
 
 XVII 
 
 " Sister Cecilia, who is our sacristan, is a little 
 slow and forgetful," the Prioress said one day. 
 " She wants a little help, and you are just the one, 
 Evelyn, to help her, and you will soon learn the 
 work." 
 
 The sacristry was a large, cool room, wainscoted 
 in oak, and Evelyn followed the Prioress into a 
 sweet fragrance of lavender and orris root. She 
 was shown how the vestments were laid on the 
 shelves, with tissue paper between them, and how 
 they were covered with holland wrappers. These 
 vestments were the pride of the convent. They 
 dated from its prosperous times ; and Evelyn 
 thought, as she was shown the white satin vest- 
 ments for the priest, deacon, and sub-deacon, used 
 on Easter Sundays, the professed days of the Sis- 
 ters, and the visits of the Bishop, and the white em- 
 broidered vestments with the figure of Our Lady 
 in a blue medallion in the centre of the cross, used 
 for all feasts of the Virgin, how the altar raiment 
 had always been the pious labour and vanity of 
 women who inured their bodies to the discomfort 
 of coarse habits and lived in bare cells; how 
 women's natural desire for embroidered silks and 
 richly-assorted colours had found expression in the 
 156
 
 SISTER TERESA 157 
 
 adornment of the altar and the garmenting of a 
 priest. 
 
 There Averc two sets of red vestments, one made 
 of red and green brocade, and the colour of its 
 lining, Evelyn said, reminded her of beetroot, and 
 she got into the habit of calling them the " beet- 
 root ones," and it amused her to avoid putting them 
 for wear whenever she could. On another shelf 
 were the great copes in satin and brocade, gold 
 and white, with embroidered hoods, and orphries 
 Avith veils to match. The processional banners "were 
 stored in tall presses, and with them, hanging on 
 wire hooks, were the altar curtains, thick with gold 
 thread. 
 
 The pride of the convent in its vestments and 
 banners never ceased; how much had been paid 
 for them, and how much they were noAv Avorth, was 
 a constant subject of conversation. Once a whisper 
 had gone round that the Avhite satin vestments 
 might have to be sold, and the nuns had said they 
 would rather live on bread and Avater ahvays than 
 part Avith them. This Avas a little Avhile before 
 Evelyn had come to their help, and she had been 
 told that it Avas she Avho had saved the A-estments ; 
 so Avlien they Avere in use she raised herself in her 
 place so that she miglit see them better, and she kept 
 a special Avatchfulncss over them for moth and dust. 
 
 In the sacristy they Avere ahvays busy and ahvays 
 behindhand Avith their Avork. For the high altar 
 there Avere the curtains and embroidered frontals
 
 158 SISTER TERESA 
 
 and the tabernacle hangings, and as these had to 
 harmonise with the vestments it often happened 
 they were changed every day; and on the day be- 
 fore Mass for the Dead the whole altar had to be 
 stripped after Benediction and black hangings had 
 to be put on, and these had to be changed the next 
 morning after Mass was over. Then the manage- 
 ment of the candles demanded much attention. 
 They had to be all of equal length when the altar 
 was lighted for Benediction ; and to be economical, 
 with as splendid a show as possible, was the am- 
 bition of the sacristan. It was essential to make 
 sure that no candle should ever burn into its socket, 
 leaving less than the twelve ordained by the Church 
 for Exposition. 
 
 The work of the sacristy seemed to Evelyn to 
 be arranged with a view to giving the greatest 
 amount of trouble to the sacristan. It was the 
 Prioress's whim never to use the ordinary altar cloth 
 with an embroidered hem, but always cloths on 
 which lace frontals were lightly tacked, and the 
 sewing on of the lace without creasing the beautiful 
 white linen required great care and dexterity, and 
 the spilling of a little wax at once condemned an 
 altar cloth to the wash. Then, every memljor of the 
 community seemed to have an interest in the busi- 
 ness of the sacristy. Apart from the canonical 
 directions for divine service, there existed an un- 
 written code of customs of pious observances. Some 
 saints were honoured by having their banners ex-
 
 SISTER TERESA 159 
 
 hibited in the sanctiiary tliroiighoiit the octave of the 
 feast, whilst others were allowed little temporary 
 altars on which some relic could be exposed. The 
 Sisters themselves were often mistaken as to what 
 had been done on previous anniversaries, but the 
 Prioress's memory was unfailing, and in cases of 
 doubt every point had to be referred to her. One 
 of the strictest rules of the house was that the sacris- 
 tan took orders from none but the Prioress ; and 
 Evelyn rejoiced that this was so, for it gave her 
 frequent excuse for little hasty visits and chats in 
 the Prioress's room. 
 
 To arrange the high altar for a great feast Evelyn 
 would sometimes rob one of the other altars, espe- 
 cially if it were dedicated to a saint who did not 
 appeal to her; and the Prioress, coming one day 
 to see what progress was being made, found St. 
 Joseph's altar stripped save for a single pair of 
 candlesticks and two flower vases filled with arti- 
 ficial flowers. Evelyn was admonished, and she 
 dared to answer that she was not interested in 
 St. Joseph — " though, of course, he was a very 
 worthy man." 
 
 " My dear Evelyn, I cannot allow you to speak 
 in this way of St. Joseph, who is one of the patrons 
 of the convent, nor can I allow his altar to be robbed 
 in this fashion." 
 
 On another occasion the Prioress held to her 
 opinion regarding the vestments to be used, but 
 Evelyn answered, " Yes, Mother, I know. I always
 
 IGO SISTER TERESA 
 
 use the common ones for the martyrs; but the 
 apostles — well — are the apostles, and you would not 
 like them to be put off with the beetroot things." 
 Behind them stood Sister Cecilia, listening with 
 growing astonishment that a mere postulant should 
 dare to speak to the Prioress on terms of equality! 
 She took no pride in her position as sacristan, seem- 
 ing to see in her duties only a great deal of work 
 and a responsibility from which she would like to 
 be free. Evelyn could see that Sister Cecilia looked 
 upon her enthusiasms as amateurish, and that she 
 was convinced they would soon wear off. Mean- 
 while, the nun Avas glad to reliquish her work and 
 retire to the chapel to indulge in pious reverie. She 
 was the type of nun who is the despair of every 
 Reverend Mother — the idle devout — her common 
 complaint being that she had no time to say her 
 prayers. The Prioress thought that the community 
 prayers according to the rule of the convent were 
 sufficient, and one day she compelled her to return 
 to the sacristy, and had then compared Sister 
 Cecilia's work with Evelyn's. If she did not, the 
 Prioress said, put more fervour into her prayers 
 than she put into her work, they would avail her 
 little enough. 
 
 Evelyn had brought her experience of stage 
 decoration and her own talent for personal decora- 
 tion for the parts she had played into the decoration 
 of the chapel, and poor Sister Cecilia wondered at 
 the marvels which Evelyn accomplished with the
 
 SISTER TERESA 161 
 
 scantiest materials. But fired bv the Prioress's 
 remarks she henceforth refused to Evelyn any share 
 in the work of the altar, and on the feast of the As- 
 sumption she laboured until she could no more, 
 anxious to accomplish a decoration which would 
 Avin words of approval from the Reverend Mother. 
 But when she stopped to view her work at the end 
 of the day the conviction that it was worthless forced 
 her to ask Evelyn to put it right. 
 
 Evelyn tried to rearrange the altar as quietly and 
 as unobtrusively as she could, pretending that her 
 alterations were few and slight, and keeping herself 
 from looking towards the nun who prayed for 
 strength to conquer her sinful jealousy. Sister 
 Cecilia had told Evelyn she was not to tend the 
 sacred lamp any longer; but forgot this piece of 
 spitefulness in her contrition, and left the chapel 
 without filling the lamp; and that night, for luck 
 Avas always against her, the Prioress came down to 
 say her prayers when the community was in bed. 
 She found the chapel in darkness, and had to return 
 to her. room for matches. Xow it was a point of 
 ])ious observance that the Easter light, struck on 
 Holy Saturday, should be preserved through the 
 year, each new wick being lighted from the dying 
 one. Sister Cecilia's carelessness had broken the 
 continuity; she was severely rej^rimanded and dis- 
 missed from the sacristy. She ate her meals that 
 day kneeling on the refectory floor, and for many 
 
 a day the shameful occurrence was remembered. 
 
 11
 
 162 SISTER TERESA 
 
 Veronica was appointed in her place, and de- 
 lighted at her promotion, she wore a quaint little air 
 of importance, and hurried about with a bunch of 
 keys hanging from her belt by a long chain. 
 
 It amused Evelyn to find herself under Veronica's 
 orders, but the little novice was quite composed; 
 she merely said, '* I cannot help it. Sister Evelyn ; 
 of course you ought to be in my place, and I cannot 
 think wh}' dear Mother has arranged it like this." 
 
 They might talk in the sacristy, and Evelyn be- 
 gan to see into Veronica's nature ; and her innocent 
 nature revealed itself in little questions. 
 
 " Why do you want to be a nun. Sister Evelyn ?" 
 she said as tliey folded up the vestments after 
 Mass. 
 
 " Is it strange that I should Avish to be a nun ?" 
 
 " Yes, for you are not like any of us, nor has the 
 convent been the same since you came." 
 
 " Are you sorry I want to be a nun ?" 
 
 " Sorry, Sister Evelyn ? No, indeed. God chose 
 you from the beginning as the means he would em- 
 jiloy to save us, only I cannot sec you as a nun, 
 always satisfied Avith the life here." 
 
 " Everyone does not know from childhood what 
 they are going to do. You always knew your voca- 
 tion, Veronica." 
 
 " I can't imagine myself anything but a nun, and 
 yet I'm not always satisfied. Sometimes I'm filled 
 with longing, a great longing, and I feel as though 
 I could not live without it; yet I don't know what
 
 SISTER TERESA 163 
 
 I want. It is an extraordinary feeling. Do you 
 know what I mean, Sister Evelyn ?" 
 
 " Yes, clear, I think I do." 
 
 " It makes me feel quite faint, and it seizes me 
 so suddenly ; I've wanted to tell you for a long 
 time, only I haven't liked to. There are days when 
 it makes me so restless that I cannot say my prayers, 
 and so I know the feeling must be wrong." 
 
 The nun's words stirred an old scruple in Evelyn, 
 and she did not dare to answer, but Sister Veronica 
 continued as if talking to herself, — 
 
 " It is something in the quality of 3'our voice. 
 It thrills through me, and brings on this feeling 
 worse than anything. But as no one else seems 
 affected by your singing as I am, I fancied that it 
 was because you felt the same." 
 
 " I would not worry over it, Veronica. You'll 
 get over it. It will pass." 
 
 " I hope it will," Veronica said. Her eyes were 
 full of reverie, and behind her the open press ex- 
 haled a thin fragrance of lavender.
 
 XVIII 
 
 Father Ambrose was a Carmelite monk, a great 
 preacher, and a man of the highest sanctity, who 
 was a very old friend of the house, and the spiritual 
 adviser of the Prioress and many of her nuns. He 
 came once or twice a vear, and his visits were amons: 
 the great events of conventual history. He was 
 coming to them that week; he would stay with 
 Father Daly some days, and this visit was the sub- 
 ject of conversation during the morning's recrea- 
 tion. 
 
 It was pleasant to sit talking of him under their 
 great tree. The air and the earth were warm, and 
 Mother Hilda sat in the midst of her novices and 
 postulants, helping the conversation, guiding it 
 occasionally. Everyone was anxious to talk, but 
 everyone was anxious to think, too, for everyone 
 knew that slie would be questioned by the aged 
 monk, and that the chances of her being accepted 
 as a nun depended in no small measure on his 
 opinion of her vocation. But in the midst of their 
 personal interests in the monk, Evelyn noticed tliat 
 the eyes of the novices were frequently turned to 
 Veronica, and that they were all laughing at her. 
 
 " Have you noticed. Sister Evelyn, how beaming 
 Sister Veronica has looked for the last day or two ? 
 I can't think what has come to her." 
 164
 
 SISTER TERESA 165 
 
 " Yes, isn't it lucky for her to have been put in 
 the sacristy just before Father Ambrose's visit; 
 now she will be able to put out his vestments her- 
 self." 
 
 '^ Yes, and you may be sure we shall have all the 
 best vestments every day; and she will be able to 
 have any number of private interviews behind our 
 backs." " 
 
 " Xow, children, that Avill do," interrupted 
 Mother Hilda, as she noticed Veronica's crimson 
 cheeks as she bent over her work. 
 
 Evelyn wondered, and that evening in the 
 sacristy Veronica broke into expostulations with 
 an excitement that took Evelyn by surprise. 
 
 " IToAv could I not care for Father Ambrose ? I 
 have knoA\Ti him all my life. Once I was very ill 
 with pleurisy, I nearly died, and Father Ambrose 
 anointed me and gave me the last sacrament. I 
 had not made my first communion then, I was only 
 eleven, but they gave me the sacrament, for they 
 thought I was dying, and I thought so too, and I 
 promised our Lord I would be a nun if I got well. 
 I never told anyone except Father Ambrose, and 
 he has helped me all through to keep my vow — so 
 you see, he has been everything to me. I have never 
 loved anyone as I have loved Father Ambrose. 
 When he comes here I always ask him for some 
 rule or directions, so that I may have the happi- 
 ness of obevinc; him till his next visit, and it is 
 so trying, is it not. Sister Evelyn, when the novices
 
 166 SISTEK TERESA 
 
 make their silly little jokes about it, and of course 
 they do not understand, they can't; but to me 
 Father Ambrose means everything I care for, be- 
 sides, he really is a saint. I believe he would have 
 been canonised if he had lived in the Middle Ages. 
 He has jiromised to profess me. It is wrong, I 
 know, but really, I should hardly care to be pro- 
 fessed if Father Ambrose could not be by." 
 
 " So this," Evelyn thought, " is the passion of 
 this child's life, this spiritual love of an aged monk, 
 a love which is part and parcel of her highest and 
 holiest thoughts. It is the most real thing in a 
 life wholly purged of external events." 
 
 And to Evelyn, always curiously interested in 
 the mystery of sex, this spiritual love within the 
 convent was strangely pathetic. Evelyn noted the 
 change that had come over the little sacristan ; her 
 eyes shone, and her pale oval face had a pretty 
 fresh colour, and she seemed to dance through her 
 work. 
 
 Evelyn watched her sympathetically, understand- 
 ing instinctively that Veronica was jealous that any 
 other hands than hers should lay out the vestments 
 he was to wear, and she turned her head so that 
 Sister Veronica should not think she was being 
 watched ; and the little nun was happ}' in the corner 
 of the sacristy laying out the gold vestments he 
 was to wear, putting the gold chalice for him to 
 use, and the gold ernots, which Evelyn had never 
 seen used before, and she left out the finest towels
 
 SISTER TERESA 167 
 
 for him to dry liis hands. Being a monk ho liad a 
 larger amice than the ordinary j)riest, and Veronica 
 produced a coloured strip of embroidery, which 
 she tacked on to the outer hem of tlie amice so as 
 to give it the desired appearance when the monk 
 drew it over his head on entering or leaving the 
 sacristy. Weeks after, Evelyn came upon this amice 
 with the end)roidery attached put away in a secret 
 corner so that it should not be used in the ordinary 
 way, and when on the second evening of his stay 
 Father Ambrose preached familiarly to the nuns, 
 choosing his text from the Song of Solomon, and 
 dwelling upon the mystical union between Christ 
 and his earthly spouse, Evelyn felt that of all the 
 nuns it was probably Veronica w^ho penetrated most 
 fully into his meaning.
 
 XIX 
 
 Suddenly she noticed in herself a little of that 
 childish gaiety which had seemed to her to be one 
 of the characteristics of the Sisters, and she re- 
 flected that she owed her peace of mind to her daily 
 practice of obedience. She liked to break off in 
 the middle of a sentence, at the first note of the 
 Angelus or the De Profundis. She liked to hurry 
 in answer to any summons of the Prioress or the 
 IsTovice Mistress. 
 
 Obedience and chastity were the familiar spirits 
 of the place, and like guardian angels they watched 
 over her, and in the convent it seemed simple and 
 natural to believe in God and all the dogmas of the 
 Church. 
 
 In her first letter to her father she wrote: 
 
 " I am so hajipy here that I wonder why I re- 
 mained in the world so long. Eehind love and 
 behind fame there is the ache of living, and it only 
 ceases in a convent. I often look round wondering 
 how it was that I could have passed happiness by so 
 often ; that I should have searched for it so eagerly, 
 missing it always; that I should have gone so far 
 in quest of it, when all the time it was at hand. 
 You will think that I am mistaken, that I am de- 
 168
 
 SISTER TERESA 1G9 
 
 ceived bj the novelty of a new life, that I am en- , 
 chanted by a new adventure. It may be so, though 
 I do not think it is; but of this I am sure, that 
 those who have been in the convent longest are the 
 happiest of us all. I shall never forget how one 
 day last autumn, when the grass was soaked with 
 cold dew and the crisp leaves hung in a death-like 
 silence, I met one of the lay Sisters, Sister Bridget, 
 coming do\^Ti the path. She was carrying a pail of 
 water, and I noticed that she was going to our grave- 
 yard. She was going, she explained, to scrub the 
 tiles which covered the late Reverend Mother's 
 grave. ' Ah, well, Mother's room must have its 
 weekly turn out,' she answered, and when I pointed 
 out to her that the tiles were still clean, her answer 
 made it clear that she regarded the task of attend- 
 ing to the grave not as a duty but as a privilege. 
 Her face withered and ruddy like an apple reflected 
 an extraordinary contentment, and I felt that if she 
 were asked what she would do if she had to begin 
 life again, she would answer: I would begin it 
 again in a convent. She has worked for the com- 
 munity for nearly thirty years; she has been 
 through all the early years of struggle — a struggle 
 which has begun again — a struggle the details of 
 Avhich were not even told her, and which she had no 
 curiosity to hear. She is content to work on to 
 the end, believing that it was God's will for her to 
 do so. The lay Sisters can aspire to none of the 
 convent offices; they have none of the smaller dis-
 
 170 SISTER TERESA 
 
 tractions of receiving guests, and instructing con- 
 verts and so forth, and not to have as much time 
 for prayer as they desire is their penance. They 
 are humble folk who strive in a humble way to 
 separate themselves from the animal, and they see 
 heaven from the wash-tub plainly. In the eyes of 
 the world they are ignorant and simple hearts. 
 They are ignorant, but of what are they ignorant ? 
 Only of the 2:)assing show, which every moment 
 crumbles and perishes. I see them as I write — 
 their ready smiles and their touching humility. 
 They are humble workers in a humble vineyard, 
 and they are content that it should be so." 
 
 Speaking again of the happiness she had dis- 
 covered in the convent, she sajd : 
 
 *' I sometimes look around a little dazed by my 
 own happiness, and the happiness of those I see 
 about me. I can hardly believe it is all true ; life 
 moves so easily from the early morning until bed- 
 time. It flows (my comparison is a commonplace 
 one, I know) like a beautiful stream, a steady cur- 
 rent which bears onward happily and surely to- 
 Avards eternity. Everyone here has her work to do, 
 everyone is busy and not one is overworked. If 
 ever I felt disinclined for my work and wished for 
 idleness I should find no one to idle with me. At 
 every hour everyone is in her appointed place, doing 
 her appointed duty. The food is not very good, nor
 
 SISTER TERESA 171 
 
 very plentiful, for the nuns are poor. It is a little 
 trying, I admit, to feel always a little hungry. But 
 this inconvenience is slight, when we compare it 
 with the great inconvenience which we have to bear 
 with if we live in the world. Here, at all events, 
 ennui is unknown. The remarks which we hear so 
 often in the world, which I used to hear so often in 
 Owen Asher's society, in the country houses where 
 we used to visit — ' What shall we do this evening ? 
 What shall we do to-morrow ? Whom can we go 
 and see V are never heard here. Xor is there spite- 
 fulness nor jealousy, nor any divergence of aim; 
 our amhition is the same, and it is the greatest and 
 the noblest, for it is to love God, to jilease him and* 
 to put sin away. It is such happiness to feel that 
 we are all working for one common end. We know 
 one another intimately here, although we talk very 
 little, and were the hardships of convent life a 
 great deal worse than they are, they would be worth 
 bearing with because of that spiritual intimacy 
 which we find only in the cloister." 
 
 In another letter she said : 
 
 " I am not yet happy as the other nuns are happy, 
 because I am thinking of you. The ache of life is 
 still in me, and I rarely wake in the morning with- 
 out thinking of you. I see you in Rome, living in 
 your lonely rooms, with not one to look after you, 
 and then my life becomes bitter, for I think that the 
 happiness which I find here has not come to me by
 
 172 SISTER TEEESA 
 
 right, that I have snatched it. My duty is with you, 
 and we can never be happy except when we are do- 
 ing our duty. But you said you did not wish me 
 to come to you in Rome ; you left me to look after 
 the sale of Dowlands and of my flat ; you said you 
 were going to live with the friars, and that I should 
 be in your way until you had had time to find lodg- 
 ings for me. Indeed it was by your wish that I 
 came here, jis you did not w^ant me I came here to 
 help those who did want me, and I am helping them. 
 My singing brings crowds to Benediction every day, 
 I am not in the least vain about my singing now. 
 But I am praising myself. So I will tell you in- 
 stead of the Prioress, who is certainly a wonderful 
 woman. I see a great deal of her, and she seems to 
 read me through and through, and to see things in 
 me which I do not know myself, but which are, 
 nevertheless, quite true. The other day, when I 
 told her I had never been happy until I came here, 
 and that it seemed to me I had found out my life 
 at last, she said, — 
 
 " ' My dear Evelyn, you have hardly any per- 
 ception of what our life is, you know it only from 
 the outside, you are still an actress, you are acting 
 on a different stage, that is all.' 
 
 " I could not answer her, for I felt I had adapted 
 myself to the convent as I might to a new part ; I 
 do not say that the new part is not the part I shall 
 play to the end, but now and again I catch myself 
 playing a part. We are always playing parts in
 
 SISTEK TERESA 173 
 
 our life, no one is ever perfectly natural; we are 
 all conscious of our actions — at least I am. An ex- 
 ample will explain what I mean. The little peni- 
 tential exercises, such as kissing the floor, as a sign 
 of contrition for some petty fault, or kneeling for 
 permission to pass to one's place in choir or refec- 
 tory if one should chance to be late, are much more 
 distasteful to the other nuns than to me. The other 
 novices run from the furthest end of the convent 
 at the first sound of the bell, to avoid the risk of 
 what seems to them a humiliating ordeal. I look 
 upon these things as the etiquette of the convent, 
 just as it is the etiquette of the stage to allow a 
 man to kiss you whom you do not care for in the 
 least. The Prioress did not suspect how true her 
 remark was, and I did not tell her that in the first 
 week I was deliberately late for dinner in order to 
 test the sensation of kneeling before the entire com- 
 munity on the bare refectory floor. 
 
 " The other day when I was washing up dishes 
 in the scullery, I laughed aloud. Of course there 
 is nothing strange in it at all, but from the point of 
 view of the world it is difficult to imagine a 
 stranger transformation than the transformation 
 of a prima donna into a scullery maid. But the 
 world ! Does it matter what it thinks ? Shall I 
 ever forget Owen Ashcr's persistent worldlincss; 
 he sacrificed everything to the enjoyment of the 
 moment, and was the utdiappiest man I ever knew. 
 He was unhappy always, and the happiness which
 
 174 SISTER TERESA 
 
 I could not give bim and whicli lie could not give 
 me I see shining out of the eyes of the nuns, out 
 of the eves of these women who have renounced 
 everything that is said to make life pleasant. 
 
 " The nuns have their trials, and they bear them 
 as well as may be, for they are merely women, not 
 angels, and are not possessed of any supernatural 
 power of detachment from the ills of life. I have 
 seen them struggle against weariness and failing 
 health, and the novices sometimes astonish me by 
 candid little grumbles, generally about the food. 
 There is a good deal of irritability in the convent, 
 but I am sure that the nuns do possess a divine 
 something which outbalances the discomfort of 
 their lives. They possess an extraordinary seren- 
 ity of mind, and their optimism is delightful. As 
 far as the rule allows them they are kind to one an- 
 other, and I have seen none of that petty spite which 
 is said to exist whenever a number of women gather 
 together." 
 
 In a letter to Monsignor she said: 
 
 " Mother Philippa is our manager, all the house 
 accounts are in her charge, and her watchful econ- 
 omy saved the convent from shipwreck these many 
 years. Her talent for domestic economy found an 
 excellent outlet in the administration of an impe- 
 cunious convent. If she had stayed at home, her 
 abilities would have withered and she would have 
 become as useless as her dull sisters; not one of
 
 SISTER TERESA 175 
 
 them is married, and it is not likely that Mother 
 Philippa would have married if she had remained 
 at home. She is the one success in the family — 
 three dull sisters and a dull mother come to consult 
 the nun as to Avhat they shall do in every emer- 
 gency. Unfortunately they do not always take her 
 advice, and when they do not mistakes are the re- 
 sult. Mother Philippa's one trouble is her rela- 
 tions ; she dreads their visits. ' Poor Fred/ she 
 said the other day, speaking of her family, ' is only 
 an expense.' Was not that clev^er of her ? What 
 an admirable summing up! I can picture him 
 coming back from Canada and quite cheerfully ac- 
 cepting the welcome of the doleful sisters. But 
 this admirable woman is apparently not more pious 
 than you or I. 
 
 " Forgive my irrepressible levity, dear Monsig- 
 nor. The Reverend Mother often reproves me for 
 it, but my levity has helped me through five months 
 in a nunnery. Mother Philippa is one side of 
 St. Teresa, and she exists in every convent, but 
 the other side of St. Teresa I have not been able 
 to discover in anyone. Mother Philippa is whole- 
 some prose — the very best and plainest prose. The 
 nearest thing to St. Teresa here is certainly Sis- 
 ter Mary John. She does not fall to the ground 
 and remain rigid, but the other day after Benedic- 
 tion she forgot to give the sign to go. It is the 
 custom for the eldest Sister present to give the sign 
 to leave the chapel. We waited for Sister Mary
 
 176 SISTER TERESA 
 
 John, but no sign came. She remained kneeling, 
 lost in her delight, no doubt seeing God in heaven 
 quite clearly. The novices coughed and moved their 
 feet, but Sister Mary John did not hear them. At 
 last one of the novices nudged her, and she awoke 
 as from a dream, and heard as in amazement that 
 the half-hour was over. Half an hour! What is 
 half an hour to one who has been in eternity ? Cen- 
 turies looked out of her eyes. 
 
 " She and the Reverend Mother represent to me 
 ■what is most personal in the convent, and what is 
 nearest to me. Veronica is set apart; she is an 
 abstraction, she is perfect innocence walking on 
 earth, a white robe on which no speck of dust of 
 the way has fallen, an angel by Era Angelico ; but 
 the Reverend Mother and Sister Mary John, like 
 myself, have breathed the breath of the world ; and 
 those who have breathed the breath of the world 
 are easily recognisable from those who have not. I 
 have often thought this mixture of worldly alloy 
 is necessary to give hardness and durability to the 
 metal. If the whole of the community were com- 
 i:)Osed of nuns like Veronica and Mother Hilda it 
 could not continue, and I think the pecuniary diffi- 
 culties of this convent are largely owing to the fact 
 that the late Reverend Mother was without experi- 
 ence of the world. She, like Veronica and Mother 
 Hilda, had passed from the schoolroom to the no- 
 vitiate ; but the present Prioress is a woman who 
 has had experience of the life of the world, and I
 
 SISTEK TERESA 177' 
 
 confess to a great curiosity to know "what forced 
 her to give up the world. I feel sure that some 
 calamity fell upon her suddenly. I cannot other- 
 wise explain this subtle intelligence, lithe and hard 
 as steel, and eyes which divine at once a state of 
 soul, and out of which some far-off sorrow shines. 
 I can see the Prioress in the world, and the world 
 crumbling away at her feet, and every path crum- 
 bling away except the path that led her to the con- 
 vent. But I cannot see her in the intermediate 
 stages. 
 
 " Regarding myself, what have I to tell you 
 
 ? 
 
 that I am beginning to fear I have not a vocation." 
 
 In another letter to her father she said : 
 
 " Oh, to be in Rome and to hear the wonderful 
 choir vou write to me about ! To exchano-e the wail- 
 ing and wobbling of half-a-dozen nuns trying to 
 sing a piece of plain chant for a Mass by Palestrina. 
 How I long for Rome now that spring should be 
 here, a spare scant spring in England, a beauti- 
 ful, gracious. Southern spring in Rome, the sweet 
 Easter time chiming over scent-laden hills and 
 plains. Here on the edge of the Common the winter 
 is still bitter, loud winds are still blowing against 
 our door. The Common is covered with snow, and 
 the gorse is burnt up with frost. This Common 
 land is all we can see of the world. In summer 
 horsemen gallop along the hillsides, and the golf 
 players appear in silhouette on the evening skies. 
 
 12
 
 ITS SISTER TERESA 
 
 But in winter the Common is a waste. Yesterday 
 I saw a bent figure making its way against tlie blast. 
 A frost-bound and a soaking Common I have seen 
 from the windows of the novitiate until my eyes 
 turn from it in despair. Once, half in jest, half in 
 earnest, I suggested to our Xovice Mistress that we 
 might have the blinds down and light the lamp. 
 And when I look away from this terrible Common 
 land I am confronted with the continued childish- 
 ness of the nuns and the triviality of their interests ; 
 and the childishness within and the barren land 
 beyond the walls seem to interact upon each other, 
 and enforce the impression of living death. Of 
 course I know that the triviality which shocks me is 
 merely an outer skin which covers a great jourpose. 
 I try to remember this, but it is difficult for one 
 who has lived long in the world to accept the trivial 
 externality of scapulars and candles. And the trite 
 religious instruction which we receive in the novi- 
 tiate often jars. One of the things that shocks one 
 most is the discovery that there are fashions in 
 pieties as well as in petticoats. Xot being able to 
 imitate each others' bonnets, the nuns imitate each 
 others' pieties. If one says the Rosary at a special 
 hour, others want to do the same, and saints come 
 into, and go out of, fashion. The Prioress's sjiecial 
 saint, or the saint of any favourite nun, attracts a 
 great deal of admiration, and for the proper stimu- 
 lation of these special pieties it seems necessary to 
 put up little shrines in the passages, and the erec-
 
 SISTER TERESA 170 
 
 tion and the maintenance of these shrines fall on 
 me. The Avay the novices and postulants run to 
 me foF candles for the shrine of the saint that at- 
 tracts their devotion at that particular moment is 
 very trying; and it is hard not to tell them that 
 they have merely exchanged tlieir dolls for saints. 
 So I philosophise in this fashion : ' There are 
 trivial-minded women, I say, in convents as there 
 are in the "world, and the trivial-minded pray, as 
 they play, in trivial fashion. To the fashionable 
 woman the gown she is going to wear is the centre 
 of things, and the whole of her life is spent seeking 
 to escape from herself in little distractions. Only 
 a year ago the important to me was whether I could 
 sing a scene as easily as another singer. The truth 
 is, the external life is, and always must be, trivial.' " 
 
 In another letter to Monsignor she said : 
 
 " One of mv greatest consolations is to watch the 
 evening as the sun sets in the violet distances of 
 Richmond Park. I think it was Ulick Dean who 
 first taught me to see the country in the fairy-like 
 way in which I see it now. Or perhaps it is, and 
 I think it is, that the country is a great consola- 
 tion to everyone who has passed their first youth. 
 The country you see has always been, there never 
 was a time it did not exist. The country is nearly 
 as immortal as the sky, and it is nearer to us. I 
 don't think I could live in town again. When I
 
 180 SISTER TERESA 
 
 leave here I shall live in the country. The last 
 time I returned to Monmouth Mansions I looked 
 round and I felt suddenly that I could not go on 
 living in a flat. I felt I could not endure the daily 
 routine, that I should have to do something else ; 
 then I felt the selfishness of it — getting up in the 
 morning to discuss with my servant what we should 
 eat. That is always the first thing one does in a 
 flat, and then one thinks how one can spend the 
 day most pleasantly to oneself. One thinks of the 
 visits one may pay in the afternoon, and of the 
 concerts and the theatres one may go to in the even- 
 ing. To lead such a life year after year, knowing 
 well that thousands have not sufficient food, nor a 
 room to sit in, has become impossible to me. Then 
 I need occupation. I am no longer interested in 
 the things that used to interest me, and since I 
 have been in this convent I have gone much further 
 on the road on which I started when I first went 
 to confess to you. So when I leave here, whether 
 I live in England or in Italy, I shall live in the 
 country, for my own sake and for the sake of others ; 
 for I have a little plan. I have thought that if I 
 save two-thirds of my income I shall have enough 
 money in three years to buy a cottage and a large 
 garden. Once you get away from London land is 
 not dear, and in Italy I daresay it is cheaper still. 
 
 " I used to do housework when a girl, and the 
 convent has brought me back to it again, for here 
 everyone has to sweep and to scrub and to brush.
 
 SISTER TERESA 181 
 
 So I have thought that with another woman to help 
 me, a sort of lady help, or a nurse, one who has 
 been trained as a hospital nurse, we might be able 
 to attend on ourselves and the six little cripple boys 
 whom I would take to live with me. The little boys 
 could work in the garden, and we could sell the 
 vegetables and the eggs and the chickens, for of 
 course we shall keep a poultry farm too; and I 
 hear there is a good deal of money to be made by 
 poultry. We could keep a pony and light cart, 
 and one of the little boys, the one that was the 
 least crippled, could look after the pony. There 
 would not be much work to do in the cottage; for 
 things do not get dirty in the country as they do 
 in town, and there would not be much furniture — 
 some plain tables and plain cupboards and plain 
 shelves. The shelves will be painted green, and 
 some nice green and yellow pottery will stand upon 
 them. I must do something when I leave here, 
 and I can think of nothing better than that ; I am 
 indeed very full of it, I think of it all day, and 
 only fear that something will happen to prevent the 
 realisation of my little plans. For things never 
 come quite right in this world; the threads seem 
 to slip out of our hands as we are going to tie the 
 knot. There will be no wall round our garden, 
 but a yew hedge will make a good background for 
 flowers, lilies especially. The wall is one of the 
 things that spoil the convent for me. But round 
 my cottage, as I have said, there will be no wall,
 
 182 SISTER TERESA 
 
 only a hedge, and all round for miles that sort of 
 rich swelling country which I love — shady hillsides, 
 and a little distance off a stream twisting through 
 flat meadows by a sleepy town ; such a stream as 
 brought the swan to Elsa of Brabant ; you see one 
 cannot quite forget one's past. I long for the coun- 
 try and for my little home for crippled children. 
 I once saw a hare beating a tambourine in Regent 
 Street, and the beating of the tambourine by this 
 woodland creature seemed to make an infinitely 
 pathetic picture, and one which is strangely sjm- 
 bolic of many human lives. I long, as the poor hare 
 must have longed, for wide hillsides; and, landing 
 on the highest point in the garden, I lose myself 
 in the blue distances. I cannot tell you how I long 
 for the return of the spring — I want to see the 
 garden returning to life. St. Francis used to 
 sit talking to the fire, and worshipped the sun, or 
 very nearly, and I like to watch the tall trees. How 
 gaily they talk in a light wind, and how sadly they 
 whisper when the wind dies, and in the dense winter 
 rain they stand as miserable as animals in the rain."
 
 XX 
 
 " You see, Evelyn," the Prioress said, " it is 
 contrary to the whole spirit of the religions life to 
 treat the lay Sisters as servants, and thongh I am 
 snre yon did not intend any nnkindness, they have 
 complained to me once or twice of the way you 
 order them about." 
 
 " But, dear Mother, it seems to me that we're all 
 inferior to the lay Sisters. To slight them " 
 
 " I'm sure you did not do so intentionally." 
 
 " I have said, do hurry up, but I only meant that 
 I was in a hurry. I do not think anything you 
 could have said could have pained me more." 
 
 Seeing that Evel^ai was hurt, the Prioress said 
 the Sisters had no doubt forgotten all about it by 
 now. But Evel^m wanted to know which of the 
 Sisters had complained, so that she might beg her 
 pardon. 
 
 " She does not want you to beg her pardon." 
 
 " I beg you to allow me ; it will be better that I 
 should, the benefit will be mine." 
 
 The Prioress shook her head, and the conversa- 
 tion passed from the lay Sisters to the difficult 
 question of the contemplative and active orders. 
 Evelyn had lately been reading the story of a ser- 
 vant girl, who had discovered genius in herself, 
 
 183
 
 184 SISTER TERESA 
 
 genius, Evelyn said, compared to the genius of 
 Joan of Arc. It had all happened in a little sea- 
 port town, and it had begun in a sudden conviction 
 which the new priest had felt when he entered the 
 toM'n for the first time. As he ascended the avenue 
 leading to the town he had heard a voice, — 
 
 " What have you come here for if not to rescue 
 the aged poor ?'' 
 
 He wondered, not knowing how he was to do this, 
 being bereft of all money. But the tissue of things 
 had woven itself out miraculously — miraculous 
 hands had always seemed weaving on that woof, 
 and the first lives to be woven into it were the little 
 seamstresses, who had sat amid the rocks on Sun- 
 day in front of the bright gorse asking each other 
 what the priest had meant when he had made them 
 i:>romisc never to be wanting in their duties of char- 
 ity towards the aged poor; very likely the priest 
 did not know himself when he exacted the promise 
 from them, 
 
 Isot till then does Jeanne, the marvellous, ex- 
 traordinary Jeanne, appear in the story. 
 
 She had been a goat-herd in childhood, and the 
 single event of her life in any way ominous of her 
 mission was her refusal of an offer of marriage. A 
 young sailor had been anxious to marry her, and 
 she had at first seemed willing, and then, without 
 knowing why, from some impulse, she had hesi- 
 tated, and when he returned from a voyage she had 
 told him she never intended to marry. The won-
 
 SISTER TERESA 185 
 
 der of this lies in the fact that she never knew in 
 the least why she had refused the sailor, not why- 
 she was determined not to marry, and it was not 
 for nearly twenty-seven years afterwards that the 
 importance of this early act of renunciation had 
 been revealed to her. For twenty years she worked 
 in humble service. She attended a priest till he 
 died, and then she went to live with his sister, and 
 remained with her till she died. During all these 
 twenty years Jeanne had saved only twenty-four 
 pounds, and with this money she returned to her 
 little seaport town, where there was no provision 
 for tlie aged poor, where the aged poor starved in 
 the streets or in garrets, in filth and vermin, in 
 hunger and thirst, without hope of relief from any- 
 one. 
 
 To this cruel little village Jeanne returned with 
 her twenty-four pounds. She rented a garret with 
 an old woman who was hardly able to help herself 
 at all ; and every day she went to the market-place 
 to find some humble employment ; and so she lived 
 till she was forty-seven. It was then that the two 
 little seamstresses heard of her, and the Cure sent 
 for her and told her of the good that might be done 
 for the aged poor and the blind beggars and such 
 like who prowled about the walls of the churches 
 in rags and vermin. On leaving the priest she had 
 said, — 
 
 " I do not understand, but I have never heard 
 anyone speak so beautifully."
 
 186 SISTER TERESA 
 
 But how were thev, who could hardly support 
 themselves, to support the poor ? She did not know, 
 hut next day, when she went to see the priest, she 
 understood everything, and it was in her garret 
 that she harboured the first pauper, a poor blind 
 woman, whom the seamstresses had discovered in 
 the last stage of neglect and age. It was Jeanne 
 who discovered how they might support those who 
 could not support themselves. It was she who 
 seized the basket and said, " I'll beg for them." 
 
 " There is a genius for many things besides the 
 singing of operas, the painting of pictures, and the 
 writing of books," Evelyn said, " and Jeanne's 
 genius was begging for her poor folk. There is 
 nothing more touching in the world's history than 
 her journey in the milk cart to the regatta." 
 
 She was accustomed to beg from door to door, 
 but to intrude upon the crowd of fashionable folk 
 bent on amusement she did not dare. Her courage 
 almost failed her, but clasping the cross which hung 
 round her neck, she entered the crowd of pleasure- 
 seekers, saying, " Won't you give me something for 
 my poor folk ?" 
 
 She begged with genius — a tall, thin, curious, 
 fantastic figure, considered simple by some, but 
 really gifted for the task which had been discov- 
 ered to her in her middle age. 
 
 She begged that day and every day with genius. 
 It is told that, bored by her persistence, a man had 
 slapped her in the face_, and that she had answered.
 
 SISTER TERESA 187 
 
 " Tliat is perfectly right, that is just what is suited 
 to me; now what are jou going to give me for my 
 poor folk ?" On another occasion at some regatta 
 or fancy fair, where wealth and pleasure had col- 
 lected, some young men had teased her, and having 
 teased her they apologised and had given her five 
 francs, and she had answered, " At that price you 
 may tease mo as much as you please." 
 
 " It is extraordinary to think how this woman, 
 unlettered, unread, and uncouth, had been able to 
 invent a system of charity which has penetrated all 
 over Europe. I do not know which," Eveh-n said, 
 " I realise most clearly, Jeanne or Teresa ; they do 
 not seem to me like women who have existed, but 
 like women who always exist, who are part of the 
 spiritual substance with which the world is made." 
 
 The Prioress reminded Evelyn of Jeanne's start 
 in the morning, when, after having made the beds 
 and cleaned the garret, she took down her big bas- 
 ket. 
 
 " Now do not forget to ask for the halfpenny a 
 week which I used to get at the grocery store." 
 " Xow I am sure you will forget to ask for my 
 soup." 
 
 Many used to hide their food under the bed- 
 clothes, and sell it surreptitiously for food for the 
 pigs, leaving the Little Sisters almost starving; but 
 their good humour was unfailing, they only said, 
 " So-and-so has not been so nice as usual this after- 
 noon."
 
 188 SISTER TERESA 
 
 " Yet, I cannot but feel — dear Mother, how am 
 I to say it ? — that the Little Sisters " 
 
 " Do not be afraid, Evelyn," the Prioress said ; 
 " you mean that their way is perhaps a better way 
 than ours." 
 
 " It seems so, Mother, does it not ?" 
 
 " My dear Evelyn, it is permissible to have 
 doubts on such a subject — which is the better, acts 
 of mercy or prayer ? It is impossible not to doubt ; 
 we have all had our doubts on this subject, and it 
 is the weakness of our intelligence that causes these 
 doubts to arise." 
 
 " How is that. Mother ?" said EveljTi. 
 
 " It is so easy to realise the beauty of the relief 
 of material suffering — the flesh is always with us; 
 we realise so easily what it suffers, and the relief 
 of suffering seems to us the only good. Suffering 
 appeals to us through such direct channels. A hun- 
 gry man always seems more real than a man who 
 prays. But in truth bread and prayer are as neces- 
 sary to man, one as the other. When the veil of 
 materialism is woven too densely, someone always 
 comes to draw it aside. 
 
 " You have never heard the story of the founda- 
 tion of our order. It will not appeal to the animal 
 sympathies as readily as the foundation of the Little 
 Sisters of the Poor, but I do not think it is less 
 human." 
 
 Then the Reverend Mother told how, in Lyons, 
 a sudden craving for God had occurred in a time
 
 SISTER TERESA 189 
 
 of extraordinary prosperity. Three young women, 
 daughters of bankers and a silk merchant, sur- 
 rounded with every luxury, wearied of their wealth 
 and the pleasures which wealth brought them, had 
 almost simultaneously decided, without any inter- 
 communication, that this world is a vanity, and that 
 they were willing to forego it. 
 
 This story went to the core of Evelyn's life. Eor 
 she too had had wealth and fame and pleasure, and 
 had found them to be nothing. 
 
 " But how," she asked, " had these women found 
 that the world was not worthy of their seeking? 
 Did they grow weary of it as I did, or was there 
 a revelation?" 
 
 " There were three distinct revelations," the 
 Prioress rejDlied. " Their souls were long prepared 
 for the revelation ; they wearied of the luxury and 
 materialism of their lives and the pleasures with 
 which they were surrounded, and sought to escape 
 from it. They were good women and they waited 
 for a sign, which was vouchsafed them. They were 
 not women who were specially gifted like Jeanne 
 to attend on the poor. At Lyons, at that time, the 
 poor were not so plentiful as they were in the little 
 seaport town, and it was towards prayer the souls 
 of these good women turned rather than to good 
 works. It appears they suddenly craved for prayer 
 as they might have for light. They felt the world 
 was dying, for no one prayed. But how to give a 
 practical form to their idea they didn't know.
 
 190 SISTER TERESA 
 
 Maybe they doubted, as we all doubt in moments 
 of weakness, the utility of prayer, and argued 
 against their instincts. One certainly did. She 
 herself tells how, unable to decide whether she 
 should embrace a practical or a contemplative life, 
 she knelt doAvn while a great fire was blazing in 
 the town. Owing to the strength of the wind, the 
 firemen could not extinguish it. The fire was in 
 one of the great silk warehouses, but it Avas not for 
 the preservation of her father's wealth that she 
 prayed, but for the safety of an asylum for the 
 aged which adjoined the warehouse, and which at 
 that moment seemed sure of destruction. She was 
 hardly on her knees when the wind suddenly lulled, 
 and the flames were extinguished. And at the same 
 moment she heard a voice in her heart saying to 
 her quite plainly, ' If one prayer can do this, what 
 might not an order do whose mission it is to 
 pray.' Her father, of course, told her that she was 
 mistaken, and that she had heard no voice. But of 
 what use is it to tell those who have heard a voice 
 that they have not heard it ?" 
 
 " And the other two girls — were each of them 
 vouchsafed a sign?" Evelyn asked. 
 
 " Yes, in each case there was a sign. One was 
 to be married to a rich silk merchant — a man whom 
 she could not care for under any circumstances, 
 and who was doubly repugnant to her now she had 
 conceived the idea of a religious life — a man full 
 of worldliness, and concerned only with this world.
 
 SISTEll TERESA 191 
 
 There seemed no escape fur her, and she felt she 
 had not the power to resist the will of her entire 
 family, so she turned to God and begged of him 
 to provide some means of escape. Xext day her 
 suitor told her he could not marry her. In the 
 night it had been revealed to him that this could 
 not be. lie had struggled against the conviction, 
 and he had argued with himself, but in vain. He 
 could explain nothing, except that it was so." 
 
 " And the third one ?" Evelyn asked. 
 
 " The third incident Avas perhaps even more 
 striking. She was walking through a wood, and on 
 the other side of the river she saw two men en- 
 gaged in a duel. She heard afterwards that this 
 duel was to be fought to the death. But they were 
 evenly matched and neither could vanquish the 
 other. They returned to the contest again and 
 again, and, in the face of this murder to be com- 
 mitted, she knelt down and prayed that it might 
 be averted. Suddenly one declared he could fight 
 no further, a conviction having been borne sud- 
 dcnlv in upon him that he was doing wrong, and, 
 unable to resist it, he told his enemy what had 
 happened, saying, ' It matters not in the least to 
 me if you consider me a coward, I cannot continue 
 this fight.' These three women confided their ex- 
 periences to the same confessor. The priest him- 
 self had long been meditating a convent for men or 
 women whose lives should be wholly devoted to 
 prayer, for it had been borne in upon him too that
 
 192 SISTER TERESA 
 
 some make-weiglit was necessary in this city wholly 
 devoted to the making of money and to the pleasure 
 which money can buy." 
 
 Evelyn was interested in the story of these three 
 founders of the order — ^these three women born 
 among the sins of luxury in a materialistic society, 
 to whom had come three distinct revelations. She 
 was about to ask the Prioress the intimate history 
 of the first foundation when the Reverend Mother 
 interrupted, as it were, her thoughts, and said, — 
 
 " Any dej^reciation of the active orders is of 
 course out of the question, but the desire to under- 
 stand them is not depreciation. The good done by 
 the active orders in the world is more obvious, 
 more readily understood by the average man, who 
 will say, ' Ah, the Little Sisters of the Poor — I 
 imderstand that; but the Carmelites, who merely 
 jDray, of what good are they V But all that the 
 average man does not understand is not necessarily 
 useless. The truth is that the active orders and the 
 contemplative orders are identical when we look be- 
 low the surface." 
 
 " How is that. Mother ?" 
 
 " The mission of the active orders is to relieve 
 physical suffering, and they accomplish a great deal, 
 but not in the direction which the world thinks. 
 The world thinks that the object of the Little Sis- 
 ters of the Poor is the elimination of suffering from 
 the world, or at least the reduction of suffer- 
 ing."
 
 SISTER TEKESxV 193 
 
 ** Surely their efforts make an appreciable differ- 
 once in the sufferings of the world?" 
 
 " My clear child, a certain amount of suffering 
 is inseparable from human life. If you eliminate 
 on one side the growth is greater on the other. By 
 preserving the lix'es of the old people you make the 
 struggle harder for others. There is much the 
 same amount of suffering in the world as there was 
 before the Little Sisters of the Poor began their 
 work. It is very doubtful whether the suffering to- 
 day is not equal to the amount of suffering that ex- 
 isted fifty years before the order came into existence. 
 That is what I mean." 
 
 " Then, dear ]\Iother, the order does not fulfil its 
 l)urpose ?" 
 
 " On the contrary, Evelyn, it fulfils its purpose, 
 but its purpose is not that which the world thinks. 
 It is by tlie noble example they set that the Little 
 Sisters of the Poor achieve their purpose. It is by 
 forsaking the world that they achieve their purpose, 
 hy their manifestation that the things of this world 
 are not worth considering. They pray largely in 
 outward acts, whereas the contemplative orders 
 pray only in thought — the purpose, as I have said, 
 of both is identical, that this Avorld is a negligible 
 quantity. The good they do is by the creation of 
 an atmosphere of goodness. There are two atmos- 
 pheres in this world — the atmosphere of good and 
 the atmosphere of evil, and both are created by 
 
 thought, whether thought in the concrete form of an 
 
 13
 
 194 SISTER TERESA 
 
 act or by thought in its purest form, an aspiration. 
 All those Avho devote themselves to prayer, whether 
 their prayers take the form of good works or whether 
 their prayer 2)asses in thought, collaborate in the 
 production of a moral atmosphere, and it is the 
 moral atmosphere created by prayer which enables 
 man to continue in human life. 
 
 " Of the power of thought over matter I have 
 given you three instances; but you, my dear Eve- 
 lyn, need less proof of it than any other, for have 
 you not often told me how our prayers, on more 
 than one occasion, have saved 3'ou from the evil 
 designs of your lover ?" 
 
 " As you state it. Mother, it seems clear ; I did 
 not think of it in that way before." 
 
 " How interesting it would be to write the history 
 of an order, the central idea of which should be the 
 power of thought over matter." 
 
 But the three nuns who came to England about 
 thirty years ago to make the English foundation did 
 not interest Evelyn very keenly. Her interest was 
 not caught until the Prioress told her how, just at 
 the time when they seemed on the point of failure, 
 a young girl, in the best society, rich, beautiful, and 
 surrounded by admirers, came to think, just as Eve- 
 lyn had done, that the life of the world was a mere 
 vanity, and had decided to dedicate her life to God. 
 Her story was this : 
 
 " She had been educated in a convent, and when 
 she left, after her first ball, she told her father and
 
 SISTER TERESA 195 
 
 mother that she wished to be a iniii. Her parents 
 besought her to consider her resolution and slie 
 agreed to do this, and for two years she went to balls 
 and parties, seemingly the most worldly among her 
 companions; but at the end of a year of her pro- 
 bationship in the world she said, ' I have waited a 
 year, because you Avished me to, and now I have 
 come to tell you that I wish to enter a convent.' 
 You see how analogous her story is to yours, Evelyn. 
 It was the same vocation that brought you both here. 
 It was with five thousand j^ounds out of the thirty 
 thousand that this girl gave that the nuns bought 
 the old country house in which wc are now living. 
 The late Prioress is blamed for this extravagance, 
 and I think very unjustly, for how could she have 
 foreseen the increased taxation. As a growing sub- 
 urb the taxation became heavier." 
 
 Then Evelyn heard that a portion of the old 
 house had been put aside for guest rooms ; but the 
 boarders who came were of the non-paying sort — 
 penniless converts turned out by their relations, 
 governesses, etc. And she heard how no more rich 
 postulants came to the convent, and of the money 
 the convent had lost in the railway, and how it came 
 to be lost at a most unfortunate time, as only a few 
 days before the lawyer had written to say that the 
 Australian mine, in which most of their money was 
 invested, had become bankrupt. So there was no 
 help for it, they had to mortgage the property, and 
 that was the beginning of their real difficulties, for
 
 196 SISTEK TERESA 
 
 as the land became valuable, the mortgagees became 
 more and more anxious to foreclose. Once the con- 
 vent had been late in paying the yearly interest on 
 the money they had borrowed, and the mortgagees 
 had insisted upon the penal interest. 
 
 " But, my dear Reverend Mother, I have offered 
 to lend you the money." 
 
 " It is impossible for us to take your money, 
 Eveh-n ; we want a great deal of money, and a more 
 legitimate means must be found than borrowing 
 from you. The convent roof wants re-slating and 
 the chapel wants re-decorating, and we spare every 
 penny we can from our food and clothing to buy 
 candles for the altar; and the twelve candles that 
 have to burn there are quite an item in themselves ; 
 and another item, and a very considerable one, is 
 the expense of the resident chaplain. The nearest 
 parish is some distance, and cannot supply a priest 
 every day. Frankly, Evelyn, w^e are at our wits' 
 end." 
 
 " You have no idea. Mother, how all you have 
 said interests me, and the personal application 1 
 make of it to my own life. You said just now that 
 you hoped one day I should become a member of 
 this community. I am well aware how incongruous 
 it would be to have me in a convent, and how ill my 
 past life accords with your lives; but I have long 
 wished to be a nun — the idea has been growing 
 within me, and as far as I know it is quite a sincere 
 one ; but there is an impediment, and it is that that
 
 SISTER TERESA 197 
 
 is breaking my heart — I do not see how I can be- 
 come a nun. I am so happy here that I dread the 
 letter which will come and order me away from 
 yon." 
 
 " Then your anxiety is not that yon should fail 
 to live according to our rule ?" 
 
 " Not in the least, Mother, the reason is not a 
 personal one; it is on account of my father. You 
 see I cannot forsake him a second time ; forgive me, 
 Mother, for of course the motive is quite a different 
 one, but I cannot forsake my father." 
 
 The Prioress asked her if she had spoken to Mon- 
 signor on this subject or if she had laid the matter 
 frankly before her father, telling him that she be- 
 lieved she had a vocation for a religious life. 
 
 She said she had not consulted Monsignor at all 
 nor her father in the explicit manner in which the 
 Prioress seemed to think she should have done. The 
 blood flew to her face, and she laughed a little, and 
 then confessed, with some reluctance and a sense 
 of incongruity, that it was Owen Asher who had 
 told her that her duty lay with her father and not 
 at all with the convent, and that by going into a con- 
 vent she was only obeying a personal inclination, 
 and according to her new conception of life personal 
 inclination was the very thing which should be 
 avoided on all occasions. He had therefore bidden 
 her go to her father, this was her last obedience to 
 him ; and she had promised her father to go to him
 
 198 SISTER TERESA 
 
 as soon as he was settled in Rome and was ready to 
 receive her. 
 
 The conversation paused, and then Evelyn asked 
 the Prioress to advise her. 
 
 " I cannot forsake my father, can I ? Owen 
 Asher was quite right when he told me I must go 
 and live with my father." 
 
 " The advice comes to you in a very doubtful 
 way, my dear child, and from an equivocal side; 
 I will only say you have reason to doubt the counsel 
 of a man who was capable of acting towards a 
 young girl as he acted towards you ; I will not say 
 any more — at least not for the present." 
 
 " But you wall think over it, dear Mother, and 
 tell me." 
 
 Late that night a telegram came from Rome tell- 
 ing Evelyn that her father was dangerously ill, and 
 that she was to start at once for Rome.
 
 XXI 
 
 The wind had gathered the snow into the bushes 
 and all the corners of the Common, and the whole 
 earth seemed but a little brown patch, with a dead 
 grey sky sweeping by. For many months the sky 
 had been grey, and heavy clouds had passed slowly, 
 like a funeral, above the low horizon. The wind 
 had torn the convent garden until nothing but a few 
 twigs remained; even the laurels seemed about to 
 lose their leaves. The nuns had retreated with 
 blo\\Ti skirts; Sister Mary John had had to relin- 
 quish her digging, and her jackdaw had sought 
 shelter in the hen-house. 
 
 One night when the nuns assembled for evening 
 prayer, the north wind seemed to lift the roof as 
 with hands ; the windows were shaken ; the nuns 
 divined the wrath of God in the wind, and Miss 
 Dingle, who had learnt, through pious incantations, 
 that the Evil One would attempt a descent into the 
 convent, ran to warn the porteress of the danger. 
 At that moment the wind was so loud that the por- 
 teress listened perforce to the imaginations of Miss 
 Dingle's weak brain, thinking, in spite of herself, 
 that some communication had been vouchsafed to 
 Miss Dingle. " Who knows," her thoughts said, 
 *' who can say; the ways of Providence are in- 
 
 199
 
 200 SISTER TERESA 
 
 scrutable;" and she looked at the little daft woman 
 as if she were a messenger. 
 
 As they stood calculating the strength of the lock 
 and hinges the door bell suddenly began to jingle. 
 
 " He would not ring the bell ; he would come 
 down the chimney," said Miss Dingle. 
 
 " But who can it be/' said the porteress, " and 
 at this hour ?" 
 
 " This will save you ;" Miss Dingle thrust a 
 rosary into the nun's hand and fled down the pas- 
 eage; " be sure to throw it over his neck." 
 
 The nun tried to collect her scattered thoughts 
 and her courage. Again the bell jingled; this time 
 the peal seemed crazier than the first, and rousing 
 herself into action, she asked through the grating 
 who it might be. 
 
 " It is I, Sister Evelyn ; open the door quickly^ 
 Sister Agnes." 
 
 The nun held the door open, thanking God it was 
 not the Devil, and Evelyn dragged her trunk 
 through the door, letting it drop upon the mat 
 abruptly. 
 
 " Tell dear Mother I want to speak to her — say 
 that I must see her — be sure you say that, and I will 
 wait for her in the parlour." 
 
 " There is no light there ; I will fetch one." 
 
 " j^ever mind, don't trouble. I don't want a 
 light ; but go to the Reverend Mother and tell her 
 I must see her before I see anyone else." 
 
 There could be no doubt that something grave
 
 SISTER TERESA 201 
 
 had happened, and the porteress hurried down the 
 passage. Evelyn sat at the table looking into the 
 darkness, thinking of the last time she had been in 
 this room. It was just a month ago that she had 
 been called away to Rome, For days he had fluc- 
 tuated between life and death, sometimes waking to 
 consciousness, then falling back into trance. In 
 spite of the hopes the doctors had held out to him, 
 he insisted that he was dying. '' I am worn to a 
 thread," he said. " I shall flicker like that candle 
 when it reaches the socket — and then I shall go out. 
 But I am not afraid of death — death is a great ex- 
 perience, and we are all better for every experience. 
 There is only one thing " 
 
 He was thinking of his work; he was sorry he 
 was called away before his work was done ; and then 
 he seemed to forget it, to be absorbed in things of 
 greater importance. 
 
 And Evelyn thought she must have drowsed a 
 little as she sat waiting for the sound of the nun's 
 soft woollen slippers in the hall, for now the Pri- 
 oress stood beside her she had not heard her come in. 
 
 * My dear Evelyn, joxi need not tell me, I know 
 what has happened. Come, let us kneel down and 
 say a prayer." 
 
 She was about to say she needed no prayer, but 
 the impulse to obey the Reverend Mother was 
 stronger, and the prayer they said seemed to quiet 
 her grief, and she began to speak of the month she 
 had spent in Rome. Once the Reverend Mother
 
 202 SISTER TEKESA 
 
 sought to dissuade her from the paiuful story, but 
 seeing that it relieved her to tell it she allowed her 
 to tell, and she told it in her impetuous way. Some- 
 times the wind interrupted the Prioress's attention, 
 an<l she thought of the safety of her roofs, and once 
 Evelyn noticed the wind, and her notice of it served 
 to accentuate the terror of her grief. '' I waited by 
 his bedside seeing the soul prepare for departure. 
 The soul begins to leave the body several days before 
 it goes; it flies round and round like a bird that is 
 going to some distant country, I must tell you all 
 about it, ^Mother. He lay for hours and hours, look- 
 ing into a corner of the room. I am sure he saw 
 something there; and one night I heard him call 
 me. I went to him and asked him what he wanted ; 
 but he lay quite quiet, looking into tlie corner of the 
 room, and then he said, ' The wall has been taken 
 away.' I know he saw something there. He saw 
 something, he learnt something in that last moment 
 that we do not know. That last moment is the only 
 real moment of our lives, the only true moment — • 
 all the rest is falsehood, delirium, froth. The rest 
 of life is contradictions, distractions, and lies, but 
 in the moment before death I am sure everything 
 becomes quite clear to us. Then we learn what we 
 are. We do not know ourselves until then. If 1 
 ask who am I, what am I, there is no answer. We 
 do not believe in ourselves, because we do not know 
 who we are ; we do not know enough of ourselves to 
 believe in anything. We do not believe; we ac-
 
 SISTER TERESA 203 
 
 qiiiesce that certain things are so because it is neces- 
 sary to acqnioseo, but we do not believe in anything, 
 not even that we are going to die ; for if we did we 
 should live for deatli and not for life. Oh, Mother, 
 I am very different from the woman who left the 
 convent a month ago. To sit by a dying man, day 
 after day, and talk of death is a great experience. 
 It is not so much what he says to you about death as 
 what you can read in his face ; no, not read, you 
 guess the truths which lie is beginning to experience, 
 " T know that my father knew the truth before he 
 died. Yes, he was always a Catholic — that is not 
 what I mean ; I mean the real belief that comes at 
 that moment, when we know wliat we are and where 
 we are going. We are certain of everything then. 
 Then we believe as we have never believed before. 
 You will tell me that those who live in the world 
 believe in God — so they do, I suppose, in a way; 
 they acquiesce; but if they really believed, if they 
 knew, as my father knew before he died, they would 
 give up everything and go about in rags, and pray, 
 and lose themselves in thoughts of God. They 
 would forget to eat, they would not notice hunger 
 or thirst ; and they would fade away, their eyes 
 fixed upon something that we may not see — that 
 something which my father saw before he died. 
 Even here, in this convent of perpetual adoration, 
 you do not seem to me to believe enough, for if you 
 believed that God were really there, on the altar, 
 you would neither eat nor drink ; you would remain
 
 204 SISTER TERESA 
 
 kneeling nntil you lost yourselves in death — until 
 you found your true selves." 
 
 " After an experience like yours, Evelyn, one sees 
 life quite differently, and it is through such expe- 
 riences that we discover our real selves and the way 
 that God intends us to walk in. It is only through 
 groat grief that wo come to know ourselves. We 
 can easih' dispense with our joys ; but no one would 
 forego any great sorrow they have been through. I 
 believe we would endure it all over again rather than 
 that we should be as we were before." 
 
 " Mother, all that is real in life is our sense of 
 its unreality." 
 
 " But we are here for God's own purpose ; we 
 must remember that. We must live because it is 
 God's holy will." 
 
 '' Sometimes it is difficult to live; there are times 
 when it seems much easier to die." 
 
 " ]\ly dear child, I have been through what you 
 are going through now, and it may help you to know 
 that in times of great sorrow it is easier to live in 
 a convent than it is to live in the world. You 
 know what our life is. You will find its simplicity 
 a help." 
 
 " Will you have me in the convent ?" 
 
 " Yes, of course we will. You did not think we 
 should close our door on you in your trouble. You 
 came to us in our trouble." 
 
 " I knew you wouldn't, Mother." 
 
 She stretched out her hand, and clasping the old
 
 t> 
 
 SISTER TERESA 205 
 
 mill's band she told her of her journey to Rome, of 
 her life in Rome, of her daily prayers in a certain 
 church. She spoke of the nurses, of the doctors, 
 and the funeral, and then burst into tears, and 
 the Prioress strove to calm her in vain. Evelyn 
 reproached herself for having allowed her father to 
 <ro to Rome without her. The convent had been a 
 temptation, and she had yielded to it as she had to 
 other temptations. Then seeing that she had pained' 
 the Reverend Mother, she asked her to forgive 
 her. 
 
 " It is hard to distinguish sometimes between 
 right and wrong; it should be easy, but it isn't, 
 and I know that it pleased me to help the convent 
 "with my singing. I do not know that that is not 
 why I have come here. Is my grief real grief? 
 Sometimes I forget it ; sometimes I find myself 
 thinking of indifferent things — of what I shall 
 sing for you at Benediction — at other times I am 
 overwhelmed in grief, and then through all my 
 grief the thought comes: that this is as it should 
 be." 
 
 The wise Prioress did not answer her. A few 
 moments seemed a great while, and she awoke from 
 her trance to hear the Prioress telling her that she 
 had experienced a great sorrow very early in her 
 life; it had been the means of awakening in her 
 that sense of the unreality of things which comes to 
 us all sooner or later; and in the midst of her grief 
 Evelyn wondered how this woman had survived her
 
 206 SISTER TERESA 
 
 grief for forty years; how she still ruled her con- 
 vent according to her idea. 
 
 Evelyn did not know it, but the Prioress knew 
 that her will had gone out to Evelyn like a friend, 
 and she knew that her eyes had a power; and she 
 Avished Evelyn to lose her individuality in a rule of 
 life clear and explicit. And Evelyn wished the 
 same. Obedience had come to seem the only sweet- 
 ness left in the world. Her past life, all of it — she 
 did not except a single year, not even her postulancy 
 — it all seemed trivial and amateurish : now she 
 was to begin the serious business of life.
 
 XXII 
 
 Xext morning she felt that to make her own bed 
 in the morning and to eat simple food in silence 
 were part of the serious business of life. After 
 breakfast she was sent to the sacristy to assist Veron- 
 ica, and she was glad to be sent into the garden to 
 get some laurel leaves. But she wandered, unable 
 to collect her thoughts sutliciently to find what she 
 was sent for, until Sister Mary John came from her 
 digging and asked her what she was seeking. Eve- 
 lyn had forgotten, and it was with an effort she 
 remembered. She had been sent to gather laurel 
 leaves. 
 
 " I will gather them for you ; I know where they 
 are. Take my spade and dig a little while." 
 
 " I do not know how to dig." 
 
 " I'll show you. This is a bed for spring onions, 
 and it Avants digging out. You press the spade in 
 as far as you can, pull down the handle so, and take 
 out the earth." 
 
 She did as she was bidden, and suddenly she felt 
 that she must dig to live. The smell of the earth re- 
 freshed her, and as a bleak wind was blowing, she 
 had to dig hard to keep herself warm. She worked 
 on till she had to pause for breath, and, leaning on 
 her spade, she looked round, and saw that the trees 
 
 207
 
 208 SISTEK TERESA 
 
 before breaking into leaf had become grey. She 
 wandered a little way from her digging, and, 
 watched some crocuses pushing through the loose 
 earth. She pondered, wishing herself alone with 
 nature amid mountains or by the seashore. Sud- 
 denly she heard a singing in the air ; a lark flew 
 from the Common, uttering its incessant song — a 
 quaint interval, reminding her of the bagpipes, and 
 then a passionate cry of joy — two notes uttered 
 again and again. " A love call" Evelyn thought it 
 must be, and the bird fell suddenly, swooping, glid- 
 ing along the air. " To its nest," Evelyn thought, 
 " to its mate." 
 
 She had forgotten her work, but she was not 
 thinking of her father; her mind was vague, and' 
 the lark had reariscn, or was it another bird flying 
 towards her ? " It must be the same," she thought; 
 " the same Common cannot produce two birds that 
 sing so beautifully." She had never cared to hear 
 a bird sing before, and she wondered if the rea- 
 son were that she had moved a little nearer to 
 nature. 
 
 Miss Dingle, who stood at a little distance, was 
 exorcising some gooseberry bushes with her rosary. 
 She withdrew like a timid animal, but curiosity was 
 stronger than fear, and she came back like one who 
 wanted to talk to someone, and, hoping to encourage 
 her, Evelyn asked her if she had seen the devil 
 lately. She hung down her head and retreated, but 
 when she turned away, Evelyn heard her say that
 
 SISTER TERESA 209 
 
 she had Hot seen much of him lately, only once that 
 morning. 
 
 " He gets more artful, you know, but he is about ; 
 I know he is about." 
 
 She came back to Evelyn and began to tell her 
 where she might see the devil if she wished, if she 
 wore not afraid. 
 
 " The bushes grow very thick in that corner, and 
 I don't like to go there. ... I have hunted him 
 out of these bushes. He is not here. You needn't 
 be afraid. My rosary has been over them all." 
 
 Evelyn could see that Miss Dingle wished Her to 
 exorcise the dangerous corner, and she o*ffered to 
 do so. 
 
 " You have two rosaries ; you might lend me 
 one." 
 
 " No, I don't think I could. I want two ; one 
 for each hand, you see. ... I have not seen you in 
 the garden this last day or two. You have been 
 away, haven't you ?" 
 
 " I have been in Rome." 
 
 " In Rome ! Then why don't you go there," she 
 
 said, pointing to the dangerous corner, " and 
 
 frighten him away ? You don't need a rosary if 
 
 you have touched the precious relics. You would be 
 
 able to drive him out of the garden, and out of the 
 
 2)ark too, perhaps, though the park is a very big 
 
 l)lace. But here comes Sister Mary John. You 
 
 will tell me another time if you have brought back 
 
 anything that the Pope has worn." 
 
 li
 
 210 SISTER TERESA 
 
 Sister Mary John came striding over the broken 
 earth, followed by her jackdaw. The bird stopped 
 to pick up a fat worm, and the nun sent Miss Dingle 
 away very summarily. 
 
 " I can't have you here, Alice. Go to the sum- 
 mer-house and drive the devil away with your holy 
 pictures. There's not time for you, dear, either," 
 she said to the jackdaw, who had just alighted on 
 her shoulder. And, looking up and down a plot 
 of ground twenty yards long and about ten wide, 
 i:)rotected from the cast wind by a high yew hedge, 
 she said, " This is the rhubarb bed, and this piece," 
 she said, walking to another plot between the yew 
 hedge and the gooseberry bushes, "' will have to be 
 dug up; we were short of vegetables last year." 
 
 At the prosjiect of so much digging Evelyn's 
 courage failed her, and she was relieved to hear 
 that one of these beds had been dug in the autumn, 
 and that no more would be required from her than 
 the hoeing out of the weeds. 
 
 But she found hoeing harder work than she had 
 expected, and when she had cleared a large piece of 
 weeds she had to go over the ground again, having 
 missed a great many. 
 
 At dinner-time she thought she was too tired to 
 eat, but Sister Mary John consoled her with the as- 
 surance that she would soon get accustomed to the 
 work, and in order that she might do so, the nun 
 kept her digging from week's end to week's end. 
 Evelyn said she had found salvation in the garden,
 
 SISTER TERKSA Sll 
 
 but Sister Mary John answered that an absent- 
 minded person was no saving of labour in a garden ; 
 and without further words the nun told her she was 
 to go in front with a dibble and make holes for the 
 potatoes, for Sister Mary John said she could not 
 be trusted with the seed potatoes, that she would be 
 sure to break the shoots. Sister Mary John seemed 
 to think that she should know by instinct that 
 French beans need not be set as closely together as 
 the scarlet runners; nor could the nun understand 
 that it was possible to live twenty years in the world 
 without knowing that broad beans must be trodden 
 firmly into the ground. 
 
 In about three weeks their work was done in the 
 kitchen garden, and Sister Mary John said they 
 must weed the flower beds or there would be no 
 flowers for the Virgin in May. They weeded the 
 beds for many days, filling in the gaps with plants 
 from the nursery. Soon after came the seed sow- 
 ing : mignonette, sweet peas, stocks, larkspurs, pop- 
 pies, and nasturtiums, all of Avliich should have 
 been sown earlier, the nun said, only the vegetables 
 had taken all their time, and there was no one but 
 she who cared for the garden. They all liked to 
 see the flowers on the altar, " but not one of them 
 will tie up her habit and dig, and they are as ig- 
 norant as you are, dear." 
 
 " Sister, that is unkind. I've learnt as much as 
 could be expected in a month." 
 
 " You're not as careless as you were."
 
 212 SISTEK TERESA 
 
 " I had a friend," Evelyn said, " who used to 
 hear the earth as we hear voices, or very nearly. . . . 
 How mysteriously soft the wind blows over the 
 Common !" 
 
 " God created the earth before He created man," 
 the nun said, as she passed on, weeding rapidly 
 and skilfully. " Our love of the earth is deeper 
 than our love of art." 
 
 Sister Mary John pointed to the daffodils that a 
 warm night had nearly brought to blossom, and 
 Evelyn followed the nun with her eyes, as she wan- 
 dered by the beds. She moved so silently and 
 worked so instinctively that she seemed as much a 
 part of the garden as the wind, or the rain, or the 
 sun.
 
 XXIII 
 
 Evelyn perceived the wisdom of the Prioress in 
 these long mornings spent in manual work. Ve- 
 ronica, on account of her age, could not reprove her, 
 nor could she submit herself so easily to Veronica's 
 authority, and she often stood looking through the 
 sacristy forgetful of the half-cleaned candle-stick 
 in her hand. In these moments the cup of life 
 seemed unendurably bitter; a long life in the con- 
 vent affrighted her, and she could not return to the 
 world. To remember that she was alone and would 
 have to go on living had become a grief that pierced 
 her like a sword ; a sense of desolation swept over 
 her mind ; sometimes in the midst of her singing 
 she would lose control over herself, and the Sister 
 would look round from the organ, fearing she would 
 not be able to continue her song. 
 
 " She must take the veil," the Prioress said to 
 herself as she knelt in her stall ; " nothing else will 
 set her free from her grief." The Prioress re- 
 membered the great relief that the mere putting on 
 of the habit brings to the soul; and she rose from 
 her knees quite determined. She would be opposed 
 by Mother Hilda, but Mother Hilda would not have 
 Mother Philippa's support. 
 
 '* I look upon her past life," the sub-Prioress said, 
 
 213
 
 214 SISTER TERESA 
 
 " as so much dead wood ; all the rubble and wreck 
 must be cleared away before the new growth can 
 begin in her. You will agree, Mother, that the veil 
 makes a great difference; it's like marriage after 
 a long engagement — you know what I mean, dear 
 Mother." 
 
 " Yes, I think I do," the Prioress answered, look- 
 ing approvingly at the sub-Prioress. " When one 
 has taken the white veil, the past is behind us, one 
 knows where one is going. But I fear, ^Mother 
 Hilda, that you are not with us in this matter." 
 
 " It's because of Evelyn's present state of mind 
 that I do not feel sure that this is the best moment 
 for her to receive the white veil. When her mood 
 passes, as it will pass, she may think quite differ- 
 ently." 
 
 " I do not think that," the Prioress said. " A 
 more serious objection is that she has only been in 
 the novitiate three months." 
 
 " And her postulancy has been broken by a 
 month in Rome. It should begin again," said 
 Mother Hilda. 
 
 " On that point the bishop will have to be con- 
 sulted," and she tried to conciliate Mother Hilda 
 by reminding her that Monsignor had telegraphed 
 for Evelyn. " Her journey to Rome, you will 
 admit, was quite unavoidable. Will you tell her, 
 Mother Hilda, when you go downstairs, that I shall 
 be glad to see her in my room ?" 
 
 And when Evelyn came to the Prioress's room
 
 SISTEPt TERESA 215 
 
 she was addressed as Sister Teresa, and the Prioress 
 told her that she had chosen that name on acconnt 
 of Evelyn's admiration for the saint's writings and 
 character. 
 
 " I felt I shonld like to call you Teresa, and you 
 will prove yourself worthy of the name, my dear 
 child." 
 
 "But, Mother, my postulancy!" 
 
 " Hasn't the ^fother ]\[istress told you that I in- 
 tend to lay your case before the bishop. To-morrow 
 you go into the week's retreat which precedes the 
 clothing. And now you must think of your past 
 life as being really behind you; you are Evelyn 
 Innes no longer, you are Sister Teresa." 
 
 " But my past, dear Mother, has been behind me 
 this long while. There can bo no manner of doubt 
 about that. I am filled with wonder when I think 
 of the life I used to lead before my conversion." 
 
 " You feel that you could not return to the 
 world?" 
 
 " To my old friends, to those who still pursue 
 shadows? ISTo, dear ^lother, I could not go back 
 to the world, to the stage, and sing operas for the 
 money and applause I should get by singing." 
 
 " That I believe; but do you think that the life 
 here is the most suitable to you ? Is it the life of 
 your deliberate choice? Pemember that there are 
 many other rules of life — there are the active 
 orders." 
 
 " Dear Mother, there is no time for thinking any
 
 216 SISTER TERESA 
 
 more ; I must act. I cannot tell you if the rule here 
 is more suitable than some other rule which I have 
 not tried. I have had some experience of your rule ; 
 if you will take me I am yours. If you do not" — 
 she stopped, and stood looking at the Reverend 
 Mother — " I cannot think what will happen. I've 
 been through a great deal, and feel that I am un- 
 equal to any further experiments. Don't you know 
 what I mean ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, I think I know very well indeed. . . . 
 You are still suffering from the shock of your 
 father's death." 
 
 " My father's death, dear Mother, was a great 
 shock to me, but his death was only a link in a very 
 long chain ; from the very beginning it was all or- 
 dained, every step was marked out. At the time I 
 did not understand why I was perplexed, why I 
 had doubts, but things have become much clearer. 
 In my youth I accepted the conventions, but there 
 was always an uneasy feeling in my heart. This 
 feeling was in me in the beginning, but it died 
 away ; for years I think I must have lived without 
 scruples of any kind. My tether was a long one ; I 
 wandered far, but suddenly I came to the end of it. 
 That's how it was." 
 
 " You see, my dear child, my responsibility in 
 admitting you to the convent is a great one. Con- 
 vince me that you have a vocation, and I shall not 
 mind the responsibility." 
 
 " How shall I convince you, Mother ?"
 
 SISTER TERESA 217 
 
 " By telling me your story, by telling me every- 
 think you know about yourself. If I am a nun, I 
 am an old woman, and I suffered deeply before I 
 came here." 
 
 Evelyn told her story from the day she met Owen 
 Asher to the day she went to confession to Mon- 
 signor. 
 
 " And the strange part of it is that I would not 
 marry. Owen Asher often asked me to marry him, 
 but something always held me back from marriage. 
 Ulick Dean nearly succeeded ;" and she told of the 
 extraordinary lassitude which had overcome her one 
 evening, how she had sat in her armchair looking at 
 the fire, unable to get up. " My tether was a sense 
 of that one sin, for I always felt it to be wrong to 
 live with a man who was not your husband; but 
 it was not until my father died that I began to 
 perceive that my life was wrong from end to end. 
 It usen't to seem wrong to me to spend months 
 learning an opera and singing it for a great deal 
 of money, or to spend as much on a dress as a work- 
 man and his family could live on for a whole year. 
 But I think I always thought it wrong to live with 
 Owen Asher, and as I did not want to give up living 
 with him, I was forced to deny God. Owen Asher 
 knew all the atheistical arguments very well, and 
 I read all the books he gave me to read. But to 
 live without faith, dear Mother, is a nightmare. 
 Driving home in the brougham after singing, I 
 never failed to ask myself. What is the use of all
 
 218 SISTER TERESA 
 
 this ? it is all over now. Sometimes before I went 
 down to the theatre I used to say, ' In three hours 
 — in four hours it will be all over, and then it will 
 be the same as if I hadn't sung at all !' If one 
 doesn't believe in God, life ceases to have a mean- 
 ing; that is the atheist's difficulty. Owen Asher 
 used to feel the same as I did. I remember his once 
 stopping me; he looked round suddenly, and there 
 was such conviction in his eyes when he said, ' Eve- 
 lyn, there's nothing in it. I've tried everything, and 
 there's nothing in it.' Still he goes on living, pur- 
 suing pleasures in which he knows there is nothing 
 except disappointment. 
 
 " Looking back upon my life, that is how I see 
 it. I cannot live without faith, without authority, 
 without guidance. I am weak, I require authority. 
 I am bound to tell you all these things so that you 
 may be able to decide whether I have a vocation." 
 
 " The ways by which we come back to God are 
 many, and I think I understand very well how you 
 have been brought back. This convent was but an 
 instrument in His hands for the purpose of bringing 
 you back, and it may be it has served its purpose 
 now and you can return to the world. One can love 
 God in the world and serve Him in the world. 
 Some serve Him best in the world, some in the 
 convent. When your grief has died down a little 
 you may be able to return to the world." 
 
 The Prioress waited for Evelyn to answer, but 
 she did not answer, and she said, —
 
 SISTER TERESA 219 
 
 " M!v dear child, tell me of what you are think- 
 ing; confide in nio." 
 
 '* It's just that, ]\[other — what I have told you. 
 I cannot live without faith, and if I leave the con- 
 vent I lose my faith, or part of it. Even in the 
 month I spent in Rome I lost something. Dogma 
 does not appeal to me as much as practice, and 
 Rome is full of worldly ecclesiastics who quarrel 
 and abuse each other and contradict each other. I 
 hardly dare to say it, but their worldliness, or what 
 seemed to me their worldliness, was near destroying 
 my faith again. It is only here that I can believe 
 as I want to believe. Here everyone is humble, 
 here everyone has renounced the lust of the flesh; 
 so I know that you all believe, for your lives prove 
 it." 
 
 " We prayed, and our prayer was answered. 
 Prayer is the only real power in the world, my dear 
 Teresa, and you have had proof of the efficacy of 
 our prayers; and if anyone here needed proof of 
 tlie efficacy of prayer she would find it in you — how 
 you came here, how you were brought here, is surely 
 one of the most wonderful things in the world, and 
 yet one of the most natural, if one thinks of it." 
 
 The Prioress got up from her chair, and Evelyn 
 followed her to the novitiate, where the novices were 
 making the dress that EvehTi was to wear when she 
 received the white veil. 
 
 " You see, Teresa, we spare no expense or trouble 
 on your dress," said the Prioress.
 
 220 SISTER TERESA 
 
 "Oh, it's 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 Je- 
 rome, picking up a wreath of orange blossom 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 ?" 
 
 Evelyn examined the veil, and her interest was 
 sincere in it, for she believed that the ritual and 
 its symbolic garments were necessary to complete 
 the inward conviction that she was liberated from 
 the world. 
 
 " 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 con- 
 vent." 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 incau- 
 tiously. 
 
 " Because if it had been a little later, or if Mon-
 
 SISTER TERESA 221 
 
 signer 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," 
 ghe added, " or Father Ambrose. I am sure Sister 
 Veronica never would have been a nmi 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." 
 
 The Prioress and Evelyn descended the novitiate 
 stairs together, and the Prioress said, — 
 
 " I think, dear Teresa, your retreat had better 
 begin to-morrow."
 
 XXIY 
 
 The silence of the convent had once seemed to 
 her a hardship, and now these extra hours of silence 
 seemed to her no hardship at all, and she passed a 
 whole week without speaking, and in special hu- 
 mility of the spirit. She accepted all Mother 
 Hilda's instruction as a patient accepts her medi- 
 cines. She looked forward to the gown, the veil, 
 the wreath and the ceremony as the patient looks 
 forward to the doctor's ordinances, and she was 
 anxious to exceed the rule, to do a little more than 
 it required of her. The stage had enabled her to 
 escape from herself, her vows were a more serious 
 escapement, and on the day of her clothing she was 
 the most infantile nun in the convent. She joined 
 in all the babble and laughter, and her appreciation 
 of the wedding-cake exceeded Sister Agatha's. 
 But she over did it a little, and in the midst of her 
 gaiety her mood changed, and she asked if she 
 might go into the garden. Sister Jerome was par- 
 ticularly noisy that afternoon, her unceasing hu- 
 mour had begun to jar, and Evelyn felt she must 
 get away from it. 
 
 It was a relief to watch the gardener. 
 
 He was mowing between the flower-beds, and the 
 222
 
 SISTEK TERESA 223 
 
 thick young grass that had just gro\\'n up after the 
 winter lay along the lawn in irregular lines; and 
 she noticed that the summer had not yet covered the 
 earth, and that brown patches showed among grey- 
 green tulip leaves, the tall May tulips which the 
 Dutchmen used to i)aint. She looked towards the 
 orchard, where the white pear blossom Avas shedding, 
 and the apple blossom was beginning to show in 
 tight pink knots amid brown boughs. 
 
 The convent pets had increased, and Evelyn in 
 her walk round the garden met three goslings stray- 
 ing under the flowering laburnums. She returned 
 them to their mother in the orchard, and a little 
 farther on she came upon the cat playing with the 
 long-lost tortoise. He had found the tortoise among 
 the potato ridges, and, sitting in front of it, tapped 
 the black head whenever it appeared beyond the 
 shell. xVnd holding the great grey tom cat by his 
 front paws she decided to carry him to the other 
 end of the garden, to where sparrows were pecking 
 up the sweet peas. And then she wandered in St. 
 Peter's Walk, watching the young leaves swinging. 
 
 The mystery of the spring seemed afloat in the 
 misty distances, and standing on the terrace, her 
 eyes fixed on the Avoodcd horizon, she thought of the 
 Birmingham girl whose renunciation of the world 
 had been much more complete than hers had been 
 that morning. For the order of the Carmelites was 
 more severe than that of the Passionists. She re- 
 membered the lilacs in the courtyard, and the smell
 
 224 SISTER TERESA 
 
 of the wax inside the church, and the quavering 
 voices of the nuns, and the priest's intoning of the 
 Veni Creator. She did not linger over these external 
 appearances — she was more concerned with her per- 
 sonal impression. Three years ago the ceremony- 
 had seemed to her like a gross mediseval supersti- 
 tion. She remembered how it had frightened her. 
 That a girl should choose to forego lover, husband, 
 children, riches, fame — everything! All these 
 things might have been hers, but she had put them 
 away, knowing them to be vain things. 
 
 Evelyn remembered how even then she had be- 
 gun to perceive the unreality of the things which the 
 world calls real things. Yet on the day of the 
 girl's clothing it had seemed to her that for a time 
 one should be the dupe of that illusion which the 
 world calls reality. It had seemed to her that the 
 girl should have tasted of the cup before she had 
 refused it. She could have sympathised with a 
 renunciation, but she could not then sympathise 
 with a refusal. She could not admit that anyone 
 should know from the beginning that the world was 
 a vain thing; such precocity; and conflicted with 
 her prejudice. She remembered how she had been 
 taken with a sudden impulse to ask this girl what 
 reason had compelled her to refuse life, and how she 
 had followed Merat through a side door and down 
 a passage. She had come to a room divided by a 
 grating, and behind the grating she had seen the 
 girl, her face suffused wdth tears, and she had not
 
 SISTER TEllESA 225 
 
 been able to ask what she had come to ask. The 
 conviction that the girl could not answer her had 
 stayed the question on her lips. The mere sight of 
 the girl had told her that she had been led by a sub- 
 lime instinct beside which the wisdom of all the 
 philosophers was ver}* little. . . . 
 
 That girl had known the truth from the begin- 
 ning, and had confirmed her conviction by an act, 
 and Evelyn remembered that even at that time her 
 own feet were on the way that had led her to the con- 
 vent. But hoAV incredulous she would have looked 
 if anyone had told her then that in a little while she 
 Avould stand a nun on the terrace of the Wimbledon 
 convent. 
 
 There was no doubt that she was greatly changed, 
 and yet it was the strange discomfort of her clothes 
 that reminded her she was a nun — the voluminous 
 trailing habit with its wide, hanging sleeves, and, 
 smiling, she thought that this stiff, white head-dress 
 made her feel more like a nun than her vows. 
 
 She stood, her eyes fixed on the horizon. It had 
 changed from blue to violet, the evening was grow- 
 ing more beautiful. Evelyn had begun to feel that 
 she would stand looking at it for ever, and it was 
 at that moment that the rosy-cheeked porteress came 
 tri])ping down the terrace to tell her that a lady 
 had called to see her. 
 
 " The lady is in the parlour. Mother Hilda is 
 
 with her, and she has sent me for you." 
 
 It was Louise who had called to see her, but when. 
 15
 
 226 SISTER TERESA 
 
 Evelyn entered the parlour Mother Hilda was not 
 there, and she was not certain if she should remain. 
 
 '' I can see jo\i are doubtful whether you should 
 stay Avith me, Evelyn ; how is it that you can accept 
 such obedience ? And that ridiculous gown, those 
 sleeves, and that head-dress ! I hear you were 
 Clothed to-day. You have had your hair cut off. 
 But is this the Evelyn, the Evelyn with whom I 
 used to sing ?" 
 
 " Yes, dear Louise, it is I ; and it is kind in you 
 to come here. But how did you find me out ? Let 
 me know before Mother Hilda returns. We shall 
 not be able to talk freely before her. This oppor- 
 tunity is quite exceptional." 
 
 " But, Evelyn, your gown distracts me. Well, it 
 Avas accident that gave me your address. Owen 
 Aslicr did not know it." 
 
 " Louise, you must not talk to me of him. 
 Though I should like to knoAV he is well. Xor must 
 you talk to me of the stage. All that is past." 
 
 " Then Avhat shall we talk about ?" 
 
 " Tell me how you found me out." 
 
 " You look so serious that I shall find it hard to 
 tell you anything. ... I was singing Schubert's 
 ' Ave Maria,' and a man told me he had heard a 
 nun at Wimbledon sing it more beautifully than 
 anyone — myself, of course, excepted. Something 
 told me it Avas you, and the moment I heard you I 
 knew." 
 
 " I have not sung it for some weeks."
 
 SISTER TERESA 227 
 
 " It is about three Aveeks ago, but I was with a 
 friend and could not call that day, and the following 
 daA- I went to Paris. I have just returned. This 
 is the first free day I had." 
 
 " It is very good of you to come, Louise. I am 
 glad you have not forgotten me." 
 
 '* But tell me — I want you to tell me how long 
 this fancy — this whim of yours — is going to last." 
 
 " You surely cannot think that I am not serious. 
 I assure you that living in a convent is no joke at 
 all." 
 
 " Then you are not happy ?" 
 
 " On the contrary, I am happy, and I grow hap- 
 pier every day. When I said that to live in a con- 
 vent was not a joke I meant that it would be hor- 
 rible if one were not sure of one's vocation." 
 
 " But you will tell me, Evelyn, what reason led 
 you here, what impulse." 
 
 " Ah, that is what everyone wants to know. The 
 question you have asked me is the question everyone 
 wishes to put to a nun. I remember longing to ask 
 a Carmelite nun why she had refused the world. 
 She was only eighteen or twenty." 
 
 " And wliat answer did she give you ?" 
 
 " I asked her nothing ; the reason was plain upon 
 her face. But I will tell you why I came here. I 
 came here in quest of happiness. The same reason 
 that took me to the stage took me here. The happi- 
 ness I seek is not the happiness I sought in art and 
 lovers. But I came here in quest of happiness."
 
 228 SISTER TERESA 
 
 " And you have found it ?" 
 
 " Nuns are far happier than actresses. They 
 seem to me to be perfectly happy, and they have 
 surrendered everything." 
 
 " And are you happy ?" 
 
 " I am happier than I used to be. But I have 
 not yet taken the vows which separate me irrevo- 
 cably from the things which make us unhappy; I 
 am not so happy as the nuns who have been here for 
 twenty years, but I am sure I am happier than you 
 are, Louise." 
 
 " I am not happy at all." 
 
 The conversation paused and then Evelyn said, 
 " The moment we come to see that life is something 
 more than a set of adventures (that is how I used 
 to look upon my life), the moment we come to see 
 that life has a spiritual meaning, we find ourselves 
 propelled to alter our lives." 
 
 " One can alter one's life without shutting oneself 
 up in a nunnery ?" 
 
 " We must go where we feel we shall find 
 health. ... A person suffering from a contagious 
 disease would leave the infected place as soon as he 
 was cured." 
 
 " Perhaps your convalescent might think it his 
 duty to remain to tend the sick." 
 
 " Ah, which is the better, the active or the contem- 
 plative order, which is it better, to pray or to act ?" 
 
 " ^ly dear Evelyn, you were always a little mad. 
 I know all about convents and nuns. I was brought
 
 SISTER TERESA 229 
 
 up in a convent, and I, too, was tempted by the re- 
 ligious life, but I did not give way to the temptation. 
 But what are you striving after, Evelyn ? You can 
 never know for certain that there is a future life." 
 " Even so. It interests me more to pursue a 
 moral idea than to sing difficult music for applause 
 and gain. The inward satisfaction one gets by 
 living for an idea is infinitely greater than one gets 
 by the pursuit of artistic or other pleasure. It is 
 delicious tq feel that one is not prompted by selfish 
 motives. I assure you I would sing the ugliest 
 music over written to get money to pay the convent's 
 debts. To pay off these debts is the object of my 
 life." 
 
 " You think that it is a sufficient object ?" 
 '* It is sufficient for me. London had come to 
 seem like a stuffy omnibus. Moreover, I could not 
 breathe in London."
 
 XXV 
 
 The door opened and ^lotlior Hilda came in, and, 
 after a few words, Louise asked if they might go 
 into the garden. Mother Hilda assented readily, 
 and, as they walked down the terrace, they stopped 
 to listen to the nuns who were singing in the library. 
 Louise spoke of a school, of the advantages of the 
 situation. 
 
 " And what an inducement," she said, " for 
 mothers to send their children to you. Where could 
 girls learn singing as they could here V 
 
 Mother Hilda did not perceive that Louise's re- 
 mark was intended to be satirical, and she explained 
 that they could not have a school without altering 
 the rule of the order. Louise regretted that this was 
 so, and spoke of the convent where she had been edu- 
 cated. Mother Hilda knew the convent and several 
 of the nuns, and they were soon talking of their 
 friends, of their tempers, their ailments and their 
 amiabilities. Sister So-and-So was dead. Mother 
 So-and-So was getting very old. Evelyn knew none 
 of them, and her thoughts turned to Louise, and the 
 annoyance this visit caused her seemed out of pro- 
 portion. She had wished tliis day to pass in medi- 
 tation, and her meditations had been interrupted 
 for no good reason, to argue about matters which 
 230
 
 SISTER TERESA 231 
 
 this day had settled for ever. She did not wish to 
 think unkindly of Louise, but she hoped she would 
 not come to see her again. Visits are only agreeable 
 when they are ])rompted by the desire for mutual 
 benefit and when they are an exchange of mutual 
 ideas. What benefit had come to her or to Louise 
 by this visit ? They had not a thought in common, 
 and once all their thoughts had been common. She 
 had lived with this woman, she had sung with her, 
 they had travelled together, and now Louise was 
 merely a faded recollection, a something that had 
 once been. 
 
 By this time Mother Hildc and Louise had ex- 
 hausted their memories of the French convent, and 
 the conversation had begun to flag, and Evelyn won- 
 dered what would happen next. At that moment 
 the porteress appeared — she had come to say that 
 the Prioress would be glad to speak with Mother 
 Hilda. Evelyn and Louise walked on, and they 
 8poke of ^Mother Hilda, without feeling any interest 
 in what they were saying, until they came to the 
 fish-ponds ; then to keep the conversation from fall- 
 ing Evelyn had to tell Louise how tame the fish 
 were. Louise began to sing the song of the Rhine 
 !^^aidens. Evelyn joined her for a few bars and 
 then Louise asked her to throw away the ring." 
 
 '' What ring, dear ?" 
 
 " The ring that was put on your finger to- 
 day." 
 
 " 1^0 ring was put on my finger. I shall not get
 
 232 SISTER TERESA 
 
 the ring till I am professed. That will be in a year 
 from now." 
 
 " Evelyn, let me implore you." 
 
 " But, my dear Louise, if I am happier here than 
 I was in the world I had l)etter remain here." 
 
 " The nuns only want your money. When you 
 have given them your money you will be unhappy." 
 
 " These women are my dearest friends. It is 
 painful to me to hear them spoken of in this way." 
 
 A slight mist was rising, a thin moon floated like 
 a pale feather in the sky, and the convent roofs were 
 clear in the luminous air. A nun had come with 
 a message to Evelyn, and she said, — 
 
 " Xow I must say good-bye." 
 
 " Shall I not see you again, EveljTi ? Have we 
 nothing in common any more ? Have we faded 
 from each other? I cannot tell you how inde- 
 scribably sad it seems to me." 
 
 " Only because you put all your faith into the 
 things of this world, which are passing. But I shall 
 pray for you, Louise ; I shall always remember you 
 in my prayers." 
 
 " Only in your prayers, Evelyn ?" 
 
 " My name is no longer Evelyn. I am Sister 
 Teresa."
 
 XXVI 
 
 One day, in the last month of Evelyn's novice- 
 ship, Sister Mary John sat at the harmonium, her 
 eyes fixed, following Evelyn's voice like one in a 
 dream. Evelyn was singing Stradella's " Chanson 
 d'Eglise," and when she had finished the nun rose 
 from her seat, and, clasping her friend's hand, she 
 thanked her for her singing with effusion and with 
 tears. 
 
 For some time past their eyes lighted up when 
 they met in the passages, and it was delicious to 
 think for a moment how closely they were de- 
 pendent upon each other. Once Evel;)Ti had no- 
 ticed that the Sister seemed to avoid her; it might 
 be only a seeming, she thought, for a few days after 
 Sister Mary John had hurried to meet her. On 
 another occasion she had noticed a flutter as it 
 were in the nun's eyes and a change of colour in her 
 cheeks, and then an appealing look in her eyes, like 
 one whose heart misgives her. Evelyn knew the 
 nature of her own feelings, but she feared that Sis- 
 ter Mary John would one day suspect that hers was 
 neither permissible nor valid; and then, whatever 
 it cost her, she would put it aside; she would not 
 allow anything to come between her and her love of 
 God. Evelyn knew that this nun would not hesitate 
 
 to leave the convent if she felt her vocation to be 
 
 233
 
 234 SISTER TERESA 
 
 endangered by remaininci;. The possibility of such 
 a leave-taking frightened her, and she resolved she 
 would avoid all casual conversation for the future. 
 But it was difficult to do this; their musical occu- 
 pation left them constantly together, and Evelyn's 
 coldness increased the nun's desire for her atfection. 
 
 This friendship, which had begun in the music, 
 caught root in the Latin language, in the IToly Of- 
 fice. It was from Mother Hilda that Evelyn had 
 learnt the groundwork of the Office, but it was from 
 Sister Mary John that she had learned the great 
 place the Office should take in the life of a nun. 
 The nun had caught Evelyn's eyes fixed upon her 
 as she scolded against those who are content with 
 a mere recital of the words and shrink from the 
 labour of learning to appreciate the wonderful ap- 
 propriateness, acquired not in a single composition, 
 but built up bit by bit in the centuries like some 
 great epic. She had guessed that Evelyn was ready 
 and willing for further instruction. 
 
 And they had read the Breviary together, four 
 great volumes, one for every season of the year; 
 the language was in itself a bcguilement, and be- 
 hind the language there was the rich, mysterious 
 tradition of the Church. Sister ]\[ary John had 
 taught her Latin, and Evelyn had learnt how these 
 books of ritual and observances can satisfy the mind 
 more than any secular literature. There was always 
 something in the Office for them to talk about, some- 
 thing new amid much that remained the same, and
 
 SISTER TERESA 235' 
 
 the eommiinipation of her pleasure at the reap- 
 pearance of a favourite hymn was always something 
 to look forward to. 
 
 In this personal intimacy, so rare in a convent, 
 but wliich peculiar circumstances had allowed to 
 them, she had become aware of Sister Mary John's 
 extraordinary passion for God. The nun had tried 
 to hide it from her, but she had discovered it, and 
 it was during this time that Evelyn had made her 
 first real advance in piety. It was from the ex- 
 ample of Sister ^Eary John that she had learned 
 how we may think of God even to forgetfulness of 
 our own identity, living while on earth, as it were, 
 in the very atmosphere of his bosom. To watch her 
 friend in prayer was in itself an instigation to 
 j)rayer; and Sister INfary John had begun to think 
 she had discovered a genius in Evelyn, which, if 
 cultivated, would give a new visionary to the 
 Church. She believed that Evelyn would attain an 
 extraordinary sanctity, that she would acquire mar- 
 vellous power, and all her prayers were directed to 
 this end. She even neglected the prayers she should 
 say to release her own soul from purgatory, think- 
 ing that a few more years would matter little for so 
 great an end. To excite Evelyn's enthusiasm she 
 even did violence to her own humility, speaking of 
 her own visions and ecstasies — poor though they 
 were and inferior to those which would be given to 
 Evelyn if Evelvn would devote herself wholly to 
 God.
 
 236 SISTER TERESA 
 
 Sister Mary John was the only nun in the Wim- 
 bledon convent who reminded Eveljii of the nuns 
 she had read of in the lives of the saints. Ecsta- 
 sies, she felt sure, were not Mother Philippa's 
 religious lot, nor Veronica's. Veronica was far too 
 trim and methodical for a vision. But certain as 
 she was of the somewhat lowly spirituality of the 
 other nuns, she was sure that Sister Mary John suc- 
 ceeded in living beyond herself. That was her own 
 phrase ; her admonition was always that we should 
 strive to live a little beyond ourselves. When the 
 sensible realities faded, she said the Word of God 
 became clearer, and this evacuation of sense had 
 often taken her when she sat alone inlaying the 
 organ in the church ; and after these transports the 
 return to the physical world was slow and painful. 
 
 " I have written down some of my visions in a 
 book; I have never shown them to anyone, but I 
 will show them to you." 
 
 Beguiled by the immediate moment, and believing 
 it would be to her friend's advantage to read her 
 manuscript, she sought for it among the music, ex- 
 plaining that she had written it as if it were a 
 translation from some mediaeval Erench writer. 
 
 " Do not read it now; take it to the library." 
 
 Evelyn took it to the library at once, and she read 
 how the Sister had been met suddenly in the midst 
 of a great darkness by a shining light which un- 
 folded and revealed to her the Divine Bridegroom, 
 who took her in His arms, saying that He loved her.
 
 SISTEK TEKESA 237 
 
 The anecdote was told so simply that it convinced, 
 and Evelyn paused in her reading to think that 
 whoever attains to any knowledge of the unseen 
 world does so by foregoing some part of her knowl- 
 edge of the natural world. Whoever prays sees God 
 in a greater or less degree, and visions are but the 
 revelations of the spiritual world about us. " Yes," 
 she said, speaking to herself, " the spiritual world 
 is revealed to us by prayer, just as the material 
 world is discovered to us according to the measure 
 of our senses." 
 
 She read that while looking at a picture of St. 
 Francis, whom Christ had taken to His bosom, Sis- 
 ter Mary John had heard a voice saying, '' I will 
 gather thee, oh, my bride, to my bosom in a far 
 warmer embrace, and our communion shall be so 
 perfect that it may not be seen." EveljTi won- 
 dered if the nun had had any scruples regarding her 
 visions, and, turning the pages over, she discovered 
 that once a scruple had entered her heart. 
 
 One night she had been awakened, she knew not 
 how or why, it seemed as if she had been awakened 
 to see a soft light shining in the corner of the room, 
 which was quite dark. She lay with her feet and 
 hands folded, watching the light which grew wider 
 until it descended upon her; and when she awoke 
 again she was lying on her left side, and an angel 
 was beside her. She could just see him in the faint 
 and tremulous light which his flesh emitted, and he 
 folded her in his arms, and liis white wings closed
 
 238 SISTER TERESA 
 
 about licr, and it seemed to her that she had never 
 seen anything so beautiful as his flesh. He folded 
 her closely in his arms, and told her how he loved 
 her, and watched for her, and he held her so closely 
 that the two seemed to become one. Then her flesh 
 became beautiful and luminous like his, and she 
 seemed to have a feeling of love and tenderness for 
 it. She saw his face quite clearly; she seemed to 
 have seen it in some picture. " But oh, how much' 
 more beautiful is the real face," she thought ; and 
 then she hoped he would kiss her; but he did not 
 kiss her, they only seemed to become one — one per- 
 fect soul united for ever and ever. He said that 
 she was the counterpart he had been waiting for in 
 heaves, and she fell asleep in his arms — a beautiful 
 sleep, deep and refreshing as the sea, and when she 
 awoke he had left her. 
 
 Sister Mary John confessed that she was unable 
 to explain the words, " I am your counterpart and 
 await you in heaven." For it was Christ who 
 awaited her in heaven, and for this reason she 
 prayed, if it were God's holy will, that the angel 
 might not visit her again. 
 
 The next day at Mass she had feared she would 
 never gather strength to go to the sacred table. But 
 suddenly she had heard a voice saying, " Come, 
 come, my beloved spouse, I wait for thee; I will 
 descend into thee and take my joy in thee." Eve- 
 lyn laid down the book. This passionate materiali- 
 sation of God's love she felt she could never feel.
 
 SISTER TERESA 239 
 
 She did not see the wounds, nor could she count the 
 nails, nor did her soul ever escape into the wound 
 in the side and iind a divine beverage in the flowing 
 blood. The Christ to whom her thoughts went out 
 was neither the victim nor tlie bridegroom, but the 
 young man who had appeared in Galilee, preaching 
 a doctrine which could alone save men from them- 
 selves. It was not God, but it was the wonder of 
 the moral law that delighted her, and her heart re- 
 mained dry, if it did not rebel against a physical 
 love and perception of. God. 
 
 She resolved to say very little when she gave back 
 the manuscript ; but something had to be said, and 
 Evelyn confessed her opinions. But the Sister did 
 not understand her scruples, and she charged Eve- 
 lyn's love of God with being cold. 
 
 " We are the brides of Christ ; St. Teresa has 
 spoken quite plainly on that point. And St. John 
 of the Cross speaks of the union of God in much the 
 same way, and so did all the saints. Oh, Sister, 
 your scruples are morbid; we should surely set no 
 measure to our love of God. There is no lover like 
 God. lie is always by you and you can turn to Him 
 at any uKjincnt. . . . God wishes us to keep all 
 our love for Him." 
 
 The Sister's innocent candour made her feel 
 ashamed, and she resolved never to suspect Sister 
 Clary's love of God again. She even denied to her- 
 self that she had ever suspected it, and accused her 
 sinful imagination. But in the secret life of her
 
 240 SISTER TERESA 
 
 soul this intimate and almost sensual love of God 
 continued to perplex her, and while mistrusting it 
 she half desired it, asking herself if faith in God 
 were possible without passionate love. She was 
 aware that her belief in God was more a moral than 
 a sensible conviction. She did not see Christ in 
 the Host as Sister Mary John had done, and she 
 was not certain whether she accej^ted the Host as 
 an extraordinary symbolic interpretation of God's 
 constant descent into man, of the union of the 
 human and the Divine kind, or as the actual body 
 of the Creator and administrator of things. If her 
 faith on this essential point was not clear, could she 
 live in a convent dedicated to perpetual adoration ? 
 She was not quite certain on this point, and while 
 thinking she remembered that no other nun but 
 Sister Mary John w^as possessed by sufficient faith 
 to allow her to see the Divine flesh in the Host. 
 Evelyn reflected that if she were to leave the con- 
 vent she might lose her faith. She could conquer 
 her sinful nature only among those whose lives 
 proved to her that they held the world to be worth- 
 less. She could live safe from sin only amid a 
 stream of petitions going up daily to God for her 
 safety. Moreover, her belief in the great sacrament 
 had increased since she had come back from Rome ; 
 she desired faith, an ardent, irrevocable, sensible 
 faith, and it would not be withheld from her if she 
 prayed. 
 
 By a special dispensation from the Reverend
 
 SISTER TERESA 241 
 
 Mother, her watch before the sacrament was in- 
 creased from half an hour to an hour; she was 
 therefore put on an equality with the choir nuns; 
 and kneeling before the sacrament she thought of 
 God as intimately as she dared, excluding all 
 thought of the young Galilean prophet and seer, 
 allowing herself to think only of the exquisite doc- 
 trine. She did not wish him to take her in his arms 
 until one day starting suddenly from her prayers 
 she asked who it was who stood before her. She 
 seemed to see Him among His disciples, sitting at 
 a small table with a love-light upon His face. She 
 scrutinised the face, fearing it might not be His. 
 She seemed to have seen it. Presently she discov- 
 ered Ulick; and tremblingly she remembered the 
 night she found him among his disciples. So she 
 did not dare to think of Christ any longer; and 
 with regret and tenderness, and yet with a certain 
 exaltation of the spirit, she turned to the Father, 
 to the original essence which had existed before the 
 world needed a redeemer. She lost herself for a 
 time in the vast spirit which hears the song of 
 nature through space and the ages. But very soon 
 she turned to the young Galilean prophet again, 
 and his exquisite doctrine seemed to her to be all 
 that man needs to bring to perfect fruition the 
 original germ of immortality implanted in him. 
 
 The Prioress divined her trouble, and in con- 
 sideration of it allowed her to communicate every 
 day, and henceforth He and she were no longer 
 
 IG
 
 2-12 SISTER TERESA 
 
 divided. Time passed so quickly in thinking of 
 Him that only a few moments seemed to have di- 
 vided them, and she awoke at dawn conscious that 
 the hour of the Lord was nigh. 
 
 On Sundays the interval with God was longer, 
 for on Sundays the choral Mass was at nine for the 
 convenience of strangers, and the nuns received 
 holy communion at an earlier hour. So there was 
 a long interval in which God brooded in the heart, 
 in which she walked enfolded in the Divine atraos- 
 l^here. Then the spirit and flesh ceased to battle, 
 and the flesh received the spirit at every pore. But 
 unhappily this state was forfeit to any slight inter- 
 ruption, and the object of all the nuns was to make 
 it last as long as possible. As sacristan Evelyn was 
 especially liable to interruptions. There were occa- 
 sions when the server did not attend, and it befell 
 Evelyn to recite the Confiteor aloud to the com- 
 municants, to make the final responses and to put 
 out the candles when the priest left the altar ; and 
 to do these things lost her the joy of her communion. 
 She was dragged out of the unbounded joys and 
 tenderness which had gathered in her heart. 
 
 When communion was carried to the sick, to old 
 Mother Lawrence, who could not come down to the 
 chapel at so early an hour, Evelyn and another 
 novice, each with a lighted candle, and Sister 
 Veronica, with a little bell to announce the coming 
 of the Host, preceded the priest through the cloister
 
 SISTER TERESA 243 
 
 and up the novitiate stairs to the infirmary. The 
 novices knelt, with their candles in their hands, at 
 the foot of the bed, and the aged nun, wasted with 
 age and abstinences and prayers, Avaited, tremulous 
 with expectation, her withered hands feebly clasped, 
 for the priest to lay the Host upon her tongue. 
 Once she was very ill indeed ; they thought she was 
 dying, yet in her mortal weakness she strove to get 
 on her knees to receive the sacrament, and Veronica, 
 who perceived Sister Lawrence's intention, passed 
 her hands under the armpits, lifting the old nun, 
 but the knees, in which there was no strength, 
 slipped away, only in her eyes was there any life — 
 little spots which awoke out of their dulness at the 
 approach of the sacrament. The gravity of the mo- 
 ment ennobled their different sentiments — Father 
 Daly's faith gross and obtuse, Veronica's faith in- 
 herent and unsullied, Evelyn's faith passionate and 
 febrile. The two women were in tears, and their 
 tears only made them more beautiful, and their 
 hearts grew happy and confident as they looked at 
 the old nun now lying peacefully among the pillows, 
 her face calm, seemingly liglited up with a vision. 
 Of what happy eternity, Evelyn thought as they 
 left the bedside, and to the sound of the tinkling 
 bell they passed into the chapel. 
 
 Evelyn loved this solemn office ; it gave her an 
 intimate sense of personal service on Christ, of 
 walking with Him on earth, and never from repeti- 
 tion did the sight of the nuns prostrated in their
 
 244 SISTER TERESA 
 
 stalls as the sacrament was carried back to the altar 
 become trite and formal. This visible manifesta- 
 tion of their undaunted renouncement of the vulgar 
 world exalted her, and new courage came into her 
 heart. She noted the accumulated heads and the 
 joined hands clasped convulsively, with perhaps one 
 face lifted for a moment to gaze on God that Avent 
 by, eager for some deeper pang of faith, fearful 
 and yet eager to approach God. What are all the 
 manifestations of personal vanity, she thought, 
 whether in art or war or statesmanship, compared 
 with this undaunted self-effacement?
 
 XXVII 
 
 She was writing in the library, and Veronica had' 
 just opened the door, and though her back was 
 turned to the door she seemed to know it was 
 Veronica. She had seen very little of her lately, 
 and at one time Evelyn, Veronica, and Sister Mary 
 John had formed a little group. But since Evelyn 
 had become attached to Sister Mary John, Veronica 
 had withdrawn herself from their friendship, and" 
 she now treated them to little disdainful airs, and 
 she did not at once answer Evelyn, who, with the 
 prettiest smile, had asked her whom she had come 
 in search of, and there was an accent of concentrated 
 dislike in her voice when she said she was looking 
 for Sister Mary John. 
 
 " I heard her trampling about the passage just 
 now; she is on her way here, no doubt, and won't 
 keep you waiting long." 
 
 Evelyn understood the word " trampling" as an 
 allusion to the hobnails which Sister Mary John 
 wore in the garden. Veronica had lately been in- 
 dulging in bitter remarks, but it was not the rude- 
 ness of the present remark that startled Evelyn, 
 but Veronica's manner. She did not give Evelyn 
 time to answer her, but left the room instantly, and 
 
 245
 
 246 SISTER TERESA 
 
 Evelyn sat nibbling the end of her pen, thinking of 
 what had happened. The little jealousy with which 
 she had credited Veronica did not seem sufficient 
 to account for so much dislike, and she was forced 
 towards the conclusion that Veronica's dislike of 
 Sister Mary John went deeper that she had sus- 
 pected. She seemed to foresee some unpleasantness, 
 and she sat thinking till the door opened ; she hoped 
 it was Veronica, but it was Sister Mary John. 
 
 " I can't think what is the matter with Veronica," 
 she said. " I passed her in the passage just now, 
 and when I asked her if she had seen you, she said 
 she was really too busy to speak to me, and a mo- 
 ment after she stopped for quite a long while to 
 play with the black kitten which was catching flies 
 in the window." 
 
 Evelyn stood looking at the nun, thinking of 
 Veronica's remarks regarding the hobnails. 
 
 " Do you know what it means ? Has she ever 
 been rude to you ?" 
 
 " No, I don't think she has." 
 
 But, in spite of herself, she began awkwardly 
 and hesitatingly to tell of the little passage-of-arms 
 between herself and Veronica. And while laughing 
 at Veronica's jealousy, she stopped suddenly to ask 
 Sister Mary John of what she was thinking. 
 
 " She is quite right ; it is we who are in the 
 wrong. We have been disobeying the rule this long 
 while." 
 
 Evelyn could not find words to answer her, and
 
 SISTER TERESA 247 
 
 an ominous silence was In-oken by the smiling, 
 ruddy-cheeked portercss. 
 
 " Sister Teresa, Monsignor has come, and is wait- 
 ing to see you in the parlour." 
 
 The colour rose to her cheeks, and so excited was 
 she at the thought of seeing ^lonsignor that she for- 
 got Veronica's rudeness, and very nearly forgot the 
 rupture her jealousy might cause in a friendship 
 which had been the principal interest in her life for 
 the last three months ; and asking the Sister if she 
 were tidy, she hurried away. 
 
 As the door closed Sister Mary John looked round 
 the library, and a little sadness appeared in her face, 
 and many things became clear to her which, until 
 now, she had only half understood. It was Mon- 
 signor who had converted Evelyn — Evelyn was 
 therefore attached to him in a special way ; but 
 she saw that part of Evelyn's exultation sprang 
 from her instinctive interest in men. 
 
 " A man always comes before everyone else, 
 whether she is on the stage or in a convent. So 
 she goes flying to him, her heart in both hands, 
 eager to confide and to trust." 
 
 Sister !Mary John walked across the library, 
 cruelly perplexed, for it had suddenly been revealed 
 to her that to bring the friendship to an end she 
 must leave the convent. She must go straight to the 
 Prioress and tell her her life was being absorbed in 
 Evelvn, and beg her to transfer her to the Mother 
 House in France.
 
 248 SISTER TERESA 
 
 Evelyn was now talking to Monsignor in the 
 parlour, and the nun could see him listening, en- 
 couraging her to reveal herself by an attentive 
 silence. The Prioress had sent for him, so that he 
 might advise her regarding Evelyn. When the in- 
 terview was over the Prioress would go to the par- 
 lour to hear Monsignor's opinion. So the oppor- 
 tuneness of the moment for her to confide her diffi- 
 culty to the Prioress was evident to Sister Mary 
 John. The very words she should say rose up in her 
 mind, yet she hesitated, and she stopped in the 
 middle of the room to ask herself why she hesitated. 
 Questions would be intolerable and shameful ; but 
 the Prioress would understand, and there would be 
 few questions. 
 
 As she turned from the door a voice of extraor- 
 dinary sweetness began to whisper in her, and she 
 heard that for the sake of retaining Evelyn for a 
 few short years she would lose her through eternity. 
 Were it not better to see her in heaven ? And then 
 a strange confusion of thought happened in her. 
 She was tempted by the thought that even in heaven 
 they would be separated by their love of God, and 
 she remembered with horror that it was since love 
 of Evelyn had begun in her that that passionate love 
 of Christ, which was her vocation, and without 
 which she could not live in a convent, had declined. 
 She must choose between Christ and Evelyn. Well, 
 had not Evelyn chosen Monsignor before her ? She 
 was conscious of an exceeding wickedness; her
 
 SISTER TERESA 249 
 
 thoughts faded, and she became, as it were, vague 
 pain and irresolution. 
 
 But suddenly a great strength was vouchsafed 
 to her, and she went to the Prioress's room. 
 
 It was always easy to talk to the Prioress. In 
 their confessions the nuns spoke as if they were 
 thinking aloud, and Sister Mary John explained 
 how this friendship had come to be a disintegrating 
 influence, how her spiritual character had fallen 
 away since Evelyn had become to her a sensible 
 pleasure. She had known this a long while, but 
 had stifled the voice of her conscience. Veronica's 
 jealousy had brought her, as it were, to bay, and in 
 a flash she had realised how deeply she was involved 
 in the entanglement of her senses. Speaking 
 quickly, she said that Evelyn had absorbed her life, 
 that she lived immersed in her as she should live 
 immersed in God. 
 
 " My dear child, you exaggerate unconsciously, 
 for enough power remains in you to break silence 
 and to put the matter into my hands." 
 
 " I could do nothing else ; I had to come to tell 
 you. Mother. The truth is I am losing my voca- 
 tion, and to regain it I must leave. Dear Mother, 
 I have come to ask you to transfer me to our house 
 in Prance." 
 
 A shadow flitted across the Prioress's face, and 
 the nun anticipated a refusal. 
 
 " I am thinking, my dear child, of what is best 
 to be done." And while the Prioress thought of
 
 250 SISTER TERESA 
 
 the best w&j out of the dilemma, the mm regretted 
 the trouble she was giving this old woman. There 
 was a swish of wind and rain on the window, and 
 the trees waved disconsolately in the wet air, and 
 their waving carried her thoughts out to sea, where 
 there were sails and rigging, and she saw herself 
 on her way to France. France was to be the end 
 of her life, and she was thinking of the end of her 
 days in the Mother House at Lyons, where she knew 
 no one, when the Prioress said, " Mrs. Cater is 
 going to France next month. You can travel with 
 her." 
 
 " So a month must pass. I had thought of 
 leaving to-day or to-morrow, but I see that that is 
 impossible. A month — how shall I endure it ?" 
 
 " i^o one will know," the Prioress answered, with 
 a little vehemence ; " it is a secret between us, and 
 I forbid you to tell anyone the reason of your 
 leaving." 
 
 " May I not tell Teresa ?" 
 
 " Teresa will be professed in the next few weeks, 
 I hope, perhaps next week ; she has reached a criti- 
 cal moment of her life, and her mind must not be 
 disturbed. The raising of such a question at such 
 a moment might be fatal to her vocation." 
 
 The Prioress rose from her chair, and following 
 Sister Mary John to the door, impressed upon her 
 again that it was essential that no one should ever 
 know why she had left the convent. 
 
 " You may tell Teresa before you leave ; but she
 
 SISTER TERESA 251 
 
 must hear nothing of it till the moment of your 
 leaving. I give vou permission merely to say 
 good-bye to her on the day you leave, and in the in- 
 terval you will see as little of each other as pos- 
 sible." 
 
 But when Sister Mary John said that Sister 
 Elizabeth could accompany Evelyn as well as she 
 could, the Prioress interrupted her. " You must 
 always accompany her when she sings at Benedic- 
 tion. You must do nothing to let her suspect that 
 you are leaving the convent on her account." 
 
 And at that moment the Prioress remembered 
 that EvehTi was talking with Monsignor. 
 
 " She thinks him a Bossuet," the Prioress said 
 to herself, as she returned to her chair ; " they have 
 corresponded for months on literary questions." 
 She hoped Evelyn would not be effusive in her ad- 
 miration, and so convey a false impression of her- 
 self, and then a little smile hovered round the 
 corners of her mouth, a sign of the thought that had 
 passed. She began to arrange her papers, and as 
 she did so Evelyn asked the prelate to tell her about 
 Rome. 
 
 The last time she had seen him was in the early 
 summer, soon after her clothing, and she had hardly 
 been able to speak to him. She had not recovered 
 from the shock of her father's death ; and he re- 
 called all the circumstances of it so vividly, the 
 very moment when he had led her from the room. 
 
 Her father's death was almost as much before her
 
 252 SISTER TERESA 
 
 now as then, but differently. Her grief had gone, 
 as it were, out of the flesh, and was reflected now 
 merely in her imagination. It looked at her out of 
 the sky like a star, the sign whereby the wayfarer 
 directs his steps. The old poignant grief which 
 the sight of Monsignor had reawakened in her only 
 endured for a moment; she had recovered herself, 
 and was asking him to tell her about Rome and its 
 ecclesiastics. She thought of them because of her 
 father's relations with them; she talked gaily and 
 eagerly; and yet she had, perhaps, never felt so 
 clearly, nor had the feeling ever been so conclusive, 
 that the personal life was dead in her, that she now 
 lived for the nuns, in order to keep them out of 
 their difiiculties ; and that when that was done her 
 mission would be accomplished. 
 
 All her surface characteristics remained, but in 
 her deeper self had been changed. It seemed to 
 her that she had been lifted out of animal life, to 
 some extent, and had been carried forward, if not 
 into, at least towards the life of the soul. She felt 
 this very clearly now, and yet she wished to hear of 
 the little externalities of religion to which pious 
 women devote so much time. 
 
 She reminded him of things which he had almost 
 forgotten, and he was surprised that she wished to 
 hear the end of the disputation in which he had 
 been engaged with a certain cardinal, who had 
 taken a reactionary view regarding the value of 
 the Biblical account of the creation. She reminded
 
 SISTER TERESA' 253 
 
 him of the arguments he had used, but he had for- 
 gotten them, and she recalled his very words.. He 
 had said that the cardinal had committed the Church 
 as far as he could commit the Church to certain 
 opinions which might afterwards have to be recon- 
 sidered. Monsignor had said that religion had noth- 
 ing to fear from science. Science is exclusively 
 concerned vnth man's physical surroundings ; re- 
 ligion is, with equal exclusiveness, concerned with 
 the development of his moral consciousness. She 
 said that this way of putting the question had 
 struck her at the time ; and his face lighted up, and 
 he expressed surprise at her memory of his oppo- 
 nents and the details of the disputation. 
 
 " Ah, you don't know what it is to be shut up for 
 more than a year with a lot of women in a con- 
 vent." 
 
 " But I came here to talk to you about your vo- 
 cation, to discover whether you are called to separate 
 yourself from all worldly interests." 
 
 " I have made up my mind to be a nun, but now 
 you are here I want to talk about Rome and of its 
 people." 
 
 She had kept all his letters, and knowing his 
 bent for theological discussion she had allowed cer- 
 tain little heresies to creep into her letters, in order 
 that he might disprove them to her admiration. He 
 had replied at length, and his letters were the let- 
 ters of a man of liberal intelligence, pragmatical 
 and astute. But these letters coming into the con-
 
 254 SISTER TERESA" 
 
 ventual monotony Lad seemed like great manifesta- 
 tions of a great central mind, and she insisted that 
 the book he was writing would give new impetus to 
 Catholic life. She exhorted him to take the lead, 
 to assert himself, for without him Catholic ideas 
 could make no further progress in England. She 
 deplored that he had not been made a cardinal and 
 with an enthusiasm that impressed him. 
 
 Taking advantage of a pause in the conversation 
 he mentioned that the writing of the last portion 
 of his book had been delayed, but he hoped to find 
 time to finish it this winter. Then he asked her, 
 somewhat abruptly, if certain scruples regarding 
 the Holy Communion had passed. She answered 
 that they had passed, and the conversation came to 
 an awkward pause. 
 
 " You have come here," she said, " to talk to me 
 about myself, whereas I want to talk to you about 
 you ; it will interest me so much more. You want 
 to find out if I have a vocation, but the more I tell 
 you about myself the less you will believe in my vo- 
 cation." 
 
 The prelate persisted, and after some hesitation 
 she said, — 
 
 " My duty was to go to Rome with my father, 
 but I could not bring myself to accept that duty, 
 so great was the temptation to separate myself from 
 the world. For this wrongdoing I was punished; 
 my father died, perhaps through my fault. His 
 death however wrought a great change in me, a
 
 SISTER TERESA 255 
 
 change Avhich had been preparing a long while back. 
 I felt clearly, what I had always felt indistinctly, 
 that there is no value in human life at all except 
 in so much as it enables us to develop our spiritual 
 life. You remember that I wrote to you about a 
 man not being given a soul, but a germ which 
 might become a soul if he cultivated it. It now 
 seems to me that that belief in the mortality and 
 the immortality of the soul is what is most natural 
 and inherent in me. It is the original seed of my 
 nature, but it was buried very deep, and it took a 
 long time to grow out of the ground. Xow I have 
 told you all I know of myself, Monsignor, all that 
 I have learned in the long year of my novitiate. I 
 have told you the whole truth so far as I have gone." 
 
 " x\nd you have determined to take the veil ? 
 Tell me, you do not find this rule difficult and ar- 
 duous ?" 
 
 " So long as we live with those whose ideas corre- 
 spond with ours, the rest matters very little." 
 
 " Remember that the step is extremely grave. 
 ^MTothing could be more unfortunate than that you 
 should take vows merely because you are friends 
 with these nuns and wish to relieve them from their 
 pecuniary embarrassments." 
 
 " You arc very sceptical, Monsignor. What can 
 I say to convince you ? That I do not like the rule, 
 that I find it very difficult ?" 
 
 She laughed and pressed him to admit that that 
 was what he was minded to say. And he admitted
 
 256 SISTER TERESA 
 
 if she had said she found the rule difficult he would 
 have found it easier to believe in her vocation. 
 
 " Ah, my past life — jou cannot forget it ; you 
 are like the others," and she reminded him that the 
 Prioress herself had not refused the world, like 
 Veronica, but had renounced the world, like her- 
 self. 
 
 " Yet she is our Reverend Mother. Who knows, 
 Monsignor — I succeeded on the stage, why should 
 not I succeed equally well in the convent ? Promise 
 me this, that if the nuns vote for me, you will pro- 
 fess me, and if one day I should be Prioress you 
 will write and advise me on doctrine and on the 
 daily life of my convent." 
 
 He could not refuse to promise what she had 
 asked, and they laughed and stood looking at each 
 other until a bell rang. 
 
 " Now I must go to the sacristy." 
 
 As she went there she met Sister Mary John, and 
 she said, — 
 
 " I think I have convinced Monsignor, and he has 
 promised to profess me." 
 
 " Then it is settled ?" 
 
 " Yes ; but why do you look so strange ? Do you 
 think the nuns will not vote for me ?" 
 
 The nun stood looking at Evelyn, conscious that 
 the entanglement was even more intricate than she 
 had imagined. If Evelyn were not elected she 
 might leave the convent and return to the stage. 
 She was one who would travel a certain distance
 
 SISTER TERP:SA 257 
 
 Avitli admirable perseverance, surmounting every 
 obstacle, until one, very likely a smaller obstacle 
 than those she had already passed, opposed her, 
 then without any very clear reason she might 
 quickly return the way she had come. " Should 
 Evelyn leave," Sister Mary John thought, " I may 
 stay. Nothing is decided, except that we are to be 
 separated." The nun asked herself if she were de- 
 ceiving Evelyn by withholding her intention to 
 leave the convent as soon after Evelyn's profession 
 as possible, and the question whether she should 
 vote for her, or abstain from voting, or vote against 
 her, perplexed her. What matter, she thought, 
 since in any case we are to be separated. 
 
 "But what is the matter. Sister? Why do you 
 stand looking at me like this ?" 
 
 The nun could not answer, and Evelyn was about 
 to hold out her arms to her, thinking she was going 
 to fall. At that moment the Prioress called. The 
 Prioress was on her way to the parlour, and di- 
 vining the difficulty that had arisen, she sent Sister 
 Mary John with a message to Mother Philippa. 
 Her hand was on the door handle, and she entered 
 the parlour as soon as the nun was out of sight. 
 
 " I hope you are pleased, Monsignor, with the 
 excellent condition of mind in which you hare 
 found our dear Sister Teresa ? She told me she 
 intended to ask you to profess her. I am sure it 
 would be of great assistance to her if you would." 
 
 " Sister Teresa and I have had a long talk, and I
 
 258 SISTER TERESA 
 
 find her very earnest. I think I may say that I 
 found her very much improved. She seems to have 
 read and thought a great deal since I last saw 
 her." 
 
 " Yes, Sister Teresa reads a great deal ; theologi- 
 cal questions present a great attraction to her mind." 
 
 Monsignor did not answer, and he left the Rev- 
 erend Mother to continue the conversation. She did 
 this with alacrity, and they talked roimd the sub- 
 ject. At last there seemed to be nothing more to 
 say, and the Prioress found herself obliged to ask 
 him if he thought Sister Teresa had a vocation. 
 
 " I find her, as I have said, my dear Reverend 
 Mother, extremely earnest; she has evidently 
 thought a great deal on spiritual matters. But she 
 has only just fulfilled the required time in the no- 
 vitiate ; are you sure she has acquired that solid 
 piety so necessary for a religious life ? She is very 
 emotional. What I mean is, should you say that 
 her attitude towards the life was normal ?" 
 
 " Sister Teresa," the old nun replied, " will never 
 be normal, but her genius has enabled her to assimi- 
 late our rule." 
 
 In reply to further questions, he said that he had 
 only seen Sister Teresa once in the last six months. 
 Besides, no one was so capable of deciding on a 
 nun's vocation as the Prioress herself, and begged 
 her not to be influenced by anything that he had 
 said. 
 
 '^ When the question is decided, let me know, for
 
 SISTER TKUKSA 259 
 
 I have promised Sister Teresa I will profess her 
 mvself." 
 
 The Prioress looked at him sharply, and as she 
 went to her room she thought of what might have 
 happened if she had been refused election, and she 
 thought of the grave responsibility which she and 
 the other Mothers would incur by refusing to vote 
 for Evelyn.
 
 XXVIII 
 
 It was with this argument that she sought to 
 overcome Mother Mary Hilda when the Mothers 
 met in council. Their council was held in the 
 ]\[other's own room after evening prayers, when no 
 light burned anywhere, and the nuns and the cana- 
 ries were asleep in their cells and cages. The Pri- 
 oress began by saying that she had consulted Mon- 
 signor, and that he had said nothing would give him 
 greater pleasure than to see Sister Teresa professed, 
 but he left the ultimate decision entirely to them. 
 
 Mother j\[ary llilda held the opinion of Monsig- 
 nor in high esteem, but she did not withdraw her 
 opposition, and she questioned the Prioress closely 
 as to Monsignor's precise words, and was mani- 
 festly relieved to hear that he thought on the sub- 
 ject of a nun's vocation the nuns were the best 
 judges. So she gained an advantage over the Pri- 
 oress, but it was only momentary, for when she 
 spoke of the shortness of Evelyn's postulancy, laying 
 stress on the fact that it had been broken by her 
 journey to Home, the Prioress said, — 
 
 " But all that has been decided by the Bishop ; 
 
 we need not go into that again. Xo one has so 
 
 much right to form an opinion of Evelyn's vocation 
 
 as you have, but I cannot forget that from the first 
 260
 
 SISTER TERESA 261 
 
 your instinct Avas against her, and when that is so 
 wo are never convinced, I am afraid." 
 
 " But, j\rother, I am sorry if I seem to you stub- 
 born." 
 
 " Xot stubborn, but I would hear you explain 
 your reasons for thinking Sister Teresa has not a 
 vocation, and Mother Philippa is most anxious to 
 hear them too." 
 
 Mother Phili])pa listened, tliinking of lier bed, 
 and wondering why Mother Mary Hilda kept them 
 up by refusing to agree with the Prioress. 
 
 Mother Hilda, with quiet obstinacy and deter- 
 mination, reminded them that they could hardly 
 point to a case in which a novice had been elected 
 who had been with them for so short a time as Sis- 
 ter Teresa. 
 
 " JBut we have known Teresa for a long time — for 
 more than three years. Her thoughts have been in- 
 clining towards a religious life ever since we have 
 known her. You do not deny her piety. Her re- 
 ligious fe^'vour gives promise of the highest sanc- 
 tity in the future; she is animated with the sin- 
 cerest love of God." 
 
 " I have no doubt whatever on that point, never- 
 theless I find it difficult to believe that she will 
 prove a satisfactory member of the community. 
 She is quite different from any of us." 
 
 " I have heard that phrase very often, and con- 
 fess it conveys no idea to my mind. We are all 
 different from one another. Peter was not like
 
 262 SISTER TERESA 
 
 Paul, nor was Catherine of Siena like St. Teresa. 
 We are anxions to know, Mother Hilda, what is 
 your precise reason for thinking that Sister Teresa 
 has not a vocation." 
 
 " You have set me a difficult task, ^lother. It 
 seems to me that her piety, although very genuine, 
 does not penetrate much below the surface. A 
 good deal of it seeuis to me incidental, and to be 
 brought about by the great grief which she experi- 
 enced at her father's death. I have noticed this 
 too, that her piety does not stimulate others to piety 
 but rather the reverse. Since she has been in the 
 convent you will not deny that she has been a source 
 of distraction to us all. We are always thinking of 
 her, and talking of her when we can. Inquiries are 
 always on foot concerning her. She is the one that 
 all the visitors want to see. Our visitors are excel- 
 lent people, no doubt; but they spend a great deal 
 of time in the parlour, and they have to be waited 
 on there, and the teas do not end till nearly six 
 o'clock. Xow comes another matter on which I 
 would not speak if speech could be avoided. It is a 
 matter so delicate that I fear, whatever words I 
 use, my words will misinterpret my meaning — what 
 I want to say is that Teresa influences us all. I 
 would remind you that Sister Mary John and 
 Veronica are absorbed in her influence, though I 
 am sure they are not aware of it. But it would 
 seem to me impossible not to notice it. Have you 
 ever noticed it ?" ]VIother Hilda said, appealing di-
 
 SISTER TERESA 263 
 
 rectly to the Prioress and Mother Philippa. Mother 
 Philippa shook her liead, and then confessed she 
 had not the slightest notion of what Mother Mary 
 Hilda meant. 
 
 The Prioress asked if she thought Sister Teresa 
 had shown any undue vanity in the attentions which 
 were paid to her. 
 
 " Xo, indeed ; her humility is so striking that 
 very often I feel that I may after all be misjudging 
 her." 
 
 " I confess I completely fail/' said Mother Phil- 
 ippa, " to understand your objections to our vis- 
 itors; without them we cannot live. They are our 
 means of subsistence, and it was in the hope of 
 attracting visitors ..." 
 
 " I know, I know." 
 
 And Mother Hilda said she was quite willing to 
 refrain from voting; but this was not what the 
 Prioress wished. Every nun must accept the re- 
 sponsibility. " And it would seem," she said, 
 " though I do not feel it myself, that very great 
 responsibility attaches to Sister Teresa's election." 
 
 '' Hear Reverend Mother, I can only repeat that 
 I think we should wait. Another year in the novi- 
 tiate, perhaps six months, will prove whether her 
 desire is a passing desire or a true vocation." 
 
 " But our necessities!" 
 
 " Ah, Reverend ^fother, our necessities should 
 not influence us surely." 
 
 " Our necessities should not influence us either
 
 264 SISTER TERESA 
 
 way. But they seem to iiiflueiice you against her. 
 Don't they ?" 
 
 " Yes, I admit that they do." 
 
 " Then, if you feel like that," said Mother Phil- 
 ippa, waking from a light doze which had not pre- 
 vented her from hearing the conversation, " I think 
 that you should abstain from voting." 
 
 Instead of answering, Mother Hilda asked the 
 Prioress for her reason for objecting to a slight 
 delay. 
 
 " If we accept Evelyn her salvation will be se- 
 cured, and if we yield to your scruples we make 
 ourselves responsible for all that may happen to 
 her. I ask if you are prepared to see this house 
 and garden confiscated. Although our order is very 
 poor, some of us may find refuge in another con- 
 vent. But many of us, the younger ones, would 
 have to return to their homes, and there are our 
 poor lay Sisters ; what will become of them ?" 
 
 " Our circumstances are very trying I know, 
 but I do not think we should allow them to influ- 
 ence us." 
 
 " But you have said," rejoined the Prioress, 
 " that they do influence you against Teresa, whereas 
 Mother Philippa and I can truthfully say that they 
 do not influence us in her favour." 
 
 On that the Prioress rose to her feet, and the 
 other two nuns understood that the interview was 
 at an end. 
 
 " Dear Reverend Mother, I know how great your
 
 SISTER TERESA 265 
 
 difficulties are/' said Mother Hilda, " aud 1 am 
 loth to oppose your wishes iu auythiug. I kuow 
 how wise you are — how much wiser than we — but 
 however foolishly I may appear to be acting, you 
 will understand that I cannot act differently, feel- 
 ing as I do." 
 
 " I understand that, Mother Hilda. We must 
 act according to our lights. And now^ we must go 
 to bed ; we are breaking all the rules of the house."
 
 XXIX 
 
 TiiK Prioress bad wished Sister Mary John to 
 leave Evelyn in donbt that any change had come 
 into their friendship, but no one can act a part when 
 their deepest feelings are engaged, and Sister !Mary 
 John had bnrried i)ast Evelyn when they met, and 
 during the week Evelyn noticed that Sister !Mary 
 John had not spoken to her once except to ask her 
 what she was going to sing. At any other time Eve- 
 lyn Avould have been seriously troubled by this 
 break in their friendship, but she was thinking now 
 of her vows and of her election, and she dismissed 
 all other matters from her thoughts, only allowing 
 herself to hope that this estrangement was tempo- 
 rary, that when she was elected a choir Sister she 
 and Sister Mary John would be friends as they had 
 always been. 
 
 And when Sister Mary John looked across the 
 chapel and saw Evelyn absorbed in prayer, she was 
 certain that her love had not been a temptation to 
 Evelyn, and it was a bitter gladness to see that sepa- 
 ration from her caused Evelyn no pain. 
 
 And listening to the beautiful voice she thought 
 of the Prioress's great age, and of how friendless 
 Evelyn would be when she was dead. She remem- 
 bered that the nuns were jealous of Evelyn's voice, 
 and that they resented the attention that always 
 266
 
 SISTER TERESA 267 
 
 hummed round Evelyn in the parlour. She foresaw 
 nothing hut unhappincss for Evelyn ; she had begun 
 to doubt whether she had an}- true vocation, and she 
 could not help feeling that the best thing that could 
 hapi^en would be for Mother Hilda's opposition to 
 succeed. 
 
 But Mother Hilda's opposition was overruled, 
 Evelyn was elected almost unanimously, and Mon- 
 signor was coming to put the ring on her finger. 
 In a week she would be plighted to Christ, a most 
 desirable and beautiful bride, Sister Mary John 
 thought. It seemed as if her heart were about to 
 break, and she longed to run away to her cell, for 
 it seemed impossible to restrain her tears. What 
 account could she give of herself to the other nuns, 
 and the Prioress would know why she was weeping. 
 It seemed impossible to stifle her weary heart any 
 longer; nothing would relieve her except to tell the 
 entire coninnuiity of her miserable condition, but 
 she had promised the Prioress not to speak to Eve- 
 lyn of her decision to leave the convent until Evelyn 
 had made her vows. Xow this promise seemed to 
 her most liorrible and wicked, and to break it seemed 
 to be her duty. There is a vocation which admits 
 of no doubt whatever, and there is a vocation which 
 is dependent on certain circumstances; and how 
 did she know that Evelyn's vocation was not de- 
 pendent upon the support of her friendship in this 
 eonvent ? how did she know that Evelyn would 
 take tlie final vows if she knew bow friendless she
 
 268 SISTER TERESA 
 
 would he when her friend was away in France, and 
 when the Prioress was dead ? 
 
 She knew none of these things, hut she had made 
 a terrible promise, and all the week she lived in the 
 terrors of nightmare. And on the day of Evelyn's 
 profession, when she saw her walk between the 
 Prioress and Mother Hilda in her habit and white 
 veil, it seemed to the broken-hearted nun that she 
 could contain herself no longer, and that she must 
 get up from her place and make a public declara- 
 tion. Even in this last moment it were better to 
 make it than to keep silence; yet she remained 
 kneeling, watching this ceremony. But there is a 
 limit to suffering. She seemed to forget everything, 
 and awaking from a melancholy trance she listened 
 to Monsignor, who was asking Evelyn wdiat she had 
 come to ask from the Church. She heard her reply 
 that she sought to enter the religious life. 
 
 Then Monsignor began his address, and Sister 
 Teresa stood listening to the exhortation, confident 
 in herself while she heard the priest speak of the 
 difficulties and the crosses of the religious life. She 
 was asked again if she were prepared to embrace it, 
 and to all questions she answered '' Yes," and she 
 looked so joyful that Sister Mary John felt that 
 Evelyn was following her true vocation. She said 
 to herself, " When one is certain of one's self 
 nothing matters ; Evelyn will be happy in the con- 
 vent even when the Prioress was dead." Then she 
 saw the tall figure cross to the gospel side of the
 
 SISTER TERESA 269 
 
 altar with the two n\ins ; she saw her sign her name 
 to the vows she had made, and when she came back 
 Sister Mary John saw Consignor put the ring on 
 her finger. Evelyn knelt at the feet of the Prioress, 
 who gave her the black veil, and all the nuns sang 
 the " ycni spoiisa Christ L" 
 
 And the few people in the church who had wit- 
 nessed the ceremony felt as Evelyn had felt when 
 she saw the Birmingham girl leave the vanity of the 
 world for the true realities of prayer. Within the 
 cloister the nuns gathered round Eveh-n to con- 
 gratulate her, and their congratulations seemed to 
 her more valid than those which she used to receive 
 for her singing " Elsa's Dream." But as they 
 pressed round her she noticed that Sister Mary John 
 was striving to absent herself, and breaking from 
 them she called to her, — 
 
 " How is this. Sister ? I do not hear you say 
 
 anything; and why would you go away yourself?" 
 
 " I am glad, Teresa, indeed I am glad," and she 
 
 added under her breath, " More glad than I expected 
 
 to be." 
 
 " Did you doubt my vocation then ?" 
 Sister Mary John strove to disengage her hands,' 
 which Evelyn held, and the other nuns had begun 
 to wonder; in another moment they would have 
 begun to surmise that something was wrong, but the 
 Prioress intervened and took Evelyn into the garden 
 and told her that her dearest wishes had been real- 
 ised.
 
 270 SISTER TERESA 
 
 " I am glad, too, dear Mother ; and you are ac- 
 countable for a great deal of wliat has happened; 
 for I doubt if I should ever have had the strength 
 without vou. But, dear Mother, tell me what has 
 happened to Sister Mary John? Did you notice 
 that she was the only one who did not come to con- 
 gratulate mc? For some time I have noticed that 
 she avoids mc in a way she never did before.'' 
 
 " It was necessary, Teresa, for you and Sister 
 Mary John to see a great deal of each other, but a 
 nun must always remember that she belongs wholly 
 to God." 
 
 " Dear Mother, it was Sister Mary John's exam- 
 ple that brought me to God. She has been almost as 
 great a help to me as you, and this estrangement has 
 spoilt the pleasure of the day for me." 
 
 " You M ill remember what I say, Teresa : a 
 nun belongs wholly to God, and you must not try 
 to force upon Sister Mary John a friendship which 
 she does not wish." 
 
 The Prioress's voice had suddenly become cold; 
 almost cruel. Evelyn's heart misgave her. She 
 felt that something had happened — something ter- 
 rible, and she lay awake thinking of it. Her 
 thoughts roved about the truth, not daring to ap- 
 proach it, whereas Sister Mary John knew it and 
 she foresaw that Evelyn would question her. Her 
 uuhappiness was so great that her exile seemed to 
 her less than the explanation that awaited her on 
 the morning of her departure. Every day was a
 
 SISTER TERESA 271 
 
 great labour, but the morning was now at hand, for 
 tlie lady with whom Sister Mary John was to travel 
 had written to the Prioress saying that her depart- 
 ure had been unexpectedly hastened. She hoped 
 that it would suit dear Sister Mary John's con- 
 venience equally well to travel this week as the fol- 
 lowing week. Sister Mary John looked upon this 
 shortening of her torment as providential, for yes- 
 terday Evelyn had stopjied her and begged her to 
 explain why she no longer spoke to her. Evelyn 
 had written an impassioned letter, and Sister Mary 
 John had begun to feel that she could not bear the 
 strain any longer. 
 
 Xext morning she opened the library door, and 
 Evelyn's eyes lighted up, thinking they were about 
 to be reconciled ; but the light died out of them in- 
 stantly, for Sister Mary John Avore a long black 
 cloak over her habit, and she had a bird cage in her 
 hand, and Evelyn saw the sly jackdaw with his 
 head on one side looking at her. 
 
 " I have come to say good-bye to you, Teresa ; I 
 am going away." 
 
 " Xow I understand why you have not spoken to 
 me for so long. This is the reason of the change. 
 Xow I understand it all, and you are taking your 
 jackdaw with you." 
 
 "Yes; I was afraid he might pine and die, and 
 dear Mother said I might take him with me." 
 
 Evelyn asked her about the journey, for she did 
 not dare to ask her if she had told the Prioress the
 
 272 SISTER TERESA 
 
 reason why she wanted to leave. She did not like 
 to ask her if she had consulted the other nuns or 
 Eather Daly, and they wasted a good deal of this 
 last time together talking of indifferent things. But 
 when Sister Mary John took up the cage, she 
 cried, — 
 
 " For how long ?" 
 
 " For always." 
 
 "Oh, Sister, you must hear me before you go! 
 You know how fond I have been of you. I shall 
 not be able to live in the convent without you. I 
 have no scruples whatever ; so why should you have 
 scruples regarding your affection for me?" 
 
 " Each one, dear Teresa, is guardian to her own 
 soul, and if I feel I am losing my soul by remaining 
 I must go." 
 
 " But, Sister, dear, you brought me nearer to 
 God. Had it not been for you, I might never have 
 had the courage to take the final vows." 
 
 " I am glad if, through me, you learnt to love 
 God better. That is so much to the good." 
 
 " I thought this estrangement was only tempo- 
 rary. I am distracted. I cannot think of what I 
 want to say to you ; but when you are gone I shall 
 remember, and ask myself why I did not say this to 
 her and that to her. One moment. Tell me — it is 
 only fair that you should tell me — how our love of 
 each other has altered our love of God." 
 
 " I can never tell you, Teresa. I can only say I 
 understand — perhaps as I never did before — that 
 nothing must come between the soul and God, and
 
 SISTER TERESA 273 
 
 that there is no room for other love in our hearts. 
 Wc must remember always that we are the brides of 
 Christ — you and I, Sister — and I am leaving you 
 that we may both give our love more wholly to our 
 crucified Lord." 
 
 They stood holding each other's hands, and some 
 of Sister Mary John's spiritual exaltation passed 
 into Evelyn, and she began to feel that this parting 
 was inevitable. 
 
 " Won't you kiss me before you go ?" 
 
 " Please, let me go. It will be better not. The 
 carriage is waiting, I must go." 
 
 She went to the carriage that was waiting for her 
 in the lane, and Evelyn took up her pen as if she 
 were going to continue her writing, but she put it 
 down, and she walked up the room like one dazed. 
 If anyone had spoken to her she would not have 
 been able to answer resonably, and sBe was staring 
 blankly out of the window when the Prioress en- 
 tered the library. 
 
 '^ Mother, what does all this mean ? Why did you 
 let her go ?" 
 
 The Prioress sat down slowly, and looked at Eve- 
 lyn without speaking. 
 
 " Mother, you might have let her stay for my 
 sake." 
 
 " I allowed her to see you before she left, and 
 that was the most I could do in the circumstances." 
 
 Evelyn stared out of the window, and the old nun 
 sat still in the armchair. 
 
 lb
 
 274 SISTER TERESA 
 
 The terrace, and the trees at the end of St. Peter's 
 Walk, and the grass plots and the flower beds 
 seemed to mock her, and in a flutter of terror she 
 thought of the pain of intermittent memories, for 
 the grief she suffered now would multiply in her 
 heart. 
 
 " Mother, you might have advised her to wait, 
 for I believed she acted on mere scruples." 
 
 " She felt that by staying here she was imperil- 
 ling her vocation and yours, and it was not, I assure 
 you, without due reflection that she decided she 
 must go. I insisted on her waiting to see if she 
 would think differently." 
 
 The words suggested to Evelyn that this leave- 
 taking had been held over until she had taken the 
 final vows, and she said that she should have been, 
 told of this before. But the Reverend Mother could 
 not allow a nun's mind to be troubled during the 
 time of preparation for her vows ; it had to be held 
 over. Evelyn did not answer. It was terrifying 
 to remember that no one had ever believed in her 
 vocation except the Prioress. Mother Hilda had 
 not believed ; Monsignor had had doubts. So much 
 had depended on her joining the community; she 
 had wished to help them, and it did not seem pos- 
 sible in any other way. 
 
 " Do you still believe in my vocation, Mother." 
 
 " Yes, Teresa, I feel quite certain. Put all such 
 doubts away from you." 
 
 " Ah, if I could. My vocation has been so dif- 
 ferent from anyone else's."
 
 SISTER TERESxV 275 
 
 " Don't thiuk I blame cither you or Sister Mary 
 John for what has occurred. I only blame myself. 
 I ought to have foreseen it. It all comes from 
 having exempted you from the rules on account of 
 the music; no one deplores infraction of the rule 
 more than I do; it never answers, only in this case 
 there seemed to be no alternative." 
 
 " It was necessary to me to become a nun, so the 
 rule was broken. What is it that guides these 
 things ? It is not we. ... It is God ; Providence 
 is behind it all. I can see the hand of Providence 
 in it all as I look back. But Sister Mary John 
 might have stayed. I feel sure that this is a mis- 
 take ; her scruples were imaginary, and her going 
 has done nothing except to trouble my peace of 
 mind. And what Avill the Sisters think of it ? Are 
 they to know that it was because of me ?" 
 
 " The Sisters will never know," the Prioress 
 answered with a little vehemence. " It is a secret 
 betAveen you and me and Sister Mary John. I 
 forbid you ever to tell anyone the reason for her 
 going. Teresa, I know this is a heavy trial for you, 
 and I am ready to do all in my power to turn it 
 to good account. Dear Teresa," and the old nun 
 took her hand, " our greatest happiness comes when 
 we have put away every worldly recollection; it 
 is often very hard to do this, but when Ave have made 
 the sacrifice we are glad of it. I had a photograph 
 of one who was very dear to me once, and it was 
 a long while before I could bring myself to destroy
 
 276 SISTER TERESA 
 
 it J but when I burnt it I was glad. We must try 
 to understand that the things of this world arc 
 nothing; that this world is passing always like 
 water and that our lives jjass with it. Your grief 
 will fade as all the things of this world fade. There 
 is only one thing that does not fade, love of God. 
 We are happy in it, and we are always unhappy out- 
 side it. Doing His work is the only happiness. 
 You have discovered it yourself; it was that that 
 brought you here." 
 
 " Oh, Mother, all you say is right ; but life is 
 difficult, at this moment it is inexplicably so. It was 
 she who taught me to love God, and now she leaves 
 me for God's sake. If I should love Him less now 
 that she has gone, what a misfortune that would 
 be. Then I should have lost all." And turning 
 suddenly to the Reverend Mother, Evelyn said, 
 " But she need not have gone, Mother. Why did 
 you not make her stay ? Her's was only a scruple ; 
 she fancied she was giving to me what belonged to 
 God. But God had all of her : I know better than 
 anyone how entirely he possessed her." 
 
 " Believe me, Teresa, there was no choice for her 
 but to go. She confided in me, and I could not 
 bring myself to say she was not to go; you only 
 look at it from your point of view. Eor you there 
 was no danger in this friendship, for you are dif- 
 ferent women — your lives have been so different." 
 
 " I wonder. Mother, if you know how miserable 
 I am ? Before my profession I was sure of myself,
 
 SISTER TERESA 277 
 
 or nearly, and I thought my vocation quite sure. 
 But for this last two weeks I have been despondent 
 and doubtful, so this comes as a greater shock now 
 than at any other time." 
 
 " The clothing brings great relief, and everyone 
 is hap2\v after her clothing; but I think everyone 
 is despondent and doubtful after the final vows. 
 You see profession brings such a change into a 
 nun's life. During her noviceship she is as a child; 
 there is always the Xovice Mistress to run to when 
 she is uncertain or despondent. She wdll find help 
 and cheerfulness in her. When the final vow re- 
 leases her from the novitiate, all these supports are 
 taken away from her. For the first time she has to 
 rely upon herself, to judge for herself — I have never 
 known it otherwise. You may be sure, Teresa, that 
 you will be quite contented and happy in a few 
 months." 
 
 " It seems impossible. Mother." 
 
 " When we are despondent happiness seems as if 
 it would never come again, and when we are happy 
 our happiness seems inherent in ourselves, and we 
 do not believe that it can ever pass from us."
 
 XXX 
 
 Ai-L sorts of reasons were given for Sister Mary 
 John's departure; the nnns chattered like moon- 
 awakened birds, and then the convent fell back into 
 silence. 
 
 As the year closed, the old Prioress began to think 
 that the incident was dead and that no consequences 
 would be begotten. But the friendship of the two 
 nuns remained unconsciously associated in every- 
 one's mind with the sudden departure of one of 
 them from the convent; and behind these ideas 
 there lay a half-reticulated background of suspicion 
 regarding Evelyn. Without knowing why, the con- 
 vent had begun to resent its dependency upon her 
 singing. In the beginning of the following year 
 Sister Winifred, who had done a set of caricatures 
 of the lay Sisters cooking under difficulties, when 
 the pipes were frozen and there was no water in 
 the kitchen, conceived the idea that she might con- 
 tribute to the general purse by selling her sketches 
 in the parlour. They had amused the visitors, and 
 encouraged by the sale of a copy of the convent 
 Murillo, she had applied herself to a set of altar 
 pieces. One of these had been bought by the lady 
 
 who had given her the paints. Sister Winifred had 
 278
 
 SISTER TERESA 279 
 
 been given a painting room; it had become the 
 fashion to visit it, and the departure of the visitors, 
 whom it was already diflicult to induce to leave the 
 convent after Benediction, was still further delayed. 
 Sister Winifred had become a considerable person 
 in the convent, and the fact that the Prioress did 
 not admire her painting did not discourage Sister 
 Winifred. She had answered, " Dear Mother, you 
 can only admire Evelyn's singing." 
 
 A few months later Sister Agatha discovered an 
 unsuspected talent in herself. She did not make it 
 known to the Prioress until she had accumulated 
 a large heap of manuscript on the life of her 
 favourite saint, and her proposal was that the pro- 
 ceeds of the work should be devoted to paying off 
 the convent debts. Another nun knew French, and 
 a second remembered that she knew German. Then 
 someone spoke of a school, and the idea seemed to 
 them the very happiest ; a school would give them 
 all an opportunity of doing something for the con- 
 vent, and the conversion of Wimbledon to Rome 
 became a subject of conversation. Sister Winifred's 
 pictures and Sister Agatha's manuscripts had never 
 been taken very seriously ; they had merely served 
 as a pretext for the Sisters to discuss what was 
 in their minds. But the idea of a school seemed to 
 formulate many aspirations; it seemed like the 
 solution of all their difficulties, and at every recrea- 
 tion groups of nuns collected to discuss the financial 
 possibilities of the project, and to tell each other of
 
 280 SISTER TERESA 
 
 the visitors who offered to send their daughters to 
 them. 
 
 " They all seem to forget/' the Prioress said to 
 Mother Hilda, as she passed down St. Peter's Walk, 
 " that to start a school would mean to alter the rule 
 of our order." 
 
 " You know that I do not approve, dear Mother, 
 but what they say is that since the contemplative 
 side of our house has been so largely infringed upon 
 it might be well to go a little further and undertake 
 a school." 
 
 The Prioress winced a little; she knew Mother 
 Hilda held her to be personally responsible for the 
 change. Eor, according to Mother Hilda, the 
 change was inherent in Evelyn's election, which the 
 Prioress had directly forced upon the convent. 
 Mother Hilda would go further back still. The 
 Prioress knew she would trace the origin of the 
 disaster to the admission of Evelyn into the con- 
 vent. 
 
 N'othing more was said at the time, but a few 
 days later the matter came up for general discussion 
 in chapter, and the Prioress pointed out that the 
 teaching of music and painting, and French and 
 German was contrary to the rule, and could never 
 be l-awf ully undertaken, that if teaching were under- 
 taken without the express permission of the Mother 
 General it would mean cutting themselves off from 
 the Mother House in Prance. It would mean prac- 
 tically the establishment of a new foundation, which
 
 SISTER TERESA 281 
 
 would be classed among the active rather than the 
 contemplative orders. 
 
 The dissidents had Mother Philippa on their side, 
 and the Prioress's argument regarding the new 
 foundation did not frighten them. They admitted 
 that the Passionist Sisters had never kept a school 
 before, but they said there was nothing in their rule 
 to prevent them from doing so. Sister Winifred 
 held that the Prioress's faith in their work as con- 
 templative nuns amounted to fanaticism, and that 
 she clung to the letter of the rule with mistaken 
 rigidity — the rule was made for them, and not they 
 for the rule, etc. During the next recreation fresh 
 arguments were discovered in favour of the relaxa- 
 tion of the rule. It was pointed out that many of 
 the enclosed orders had schools and lived by teach- 
 ing, that to refuse the advantages which a rich sub- 
 urb like Wimbledon held out to them was narrow- 
 minded; and the Prioress was held up as the type 
 of a mediteval Catholic. It was said that an appeal 
 to the Bishop must end by a decision in their favour, 
 for the whole tendency of modern Catholicism was 
 to look more favourably on the active than on the 
 contemplative orders. The prospect of Wimbledon's 
 conversion would win the Bishop to their side, and 
 Sister Winifred spoke of the high place their com- 
 munity would take in the annals of the Church. 
 She obtained the unqualified approval of some, but 
 there were two Sisters who inclined towards a 
 poultry farm. The little orchard at the end of the
 
 282 SISTER TERESA 
 
 garden could be turned into an excellent chicken 
 run, and tbej bad calculated tliat tbree hundred 
 hens would pay the convent debts in less than three 
 years. After some discussion it was discovered that 
 the poultry farm and the school did not conflict, so 
 the poultry farmers and the educationalists made 
 common cause against the contemplatives, and at 
 the end of the month the two factions sat on dif- 
 ferent sides of the garden, congratulating them- 
 selves on their admirable self-control in refraining 
 from speech. 
 
 Schism provokes schism, and the patient lay Sis- 
 ters grew discontented with their lot. One day Sis- 
 ter Agnes was heard saying that her idea of an order 
 was " the Little Sisters of the Poor" ; and a few 
 days after she told a group of choir Sisters, as she 
 passed up the garden, that they were merely fashion- 
 able ladies, mostly converts. In extenuation of Sis- 
 ter Agnes's rudeness a nun mentioned that she was 
 merely a lay Sister, and another mentioned that the 
 chaplain held very strong views about the active 
 order. He was a favourite with the lay Sisters — he 
 was of their class and shared their ideas. 
 
 Evelyn felt that she could not take sides, and 
 these dissensions filled her with misgivings, for was 
 she not the cause of them ? There had been none 
 till she came, and she wondered if she would always 
 be a discord and what change would have to happen 
 in her to bring her into the common order. She 
 had been the cause of confusion before, and ap-
 
 SISTER TERESA 283 
 
 parentlj worse confusion was about to follow. She 
 had come to the convent because the world was 
 lonely, and in this convent thev had lived enfolded 
 in an exquisite spiritual atmosphere. Each one 
 knew the other, though the other spoke very little; 
 the convent was a spiritual camp; and the prayers 
 of each one were a contribution to the common weal. 
 It was from this intimacy of thought and endeavour 
 that they derived their happiness. But they had 
 fallen from their liigh estate, they had grasped at 
 the things of this world, they had conspired like the 
 angels. 
 
 It had seemed to the sub-Prioress that she could 
 manage a school. Her capacity for business had 
 attracted all the business of the convent to her, but 
 it had not been enough to satisfy her energy, and 
 Sister Winifred tempted her alternately with a 
 school and a laundry, and whenever she came to her 
 cell to consult her regarding some business detail, 
 they indulged in a little chaff; the temptation to 
 talk about the Prioress was irresistible. 
 
 " We all admire the Prioress," said Sister Wini- 
 fred ; " no one understands her merits better than 
 I; it is indeed a pity she should be so narrow- 
 minded upon one point. Don't you think you could 
 infiuonce her?" 
 
 " I have known her these many years, she is an 
 admirable woman in many ways. I doubt, how- 
 ever, we shall ever induce her to agree to any re- 
 laxation of the rule."
 
 284! SISTER TERESA' 
 
 Then Sister Winifred spoke of the Prioress's in- 
 fluence with Father Ambrose and the Bishop, but 
 she did not tell her hopes of throwing Father Daly 
 into the opposite scale. She took no one into her 
 confidence and waited her opportunity ; and think- 
 ing over the arguments she would use, she remem- 
 bered with a little thrill of delight how bitterly he 
 resented the usurping Prioress, who had reduced his 
 spiritual administration to the mere act of abso- 
 lution. This was clearly the point of attack, and 
 seeing him a few days after, pacing the garden alley 
 reading his breviary, she went tripping down the 
 pathway, asking in a little insidious tone, which at 
 once caught his attention, if she could consult him 
 on a matter of importance. 
 
 She was a tall, thin woman, with a narrow fore- 
 head, a long, thin nose, and i^rominent teeth, ex- 
 tremely plain at first sight, but at second sight her 
 quick brown eyes revealed an eager and alert mind. 
 And she began by tellling him that she had chosen 
 this opportunity to speak to him because she did not 
 dare to do so in the confessional. 
 
 " It would take too much time." And there was 
 a little kindly malice in her brown eyes as she said, 
 " You know how strict the Prioress is that we should 
 not exceed our regulation three minutes." 
 
 " I know that quite well," the little man answered 
 abruptly, " a most improper rule ; but, however, 
 we will not discuss the Prioress, dear Sister Wini- 
 fred J what have you come to tell me ?"
 
 SISTER TERESA 285 
 
 " Well, in a way, it is about the Prioress. You 
 know all about our financial difficulties, and you 
 know that they are not settled yet." 
 
 " I thought that Sister Teresa's singing " 
 
 '' Of course Sister Teresa's singing has done us a 
 great deal of good, but the collections have fallen 
 off considerably, and as for the rich Catholics who 
 were to pay off our debts, they are like the ships 
 coming from the East, but whose masts have not 
 yet appeared above the horizon.'' 
 
 " But does the Prioress still believe that these 
 rich Catholics will come to her aid ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, she still believes ; she tells us that we 
 must pray, and that if we pray they will come. 
 Well, Father, prayer is very well, but we must try 
 to help ourselves, and we have been thinking it over, 
 and in thinking it over some of us have come to 
 very practical conclusions " 
 
 " You have come to the conclusion that perhaps a 
 good deal of time is wasted in this garden which 
 might be devoted to good works." 
 
 " Yes, that has struck us, and we think the best 
 way out of our difficulties would be a school — a 
 school ! Something must be done," she said, " and 
 we are thinking of starting a school. We have re- 
 ceived a great deal of encouragement. I believe I 
 could get twenty pupils to-morrow, but ^lother 
 Prioress won't hear of it. She tells us that we are 
 to pray and that all will come right. But even she
 
 286 SISTER TERESA 
 
 does not depend entirely upon prayer ; she depends 
 upon Sister Teresa's singing." 
 
 " A most unsatisfactory source of income, I 
 should say." 
 
 " So we all think." 
 
 They walked some paces in silence until they were 
 within a few yards of the end of the walk, and just 
 as they were about to turn the priest said, — 
 
 " I was talking at the Bishop's to a priest who has 
 been put in charge of a parish in one of the poorest 
 parts of south London. There is no school, and the 
 people arc disheartened, and he has gone to live 
 among them in a wretched house in one of the worst 
 slums of the district. lie lives in one of the upper 
 rooms, and has turned the ground floor, which used 
 to be a greengrocer's shop, into a temporary chapel 
 and school, and now he is looking for some nuns to 
 help him in the work. He asked me if I could 
 recommend any; and I thought of you all here, 
 Sister Winifred, with your beautiful church and 
 garden, doing what I call elegant piety. The more 
 I see of it the less I like it. It has come to seem to 
 me unbearably sad that you and I and those few 
 here who could do such good work should be kept 
 back from doing it." 
 
 " I am afraid our habit, Father, makes that sort 
 of work out of the question for us," and Sister Wini- 
 fred dropped her habit for a moment, and let it 
 trail gracefully. 
 
 " Long grey habits that a speck of dirt will stain
 
 SISTER TERESA 287 
 
 are very suitable to trail over green swards, but not 
 fit to bring into the houses of the poor, for fear 
 they should be spoiled. Oh," he cried, " I have no 
 patience with such rules, such petty observances. 
 I have often asked myself why the Bishop chose to 
 put nie here where I am entirely out of sympathy, 
 where I am useless, where there is nothing for me 
 to do really except for me to try to keep my temper. 
 I have spoken of this matter to no one before, but 
 since you have come to speak to me. Sister Wini- 
 fred, I too must speak. Ever since I have been here 
 I have been longing to do some work which I could 
 feel to be the Avork I Avas intended to do, which 
 I could feel was my work. It is terrible to continue 
 all one's life doing work that is not one's work." 
 
 " It is the fate of many of us here. Father Daly." 
 
 " If we could make a new foundation — if some 
 three or four of you — if the Bishop would send me 
 there." 
 
 " Of course we might go and do good work in 
 the district you speak of, but I doubt whether the 
 Bishop would recognise us as a new foundation." 
 
 " You were telling me of your project for a 
 school. Sister Winifred." 
 
 Sister Winifred entered into the details of her 
 plan, jerking out little sentences and watching 
 Father Daly with her quick brown eyes. But she 
 had unduly excited Father Daly; he could not 
 listen to her. " My position here," he said, inter- 
 rupting her, " is an impossible one. The only ones
 
 288 SISTEK TEKESA 
 
 here who consider my advice are the lay Sisters, the 
 admirable lay Sisters who work from morning till 
 evening, and forego their prayers lest you should 
 want for anything. I am treated very nearly with 
 contempt by nearly all the choir Sisters. Do you 
 think I do not know that I am spoken of as a mere 
 secular priest ? Every suggestion of mine meets 
 with some rude answer. You have witnessed a good 
 deal of this. Sister Winifred. I daresay you have 
 forgotten, but I remember it all. You have come 
 to speak to me here because the Prioress will not 
 allow you to spend more than three minutes in the 
 confessional, arrogating to herself the position of 
 your spiritual adviser, allowing to me nothing more 
 than what is to her the mere mechanical act of ab- 
 solution. I am a mere secular priest, incapable of 
 advising those who live in an order! Have I not 
 noticed her deference to the very slightest word that 
 Eather Ambrose deigns to speak to her ? with what 
 deference she waits for his words ! Xow, as to her 
 rule regarding my confessional, I can only say that 
 I have always regarded it as extremely unorthodox, 
 and I'm sure that the amateur confessional which 
 she carries on upstairs would be suppressed were it 
 brought under the notice of Kome. I have long been 
 determined to resist it, and I beg you. Sister Wini- 
 fred, when you come to me to confession, that you 
 will stay as long as you think proper. On this mat- 
 ter I now see that the Prioress and I must come to 
 an understanding."
 
 SISTER TERESA 289 
 
 " But not a word, Father Daly, must we breathe 
 to her of what I have come to tell you about. The 
 relaxation of our order must be referred to the 
 
 BishojD, and with your support There is the 
 
 bell, now I must fly. I will tell you more when I 
 come to confession." 
 
 There was enough, even in the very subdued ac- 
 count which Sister Winifred gave of her conversa- 
 tion with the priest, to frighten Mother Philippa. 
 She thought Sister Winifred had gone too far, and 
 that Father Daly was too venturesome. But Sister 
 Winifred quieted her by saying that her proposal 
 did not go any further than to submit the entire 
 matter to the Bishop, and Mother Philippa said, " I 
 will agree to anything that the Bishop says." 
 
 Sister Winifred's alert eyes were always smiling j 
 she was always thinking, and her thoughts could 
 very nearly be read in her eyes. She was thinking 
 now of her confession ; she was determined to stay 
 ten minutes in the confessional ; for if she were to 
 stay ten minutes, the length of her confession could 
 not fail to reach the ears of the Prioress, and this 
 would bring matters to a crisis. By remaining ten 
 minutes in the confessional she would challenge the 
 Prioress's spiritual authority, and in return for 
 this Father Daly would use his influence with the 
 Bishop to induce the Prioress to relax the rule of the 
 community. 
 
 So before slipping into the confessional she pur- 
 posely loitered a moment, and that in itself struck 
 
 19
 
 290 SISTER TERESA 
 
 the Prioress, who had just entered the chapel, as 
 peculiar. For the moment she did not think of it 
 further, having her prayers to say ; but at the end 
 of five minutes she began to grow impatient, and at 
 the end of ten minutes she felt that her authority 
 had been set aside. Fifteen minutes passed, and 
 then the Prioress resisted with difficulty the tempta- 
 tion to go into the confessional and order Sister, 
 Winifred out of it. 
 
 The next penitent was the Prioress herself, and 
 Father Daly heard her confession in alarm, wonder- 
 ing if she had been in the chapel all the while. 
 
 " It is hard indeed, dear Mother, if one is not 
 even allowed to confess in peace," Sister Winifred 
 answered, and she tossed her head somewhat defi- 
 antly. 
 
 " All the hopes of my life are at an end," the 
 Prioress said to Mother Hilda. " Everyone is in 
 rebellion against me, and this branch of our order 
 itself is about to disappear. I feel sure that the 
 Bishop will decide against us, he will go with the 
 majority — I think there is a majority against us, 
 and what can we do with this school ? Sister Wini- 
 fred will have to manage it herself; I will resign. 
 It is hard, indeed, that this should happen after 
 so many years of struggle, and after redeeming 
 the convent from its debts — to be divided in the 
 end." 
 
 Mother Hilda did not answer. It seemed to her 
 that the Reverend Mother had read the future
 
 SISTER TERESA 291 
 
 aright. But accident, or what seems to us accident, 
 overthrows the best imagined theories. 
 
 ^ext Sunday Father Daly had taken for his text, 
 why lie never knew — accident had apparently 
 guided him to do it — the apostolic injunction to 
 Avork good to all men, and especially to all those of 
 the household of faith, that prayer does not fulfil 
 the whole duty of man towards God, that work holds 
 an especial place in the course laid down for man's 
 redemption. Father Daly usually spoke with diffi- 
 culty; his ideas were generally confused, and his 
 sentences involved and very often imperfect. On 
 this day he spoke like one who is inspired. He had 
 foreseen the danger that lay before him in the am- 
 plification of the text he had chosen, but it seemed 
 as if he could not stay his words ; even the sight of 
 the wax-like face of the Prioress could not stay his 
 ideas on the subject of work. The words sprang 
 to his lips, and he said that he often thought that in 
 their convent they were apt to overlook the neces- 
 sity of work. Theirs was a life of prayer ; but was 
 that incompatible with some measure of active 
 charity ? The terrible words forced their way, and 
 he felt himself like a leaf in the current of inspira- 
 tion, lie heard himself say that they did not visit 
 the sick and poor. He heard himself say that he 
 often wondered how they could fill their days. To 
 say this implied that the community lived in the sin 
 of idleness, and the cool chapel seemed suddenly 
 to grow hot, a dryness came into his throat, and he
 
 292 SISTER TERESA 
 
 heard the nuns coughing in the silence. The sun- 
 light seemed to fade, and he began to see the bowed 
 heads as through a mist. He began to observe them, 
 and it seemed to him that every nun instinctively 
 drew herself up, and he Avaited, thinking that one of 
 them, the Prioress — no, she was too proud, Mother 
 Hilda, perhaps — would get up from her stall and 
 leave the chapel, but no one moved, and he mopped 
 his forehead with his handkerchief and went on. 
 He spoke of the monetary difficulties of the convent, 
 and he mentioned that he knew these very well, 
 though he had not been honoured with their confi- 
 dences in this matter. He said he might have been 
 tempted, if they had honoured him with their con- 
 fidence in this matter, to suggest they should start a 
 school for young ladies, for which the convent 
 offered exceptional advantages. A school seemed to 
 him a more Christian remedy than the unliturgical 
 musical experiments they had been indulging in. 
 He said he had no belief in attracting j^eop^c to 
 church by turning the service into a concert, and 
 then paused, frightened at his very own indiscre- 
 tion. It was a terrible moment, and he added hur- 
 riedly that he hoped they would reflect on this mat- 
 ter, and try to remember he was always at their 
 service and prepared to give them the best advice. 
 
 When Mass was over, the nuns hung about the 
 cloister whispering in little groups, forgetful of tlie 
 rule. The supporters of the Prioress could not 
 hide their indignation at the imj^ertinence of the
 
 SISTER TERESA 293 
 
 priest daring to insult the community, and the most 
 ardent supporters of the school felt that he had gone 
 too far. 
 
 Sister Winifred walked about aimlessly, in ter- 
 ror lest she should be sent for by the Prioress. 
 Mother Philippa avoided her. The greatest anxiety- 
 was shown for the health of the Prioress ; the nuns 
 remembered her weak heart and the strain that had 
 been put upon her. Might not the Prioress be in 
 need of help ? Was it not their duty to go to her ? 
 The infirmarian fetched some sal volatile from her 
 cupboard, but no one, not even Mother Hilda, had 
 courage to knock at the Prioress's door. The ten- 
 sion of the morning was drawn out to an extreme, 
 and when the bell rang summoning them in to din- 
 ner, the nuns scarcely knew whether they ought to 
 eat their meal or not. Suddenly the door opened, 
 and the Prioress appeared in all her usual calmness; 
 She took no one into her confidence; she told no 
 one what she had done, not even Mother Hilda. 
 But that night a firmly worded letter went to the 
 Bishop, and before a month was over Father Daly 
 was transferred to another parish.
 
 XXXI 
 
 It waa the hour of evening meditation, and the 
 nuns were in choir, all a-row, aslant in their stalls, 
 and so still were they all, and so rigid their atti- 
 tudes, that they would seem to a spectator like a 
 piece of mediicval wood-carving. One hy one the 
 hooks had heeu laid aside. Each nun held her hook 
 on her knee, the first finger of the right hand be- 
 tween the leaves to keep the place, so that she could 
 turn in her need to the passage which had inspired 
 her meditation. 
 
 In a convent where circumstance is unchanging 
 and no interest is allowed in external things, the 
 government of thought becomes a science, and Eve- 
 lyn had seen that she must acquire this science. 
 If the subject of the meditation were the cross she 
 must learn to think of the cross and of things im- 
 mediately related to the cross for half an hour 
 without allowing her thoughts to wander. But this 
 was impossible to her. She could not control her 
 thoughts for more than a few minutes, if for that ; 
 and a few minutes' meditation exhausted her more 
 than an hour's dusting or sweeping. Yet there were 
 nuns who could, it was said, meditate for an hour. 
 Evelyn had determined to excel. She had addressed 
 herself to Mother Hilda, who had put the exercises 
 of St. Ignatius into her hands, and she had in 
 294
 
 SISTER TERESA 295 
 
 company of the novieos received instruction in his 
 method. But Evelyn could do nothing hy method. 
 Her piety, like her acting, was the impulse of the 
 moment, and she had told ]\rother Hilda that she 
 would never be able to compose time and space, 
 nor would she ever be able to gather up the spiritual 
 bouquet at the close with any satisfaction to her- 
 self. 
 
 "' My dear child,'' Mother Hilda had answered, 
 " no sooner do you find that you can toddle a little 
 way than you want to run. It requires years of 
 practice." 
 
 But Evelyn desired a greater proficiency than she 
 had admitted to Mother Hilda, and after a moment's 
 hesitation she had answered, — 
 
 *' But surely, dear [Mother, it would be better to 
 place one's self in the presence of God and stay 
 there. Why not dispense with active thought alto- 
 gether ? active thought only interferes with the 
 ecstasy of contemplation." 
 
 Mother Hilda had told her of Madame Guyon, 
 and the quietist heresy which had been denounced 
 by Bossuet and condemned at Rome. Evelyn feared 
 heresy very little ; and ^fadamo Guyon became one 
 of her heroines. But this sublime heresy she found 
 difficult in practice, and the practice of it was so 
 beset with i)erils, that she understood why Rome 
 had denounced it. On ordinary days she had failed 
 to keep her thoughts fixed, and on those special 
 days when she forced herself into the Divine Prea-
 
 296 SISTER TERESA 
 
 ence and stayed there till the close of the medita- 
 tion, her ecstasy was followed by lassitude and a 
 contempt for ordinary prayer. Then, again, she 
 was an inveterate castle-builder; in her, dreaming 
 was a vice like dram-drinking, and on her knees she 
 could pass into an enchanted land where all things 
 were according to her desire. The dream face was 
 as potent as the real face, her dreams were invaded 
 by memories, l^ow that the convent had become 
 a habit, the past drew nearer. The past had come 
 to watch for her at the hour of meditations. Just 
 now she had waked up from a dream of a day when 
 she and Owen were alone in a German town. It 
 was a Gothic town through which a sluggish river 
 flowed, and its cathedral walls were full of saints. 
 She remembered two virgin saints, but these were 
 in the museum, on either side of a doorway. Their 
 thin, spiritual faces were raised, and about their 
 limbs their draperies fell in straight, thick folds. 
 Her thoughts had not stayed with these saints ; they 
 had wandered on with Owen. They were harmless 
 thoughts, and on awaking she had murmured a 
 Hail Mary, for her rule was to say a prayer when- 
 ever Owen's or Ulick's face rose up in her mind. 
 And her prayer finished, she returned to the sub- 
 ject of meditation. But the folds of the habits dis- 
 tracted her attention ; she noticed Veronica's eyes ; 
 they were wondering eyes, and she wondered which 
 of the nuns were thinking most intimately of God. 
 One cannot always be exalted, she thought; it is
 
 SISTER TERESA 297 
 
 only by working at piety just as one works at art, 
 that one prepares one's self for the great moments 
 of inspiration. God is scattering the seed always, 
 but it is only in those hearts which are prepared 
 to receive it that it flowers. The poet must write 
 verses every day, the singer must sing every day, 
 and the nun must pray every day, so that they may 
 be inspired one day in the seven. But was this 
 true of everyone ? She remembered that Madame 
 Savelli had said she was an exception to this rule, 
 that she was one of the fortunate ones from whom 
 the burden of work had been almost lifted, and she 
 felt that what was true of her art was true of her 
 religion. Just as there were times when she could 
 hardly sing at all, there were times when she could 
 hardly pray at all, and she had entered upon one 
 of these barren periods. For the last few days she 
 had been depressed and restless, and all the little 
 external pieties of the convent had jarred. The 
 convent was the same as it had always been — they 
 had always talked about vestments and prelates dur- 
 ing recreation, and there had always been little 
 wranglings about who was to have the candles for 
 her saint and who was not. But these things had 
 not jarred so much as they had done in the last 
 three days, except, perhaps, during the last month 
 of so of her postulancy, before she had been sum- 
 moned to Rome to see her father die. Since then 
 she had noticed the external convent hardly at all. 
 She had lived in an idea, and all the little dis-
 
 298 SISTER TERESA 
 
 comforts of conventual life and its trivialities had 
 hardly been perceived. Long, long ago Veronica 
 had said to her that she could think of no fate more 
 terrible than to live in a convent without a vocation. 
 She had forgotten that Veronica had ever said this, 
 but now it had been flashed back upon her out of 
 a long past — out of four years, and yet these years 
 had seemed like a single minute. She could think 
 of nothing so like as these convent days ; she thought 
 of eggs and of leaves and of sheep, and of all things 
 that are supposed to be alike, but none seemed to 
 her so alike as these convent days. 
 
 Suddenly she remembered the day she had seen 
 the convent for the first time. She had driven 
 Monsignor and Father Daly there in her carriage. 
 Ah ! those chestnut horses, what had happened to 
 them ? w^ere they dead ? Maybe they were drawing 
 cabs. A few days later she had gone to confession 
 to Monsignor, and to escape from her lovers she 
 had returned to the convent for a retreat. She 
 remembered the drive back to London, and how she 
 had found Owen Asher waiting for her in the Park 
 Lane drawing-room. How long ago all that seemed 
 now, and how strange that she should remember 
 it. She, a nun, sitting in the choir, her book upon 
 her knees. What strange romance of destiny had 
 brought her here ? She saw that afternoon in Park 
 Lane as one sees a sail blotted on the liorizon — the 
 very mood in which she had nearly yielded to Owen. 
 She was sure she would have vielded if he had per-
 
 SISTER TERESA 299 
 
 sisted, but lie had refrained. The convent, she sup- 
 posed, was still in her eyes. The prayers of the 
 nuns had restrained him — could it have been that? 
 And then she remembered one long afternoon in 
 the Park with Ulick. They had stood a long while 
 looking at the spire of Kensington Church, and as 
 they walked home in the twilight he had asked her 
 to marry him, and she had almost consented. He 
 had tried to overrule her will with his, and she had 
 promised to meet him at Victoria. They were to 
 have gone to Dulwich together to her father; they 
 were to have been married at once, so that there 
 could be no turning back. But while sitting by the 
 fire after dinner, thinking every moment she must 
 get up to go to meet him at Victoria, she had been 
 overcome. ISTever had her will been so completely 
 overcome. She had not been able to get up from 
 her chair. She remembered putting the moment off 
 from five minutes to five minutes, and her strange 
 dreams. When she aAVoke Iferat was by her. She 
 had come to ask her if she had any letters for the 
 post, and to tell her that on the morrow her Cousin 
 Sophie was to take her vows. They had gone to- 
 gether to the convent, and she remembered the Car- 
 melite nun whom she had seen afterwards at the 
 grating. A few days after sho had found the Wim- 
 bledon convent starving, and had arranged a con- 
 cert tour in order to get a little money for them. 
 It had been a success until she had gone to stay at 
 Thornton Orange. Lady Ascot, where was she? 
 Owen had made love to her the whole evening, and
 
 300 SISTEE TERESA 
 
 she had nearly left her room to go to his; but as 
 she was about to go she had heard voices singing the 
 Yeni Creator, and the hymn had brought appease- 
 ment to her senses. She had fallen asleep. The 
 next morning she had left Thornton Grange, and 
 abandoned her tour. 
 
 She thought of the year she had lived in Bays- 
 water, looking after Patrick Sullivan and his like, 
 and she remembered how she had met Owen in the 
 slum. He had tried to persuade her that she must 
 not leave her father, however great the necessities of 
 the nuns might be. He had offered to bet that Mon- 
 signor would say the same, and Monsignor had 
 taken Owen's view of her duty; and she agreed to 
 abandon the convent to its fate, but how vain her 
 resolution had been. Her father had been sum- 
 moned to Rome, and she had gone to live in the 
 convent for three months, until he was settled in 
 Rome and had found a house for her to live in. At 
 the end of a few months, when she thought she would 
 have to leave the convent and return to her father, 
 when she wished to leave it, when she was weary 
 of it, a letter had come from Monsignor saying her 
 father was ill, and she had gone to Rome to see him 
 die. But notwithstanding the break in her postu- 
 lancy, the Bishop had given his consent to her 
 clothing. . . . She paused, abashed at finding so 
 much design in her life — all incoherences vanished. 
 She thought of a fish swimming in front of a net. 
 At first the net is so far away that the fish does not 
 perceive it, then gradually the meshes drift nearer,
 
 SISTER TERESA 301 
 
 and the fish perceives that it narrows to a thin neck 
 from which there is no escape. . . . Her life 
 seemed to have been ordained from the beginning; 
 she seemed to have been created for a special pur- 
 pose. 
 
 She used to think that she was deficient in will, 
 and then that she had a great deal of will, for she 
 resisted all the pressure that the world could bring 
 against her. There was Owen's love and his wealth, 
 and Ulick with a different spirituality from that of 
 the convent, and there were all the innumerable 
 influences — the influence of Louise and Lady Ascot, 
 and other influences half forgotten and half remem- 
 bered, and all had proved imavailing. She had 
 come to the conclusion she had an exceptionally 
 strong will, and now it seemed to her that she had 
 neither a feeble will nor a strong will, but had been 
 created to do a certain work, and her life seemed 
 to her like a long skein. A great deal of the skein 
 was already unwound, and was the end of the skein 
 the redemption of the convent from debt ? Was it 
 true that God managed our affairs, even in such 
 small particulars as the financial difficulties of a 
 convent ? She had sometimes wondered at her own 
 disinterestedness, but to redeem the convent from 
 debt it was necessary that someone should be su- 
 premely disinterested. 
 
 The nuns got up and the procession left the 
 chapel, and during recreation she walked with the 
 Reverend ]\[other, speaking very little, luiable to 
 think because of the caressing touch of the air upon
 
 302 SISTER TERESA 
 
 her ehcek, excited bj the colour of the border that 
 had begun to light up, and stirred into svmpath;)^ 
 Avith the brook that babbled through the underwoods 
 on its Avaj to the river. Remembrance of Owen and 
 Illick flashed through her mind, and no sooner had 
 she put one set of memories aside than another 
 arose. Again and again she caught herself thinking 
 of her lovers, wondering if any one of them would 
 have inspired her with the love which she now felt 
 herself capable of giving. She had never really 
 loved — not Owen, not Ulick, though she had loved 
 Ulick better. The thousand and one distractions 
 of her life at that time had prevented her loving 
 then as she could love now. It seemed to her that 
 she had learnt to love ; but she did not think a man 
 could love a nun. Yet who could love so well as a 
 
 nun 
 
 It seemed to her she must have been thinking a 
 long wdiile; and a few days after she caught her- 
 self questioning the usefulness of their lives in this 
 convent, nor could she deny to herself that she sym- 
 pathised with the schismatics who had wished to 
 turn the contemplative into an active order. Would 
 an active order satisfy her ? She thought not. She 
 was afraid she desired the personal life — the life 
 she had told Monsignor was dead to her; to attain 
 that she Avould have to leave the convent, and the 
 very thought of breaking her holy vows filled her 
 with terror. But when she lay doA\Ti to sleep the 
 thought of the personal came upon her between 
 sleeping and waking. If she were to leave the con-
 
 SISTER TERESA' 303 
 
 vent, what would she do? A nun who had broken 
 her vows would alwavs be an anomaly. She would 
 be out of place wherever she went. And sitting up 
 in her bed, seeing her cell in the light of the moon, 
 she remembered how she had written to Monsignor 
 telling him that when she left the convent she pro- 
 posed to take a cottage in the country with a large 
 garden, and that she would have five or six little 
 cripple boys to live with her. If her father had not 
 died she would have done this somewhere near 
 Rome, or in England — somewhere within easy reach 
 of her father. But God had designed her for 
 another purpose, and she must thank him that she 
 had been allowed to accomplish that purpose, or 
 nearly. She wished that it had not been accom- 
 plished so soon, for until it was accomplished she 
 had something to live for. Though she might not 
 question the will of God, she might pray that he 
 would be kind to her, and treat her very gently like 
 one who has done her work and has earned some 
 peaceful years. She hoped he would not allow her 
 to be tempted again by the flesh ; that he would 
 take out of her mind all thoughts of the men she 
 had known and of the men she had sinned with. 
 
 The sin of fornication — that terrible sin — had 
 always been her trouble, and in the years she would 
 have to live in the convent now, doing nothing, 
 having accomplished his work, she prayed that he 
 would take pity on her, and never allow her to be 
 tempted again.
 
 XXXII 
 
 She was so weary of singing Gounod's " Ave 
 ]\[aria" that she had intentionally accentuated the 
 vulgarity of the melody, and wondered if the cari- 
 cature had been noticed. " The more vulgarly it 
 is sung, the more money it draws." Smiling at the 
 theatrical phrase that had arisen unexpectedly to 
 her lips, she went into the garden. There she heard 
 that she had never sung so well ; all the nuns seemed 
 to agree with Sister Elizabeth, and Evelyn looked 
 from face to face, not finding the slightest percep- 
 tion of the truth in any one. Suddenly they seemed 
 divided from her, and wondering what her father 
 would have said if he had lived to hear her sing 
 as she had sung that afternoon, she walked aside, 
 pretending an interest in the flowers. It was then 
 that the Prioress joined them in the garden, and she 
 told Evelyn that a lady had been so moved by the 
 beauty of her singing that she had promised to send 
 them a cheque for fifty pounds. 
 
 " So you see, God has given you strength to ac- 
 complish what you intended to accomplish. Xow 
 we are free from debt." 
 
 The sun was setting ; the earth drew a calm deep 
 breath under the lovely sky, and Evelyn's soul di- 
 lated and was drawn into mysterious sympathy with 
 304
 
 SISTER TERESA 305 
 
 the flowering earth. " How beautifully the evening 
 wears its sacramental air," she said, and she lifted 
 the cup of a lily as she would lift a sleeping child 
 from its cradle, and wondered why a prayer should 
 be more pleasing to God than simple attendance 
 on this flower. And thinking of the flower she 
 walked Avith the Prioress to the end of the garden. 
 There were many visitors in the garden that day, 
 and it seemed to these two nuns that they might 
 leave their visitors to be entertained by Sister Je- 
 rome and Sister Winifred for a little while longer. 
 They might do this without imj)ropriety ; and they 
 wandered as far as the fish pond, and stood listening 
 to the stream, loath to return to the ladies, who 
 wished to compliment Evelyn on having freed the 
 convent from debt. 
 
 " I'm afraid we must go back, Teresa." 
 
 " Dear Mother Jerome is amusing them. I heard 
 her telling them that St. Joscj^h's statue had to go 
 up to town to get a new coat of paint, and that the 
 Virgin had to go with him to be mended." 
 
 The Prioress smiled, and at that moment Sister 
 Jerome appeared on the pathway, and they had not 
 Avalked many yards Avhen they met the lady who had 
 sent Sister Jerome to fetch them. 
 
 " I remember liearing you sing at Covent Gar- 
 den," said the effusive woman. 
 
 " You must not speak to me of my unregenerato 
 days," and then, becoming serious, she said, "^ All 
 that is far away." 
 
 20
 
 306 SISTER TERESA 
 
 " My favourite piece of music is that * Ave 
 Maria,' and I did not know it was so beautiful till 
 I heard it sung to-day. Are vou not very proud, 
 Sister Teresa, of being able to get so much money 
 out of the public T' 
 
 " I take very little interest in ray singing. I 
 thought I had sung very badly this afternoon — in 
 fact, I know I did, but it seemed to please." 
 
 The Prioress continued the conversation, and 
 Evelyn regretted she had been told that the last 
 portion of the debt had been paid. Henceforth 
 there was nothing to strive for, nothing to hope 
 for, and every day would be the fellow of the same 
 as the day before. The idea of the school seemed 
 to have gone with Father Daly, and the schism 
 Avhich seemed too terrible at the time now seemed 
 better than the noiseless monotony which was to 
 be the future. Henceforth nothing would happen 
 to break the peace of their lives, and she saw the 
 days and nights folding and unfolding like heavy 
 curtains. Ilcr life would be like Sister Bridget's, 
 and she thought of what Sister Bridget's life had 
 been. She had been more than forty years in this 
 convent; the thirtieth of this month would be 
 the fortieth anniversary of her vows, and Evelyn 
 remembered that she too might live till she was 
 seventy. "With the exception of Mother Lawrence, 
 Avho was now completely bedridden, Bridget was 
 the oldest member of the community. Yet she con- 
 tinued to scrub, and to sweep, and to carry up coals
 
 SISTEK TERESA 307 
 
 and Avatcr as regularly as she Lad done these last 
 forty years. Everyone loved Sister Bridget's funny 
 old face, and it was felt that something ought to be 
 done to comniemorate the anniversary of her vows. 
 
 " I should like to see her on an elephant, riding 
 round the garden ; what a spree it would be," said 
 Sister Jerome. 
 
 The words Averc hardly out of her mouth when 
 she regretted them, foreseeing allusions to ele- 
 phants till the end of her days ; for Sister Jerome 
 often said foolish things, and was greatly quizzed 
 for them. Of course she knew they could not get 
 an elephant. She knew too that they would not 
 be able to control an elephant if they did get one. 
 But this time it seemed as if her foolish remark 
 were going to escajjc ridicule. Sister Agatha said 
 she did not see why they should not make an ele- 
 phant, and in a moment everyone was listejiing. 
 Sister Agatha's notion was to take the long table 
 from the library and pile it up with cushions, stuff- 
 ing it, as nearly as possible, into the shape of an 
 elephant. 
 
 " That is exactly as I had intended," said Sister 
 Jerome. 
 
 And the creation of the beast was accomplished 
 in the novitiate, no one being allowed to see it 
 except the Reverend Mother. The great difficulty 
 was to find beads large enough for the eyes, and it 
 threatened to frustrate the making of their beast. 
 The latest postulant suggested that perhaps the but-
 
 308 SISTER TERESA 
 
 tons off her jacket would do. They were just the 
 thing, and the legs of the beast were most natural 
 and life-like; it had even a tail. 
 
 As no one out of the novitiate had seen this very 
 fine beast, the convent was on tiptoe with excite- 
 ment, and when, at the conclusion of dinner, the 
 elephant was wheeled into the refectory, everyone 
 clapped her hands, and there were screams of de- 
 light. Then the saddle was brought in and attached 
 by blue ribbons. Sister Bridget, who did not seem 
 quite sure that the elephant was not alive, was lifted 
 on to it, and held there, and wheeled in triumph 
 round the refectory. The nuns clapped their hands, 
 and rushed after the beast, pushing it a little way, 
 beseeching Sister Bridget not to get off but to allow 
 herself to be drawn once more round the room. 
 Flowers were fetched and scattered. There was 
 no reason why Evelyn should disapjjrove, nor did 
 she disapprove. She tried to remember that she had 
 often seen grown-up people acting quite as child- 
 ishly, nevertheless she asked, — 
 
 " Am I going to sj)end the whole of my life with 
 these women who are no beter than little children ?'' 
 
 The novices rushed about screaming with delight, 
 and the professed too — the older the nuns were 
 the more eagerly did they enter into the sj^ort, and 
 in the midst of a dispute as to who was to ride it 
 next Evelyn stole away into the garden. 
 
 The parched ground was cracking, and, filled with 
 pity for the thirsting plants, she filled a can with
 
 SISTER TERESA 309 
 
 water, and shed a refreshing sprinkle over them, not 
 drowning them under a torrent as Sister Elizabeth 
 did when she helped her in the garden. " But they 
 do not like this cold well water," she said, and she 
 looked at the cloudless sky for a cloud. A cloud had 
 passed some few minutes ago, but it was high up in 
 the sky, and it had flown away. " The flowers would 
 give a great deal for three hours of fine, small, 
 dense rain. How they would enjoy it," and stand- 
 ing with her eyes fixed on the dusty horizon, she 
 began to sing some of Isolde's music. 
 
 It was five years since she had sung it, and in five 
 years she had forgotten nearly all of it. Other ideas 
 had absorbed her. Yet it was in quest of this idea 
 that she had gone to Ireland. She remembered 
 Chapelizod, a few cottages, a miserable inn, and a 
 dirty river. But Tristan and Isolde had walked 
 together there. Afterward she had gone with Ulick 
 to see some Druid altars, and sitting on the hill 
 above the altars, they had talked of the primal 
 mysteries, of gods, demi-gods and great heroes. 
 
 The childish gaiety of the nuns streamed through 
 the windows into the garden. 
 
 " Can they still be dragging that elephant about ?" 
 
 She got up abruptly like one moved by a sudden 
 intention. 
 
 " Does another quest lie before me." She tried 
 to stifle the thought, but it cried across her life, like 
 a curlew across waste lands.
 
 XXXIII 
 
 It seemed to her that the server trudged to and 
 fro carrying the book as if it were a bundle of sticks. 
 He seemed to ring the bell stupidly; the ritual 
 seemed ridiculous; and she hid her face in her 
 hands in order that she might fix her thoughts on 
 the mystery of the bread and wine. But she could 
 only think of the enigma of the stars ; a vast cob- 
 web spun into endless space ; and in such a pan- 
 theistic mood she felt that she dared not go to the 
 sacred table. The priest waited a moment, thinking 
 she had forgotten, and when she went to the Prior- 
 ess's room at the end of the week the Prioress's first 
 words were, — 
 
 " My dear Teresa, I noticed that you did not 
 communicate once this week." 
 
 She could only say that an overwhelming sense of 
 her unworthiness had obliged her abstention. She 
 could not bring herself to confess that she, Sister 
 Teresa, a nun dedicated to perpetual adoration, did 
 not believe, or had doubts regarding the actual pres- 
 ence of God in the sacramental wafer. 
 
 There was a time, she remembered it well, when 
 
 her communions alone marked the passage of time. 
 
 She remembered how she used to count the hours 
 
 which divided her from God, how she welcomed 
 
 3W
 
 SISTER TERESA 311 
 
 sleep, for sleep obliterated consciousness of time. 
 And she remembered Low she used to awake in the 
 morning thinking that the hour of the Lord was 
 by. She used to go to the communion table with a 
 wonderful flutter in her breast, keen hunger for the 
 divine food. As she knelt, her head bowed, she 
 was conscious only of her soul and God ; she hardly 
 dared open her mouth ; and as the sacrament dis- 
 solved she was taken with a great fear, for to swal- 
 low seemed like sacrilege, and she covered her face 
 lest the action of swallowing should be perceived. 
 When she had swallowed, the sense of happiness 
 and immortal union grew more intense ; her senses 
 seemed to consume one by one, and she was con- 
 scious of an exquisite harmony, in which every 
 atom seemed to be^t in unison with another atom. 
 In those days she used to live in God, God was 
 always about her, and the sense of God's presence 
 enveloped her, and looking back upon that time it 
 seemed to her that she had been dead or sleeping 
 ever since, and it seemed as if the thick besetting 
 dream of circumstance would never break again. 
 
 She noticed the quality of the food and the length 
 of time in chapel, and every day she found it more 
 difficult to think of God, more difficult to keep her 
 lovers out of her mind, and the music that she used 
 to sing for their deliglit. One day she began to i^lay 
 the prelude to "Lohengrin" from impulse and to see 
 what an effect it would have on Veronica, and when 
 she had finished, she asked her for her idea of it.
 
 312 SISTER TERESA 
 
 " It seemed to me," she said, " as if I stood 
 waiting on some mountain-top, somewhere where 
 there is no boundary. The dawn seemed to be 
 breaking, light seemed to increase, the rays grew 
 brighter, and my soul seemed to be waiting amid 
 the increasing light." 
 
 " Yes, it is that, Veronica — that is a very good 
 description ; how did you think of it ?" 
 
 " I did not think it. ... I felt like that." 
 
 " Elsa sings a beautiful melody in the balcony — 
 listen." After singing it she said, " It is as deep 
 as the hush of the summer night. How the voice 
 falls on the word calme." 
 
 " Oh, Sister, that music is not like our life 
 here. ... It is far away. You used to sing that 
 music, and yet you came here." 
 
 " Perhaps I came here to escape from it, Veron- 
 ica." 
 
 The prelude to " Tristan" and the " Forest Mur- 
 murs," and the Rhine journey could not but trouble 
 the quiet souls of Sister Elizabeth and Sister Ve- 
 ronica, and Evelyn knew that in playing this music 
 to them she was doing a wicked thing. But a 
 strange will had taken possession of her and she 
 had to obey it. She stopped in the cloister to re- 
 member that she had saved the convent, and now 
 she wished to destroy it. Was this really so ? She 
 could not believe it. Good heavens ! Why did she 
 hate those nuns? Was it possible that she hated 
 them ? Did she wish to destroy the peace of mind
 
 SISTER TERESA 313 
 
 of her innocent companions? Xo, she did not de- 
 sire such wickedness. She could not help herself; 
 something was behind her, and she began to fear 
 she was possessed by the devil. 
 
 And though she feared her brain ^'as going the 
 way Miss Dingle's had gone, she could not resist 
 the temptation to wear a blue scapular. And she 
 listened more attentively than she ever did before 
 to Miss Dingle's experiences. At last, unable to 
 bear her present state of mind any longer, she re- 
 solved to consult the chaplain. 
 
 " I have come to consult you. Father, about a 
 great many things ; if you have finished wnth your 
 other penitents perhaps you may be able to give me 
 a little more time than usual." 
 
 He seemed to awake from a pious lethargy. The 
 new chaplain reminded Evelyn of Sister Cecilia. 
 
 " Father, I have come to confess certain sins and 
 obtain forgiveness for these sins. But over and 
 above my sins I have come to consult you, and I 
 feel you will be able to give me the advice I want." 
 
 It seemed to her that she had better begin by tell- 
 ing him her general attitude of mind towards the 
 convent, for she wished him to understand that a 
 change had come, whether transitory or permanent 
 she did not know. An enumeration of her little 
 criticisms of the nuns would convey no true picture 
 of her trouble, and yet it was all so instinct with 
 her trouble that she felt she must tell him that she 
 had smiled at the excitement of the novices and the
 
 314 SISTER TERESA 
 
 younger nuns over the shrines in the passages and 
 in the garden. 
 
 " I have been lacking in humility — that, I sup- 
 pose, is what it comes to." 
 
 Fearing any inclination to extenuate, she entered 
 into details, and then her confession seemed to 
 her sillier and more trivial than the pious fancies 
 that had excited her irony, and she hurried on, try- 
 ing to hit upon something definite, some loss evan- 
 escent emotion, which could be expressed by words. 
 If she could say something that the priest would 
 understand, something that would help him to di- 
 vine the very real trouble and unrest of soul. But 
 she could express nothing of what she felt. The 
 fact that she had emphasised sentences, which even 
 caricatured the sentiment of a popular piece of 
 music did not seem to him a serious sin ; and set- 
 tling his cassock over his knees, he reminded her 
 that singing had paid off the convent's debts. 
 
 " Yes, I know," she said, " and that very day a 
 lady was so delighted with the ' Ave Maria' that 
 she sent the last fifty pounds required to pay off 
 the debt." 
 
 " On that very day ! Now I will give you abso- 
 lution." 
 
 " But, Father, there is a real burden on my mind, 
 and you must have patience with me, for my trouble 
 is very real, and I want your advice." 
 
 Again the priest settled his cassock and concen- 
 trated his attention.
 
 SISTER TERESA 315 
 
 " I have thought of men whom I knew before I 
 entered the convent, whom I knew sinfully. I 
 have not been able to keep their faces and recol- 
 lections of my sins out of my mind. I do not know 
 if you know that I was an opera singer before I 
 became a nun. ... I thought that the opera singer 
 was dead in me, but the other day I played some 
 of the music I used to sing. I don't know if I 
 am deceiving myself, but it seemed to me that I 
 played that music to the nuns in order to trouble 
 their lives as mine has been troubled. I can imagine 
 no sin more horrible, and I hope I have not been 
 guilty of it." 
 
 The priest asked her what music she had played, 
 and when she told him he said, — 
 
 " But I do not know any more devotional music 
 than the prelude to ' Lohengrin,' and the other music 
 you speak of seems to me to be entirely unobjection- 
 able. I have taken great pleasure in it myself — 
 the prelude to ' Parsifal,' for instance." 
 
 " But I wish to forget that music ; it is full of 
 associations for me, and my intentions in playing 
 it were " 
 
 " I do not think, my daughter, that you are in a 
 frame of mind to judge your intentions. We are 
 not responsible for passing thoughts." 
 
 There still remained her doubts regarding the 
 Real Presence, and she said, — 
 
 " I cannot imagine anything more terrible than 
 to be a nun, vowed to perpetual adoration, and not
 
 316 SISTEK TEEESA 
 
 to believe implicitly in the Eeal Presence. . . . 
 I can imagine no more terrible fate, and that fate 
 may be mine — I was going to say is perhaps mine 
 already." 
 
 " But, my dear child, you do not say that you do 
 not believe in the Real Presence, and if you do not 
 deny you believe." 
 
 " Does that follow, Father ? I certainly do not 
 deny. I do not even disbelieve, but I fear my faith 
 in the sacrament is waning. Think what my posi- 
 tion would be in the convent if such a thing were to 
 happen." 
 
 " It can only be that the trial you are now en- 
 during has been sent to test you, and you must 
 pray." 
 
 " But, Father, I seem to have lost control of my 
 thoughts. Only this morning, when you bent down 
 over the altar to take the sacrament, trivial thoughts 
 passed through my mind; is it necessary that I 
 should tell them to you ?" 
 
 " !N'o, it is not necessary." 
 
 " They are so vivid and near me, and yet they do 
 not seem like my thoughts, and sometimes I fear tQ 
 turn my head lest I should see the devil. I have 
 almost come to believe in him as Miss Dingle does 
 — I mean in his visible presence and in his power 
 to lay material hands on me. Think, then, what 
 it must be to kneel before the altar ! I cannot shake 
 this haunting spirit out of me. !N"ot only blasphe- 
 mous, but indecent thoughts rise up in my mind.
 
 SISTER TERESA 317 
 
 and they are so distinct and clear that I cannot but 
 think the devil is whispering in my ear. I must 
 tell you all. The moment I kneel to take my watch 
 the voice begins, and the last time I communi- 
 cated . . ." 
 
 She ceased speaking and hid her face in her 
 hands. 
 
 " There is no reason why you should recall these 
 painful visitations." 
 
 " Yes, visitations ; they can be nothing else. I 
 dare not communicate ; you have noticed my ab- 
 stention ? If these thoughts do not cease I cannot 
 live in the convent — I cannot live in blasphemy." 
 
 " Have you spoken to the Prioress on this mat- 
 ter?" 
 
 " m." 
 
 The Prioress reserved the spiritual guidance of 
 her nuns to herself. . . . Father Daly had been dis- 
 missed for interference. The Chaplain reflected. 
 He could think of no argument which would con- 
 vince her of the Real Presence in the Eucharist. 
 His brain seemed a little torpid that afternoon. 
 Had he not better refer the penitent to the Prioress ? 
 On the other hand, would it be right to avoid the 
 responsibility that had come upon him. But at 
 that moment an argument was being revealed to 
 him, and he began, though he knew he risked a 
 great deal, the three minutes, the limit the Prioress 
 allowed her nuns in the confessional, were over 
 long ago.
 
 318 SISTER TERESA 
 
 " My dear child, your position is very serious. 
 But God never deserts those who do not desert 
 Him." 
 
 And while trying to disentangle an argument 
 wherewith to convince her of the Real Presence, 
 he spoke to her of the sin of despair, the most ter- 
 rible of all sins, and the one to be dreaded most. 
 " If we accept the evidence of our senses," he said, 
 " we would believe the earth to be flat and station- 
 ary. But this conflicts with the evidence of our 
 senses regarding the rising and setting of constel- 
 lations, and so it is with the mystery of Transub- 
 stantiation. If we accept our immediate sensation, 
 no change has taken place during the words of con- 
 secration, and God is not in the sacred wafer any 
 more than He is in any other wafer; but just as 
 in astronomy we arrive at an absurdity if we do 
 not accept the theory of the motion of the earth, 
 so do we arrive at an absurdity in theology- if we do 
 not accept the teaching of our holy Church. To 
 call into question the Real Presence in the sacred 
 wafer not only calls into question the trustworthi- 
 ness of the Church's teaching, but also the very 
 words of Christ, who said, ' Take and eat, for this 
 is my body,' and again, ' This is my blood of the 
 !N^ew Testament, which is shed for you and for many 
 for the remission of sins.' Then this doctrine in the 
 ^N^ew Testament must be dismissed as a fable, for 
 did not Christ say, ' I came not to destroy the law 
 but to fulfil it.' So you see, to deny any one article
 
 SISTEIl TERESA 319 
 
 of the faith involves a denial of cvcrvthing, and if 
 Christ be not God, and the Xcw Testament a myth, 
 then all the Avorld, and all the stars, and everything 
 that happens in life are but a scries of ehances." 
 
 " Yes, Father, yes, and it is a great help to me 
 to hear yon; and what you say is quite true. I 
 used to believe that this world and human life were 
 due to a series of chances." 
 
 " And the scientific explanation failed to satisfy 
 you. I will give you some books to read on the sub- 
 ject, and Avith patience and prayer your doubts will 
 pass away, my dear child." 
 
 The priest then said a little prayer with her, and 
 he gave her absolution for any fault that might be 
 hers in not resisting more strenuously the thoughts 
 that had come, against her will, from a far time.
 
 XXXIV 
 
 One night in her convent bed she saw flames 
 about her, and she began to remember the scene 
 — how it begins with Siegfried's own motive, and 
 nnderneath it the ripple of the Rhinegold. 
 
 The day has begun; the last rosy clouds vanish 
 in light melodies, cool as the wind blowing out of 
 the dawn, and the hero stands on the mountain-top. 
 Below him the warrior woman sleeps in her war 
 gear, surrounded by flames, and at once is heard 
 the mysterious " Question to Fate." Evelyn's eyes 
 closed, and she dreamed " The Love Spell," as it 
 emerges from the orchestra ; and the young hero, 
 whose mother she had rescued, descended the rocks 
 to her side, and amid enchanting melodies — " Love's 
 Confusion," " Love's Rapture," and " Love's De- 
 light" — he took her buckler and her helmet from 
 her, and looking upon her breasts, dreamed she 
 might unclasp her girdle for him in the pine wood 
 close by. 
 
 The nun strove against the dream, but God 
 seemed to have abandoned her; and she could not 
 resist the temptation of mortal lips ; the music over- 
 took her as a net overtakes the escaping fish, she 
 heard her vows die as Siegfried's lips pressed hers 
 320
 
 SISTER TERESA 321 
 
 apart. The music rose out of the depths of the 
 orchestra ; it ascended to the heights on the violins, 
 and she heard the exultant chords expressive of her 
 rapture when she awakens to the beauty of the 
 world. Sitting up on the rock whjere she has lain 
 for so many years, she asks, " Who is the hero who 
 has awakened me ?" and they both sing the rapture 
 of the meeting. 
 
 Siegfried watches her as the sun watches the 
 marvel of the spring. He sings his wonder at her 
 beauty, and a pang of reciprocal longing awakens, 
 and her delight is like earth's answer to the sun. 
 What accents of courage and triumph, and amid 
 them her own " justification," for had she not been 
 compassionate to the imhappy parents ? The im- 
 petuous boy implores her, but in the midst of her 
 desire she remembers she is a goddess, and again, 
 amid the temptation to yield to the delight of the 
 senses, she hears the theme of " Renunciation." To 
 surrender to love is to surrender her immortal life ; 
 and her elemental nature rises up like the wind; 
 and she hears her sisters fly to her. But in spite 
 of her endeavour to resist she turns her eyes to Sieg- 
 fried, and she sees him leading her into the fir wood, 
 and her senses sicken a little as she thinks Iioav she 
 may unclasp her girdle for his pleasure and for 
 hers. And amid the flutter and rapture of such 
 melodious phrases as " Love's Confusion" and 
 " Love's Rapture" the gods strive vainly for her 
 
 virginity. She turns to the fir Avood, her hands 
 
 21
 
 322 SISTER TERESA 
 
 fall to her girdle, but she hears the theme of Val- 
 halla. 
 
 The nun's face grew pale in her dream, and she 
 tossed on her bed, for she was striving to remem- 
 ber. The next part of the scene seemed to elude 
 her, and she seems to wander through long woods, 
 following some distant and evasive music sung by 
 a bird. At last, coming to a rocky desert place, 
 " The Curse" is suddenly thundered in her ears, 
 and she remembers that death follows all delight. 
 But immediately peaceful memories breathe in her 
 ears. Siegfried is beside her, she is enfolded in 
 her desire of him, though she hears in the quivering 
 air some faint echo of tremulous annihilation. She 
 listens, and the alluring dimness of the Valhalla 
 motive overcomes her, and breaking away she fore- 
 goes the fatal gift of love. But Siegfried sings his 
 irresistible phrase, his triumphal " Come what 
 May," and the joy of life is accepted amid the 
 tempestuous beat of the flying hoofs of " The Ride," 
 the mysterious call of the bird ; and the love themes 
 are repeated, and after them " The Heritage of the 
 World" is heard. " Siegfried's own Motive" rises 
 out of the depths, and the boy and the maid exult in 
 a final trill. 
 
 The nun's eyes opened, and she lay with Avide 
 open eyes in a state between sleeping and waking, 
 her thoughts so completely detached from her will 
 that she seemed to be listening rather than think- 
 ing. She lay quiescent, and her whole life seemed
 
 SISTEK TERESA 323 
 
 to be read out to licr, and at the end of the long 
 reading she answered, " Xo Siegfried will come to 
 release me from this prison of invisible bars. And 
 if Siegfried came to release me from these flames — 
 for everv will is a flame — of what use should I be 
 to him ?" '' Of Avhat use" repeated like antiph- 
 onv, and at the end of each verse she repeated, 
 " What use should I be to him ?" and this was some- 
 times followed by the addition, " or to anyone ? God 
 has cast me off," she cried, " and men have cast 
 me off, and my present singing would appeal to 
 them as little as my body. Xo man can love me 
 again." 
 
 In the silence of the dawn, the evening she had 
 found Owen watching for her in her drawing-room 
 at Park Lane returned. She had been near to 
 yielding to him, but he had refrained, though he 
 loved her as much as ever. She had not understood 
 at the time, only long afterwards, and In- degrees, 
 that the prayers of the nuns had withheld him from 
 her. The prayers of the nuns had withheld her 
 from him in Thornton Grange. Ah, how dim a 
 spectre she would seem to liim now, and to Ulick 
 too, who in his pagan mysticism hated Christianity 
 even more than Owen. 
 
 She suddenly became aware that the convent had 
 moulded her to its ideas more completely tlian Owen 
 Asher had done: her insomnia was like a ijlass in 
 which she saw herself clearly ; the very ends of her 
 soul were revealed to her. It seemed to her that
 
 324 SISTER TERESA 
 
 she must die, so great was her fear. She shrank 
 from the convent, the chapel, the refectory, and the 
 passages were reflected upon her brain. The nuns 
 passed by her, and she knew their faces in every 
 minute reflection of line, in every slight difference 
 of colour, and she heard them tell her that this was 
 the end, that no further change would come into 
 her life. As they passed her she asked them if her 
 life would be prolonged, but they passed without 
 answering her question, and she thought hoAV friend- 
 less the convent would be when the Prioress died. 
 Sister Mary John was the only one to Avhom she 
 could tell her trouble of soul, the only one who 
 could help her to bear the trial of her unfaith. It 
 seemed to her that she had been strangely indifferent 
 to her friend's departure. She had forgotten her 
 quickly, and it seemed to her that during the term 
 of their friendship she had always been curiously 
 unresponsive. Evelyn saw her friend far away 
 in France. She might be dead, she would never 
 hear of her again, and she cried out, " Come back !" 
 hoping the cry might reach her. 
 
 It was Sister Mary John's faith that had in- 
 spired her ; it was Sister ]\Iary John's example that 
 had helped her to believe that the Real Presence 
 was the one true reality. ]^ow she remembered 
 that she had said to Sister Mary John, " Nothing 
 seems to me so real as the Sacrament, not even 
 you, whom I can see and touch with my hands. 
 . . ." What sin had been theirs ? What shadow of
 
 SISTER TERESA 325 
 
 sin had Sister Mary John seen in their friendship? 
 Something less than a shadow, and lest this shadow 
 of a shadow shonld define itself, she had left her 
 alone in the convent. 
 
 She had been in bed three honrs, and she was 
 weary of thinking, and for three weeks she had 
 hardly slept; and in the Incidity of these white 
 nights she had read her life. At first she had al- 
 lowed herself to read it for a few moments, jnst 
 to see if she remembered it, bnt gradually she had 
 yielded more and more to the temptation of re- 
 membrance. Iler stage lovers, and her other lovers, 
 even her admirers, men whose names she did not 
 even remember, returned to her. One of these was 
 a young Russian. She remembered the evening they 
 had stood on a hill-top overlooking the city; from 
 where they stood they could see the harbour and 
 the ships; and she remembered the blown trees 
 and the faded grass, and the young man, who was 
 a prince, had pressed her to marry him. If she 
 had done so she would now be a Russian princess 
 living among the Steppes, whereas she was now a 
 nun living in the Wimbledon convent. She never 
 would see him again. Had he discovered someone 
 to marry him, and did he ever think of her? she 
 wondered. Yes, far away in the Steppes he thought 
 of her sometimes. 
 
 She remembered the names of actors she had 
 acted with, she remembered when they had sung 
 well and when they had sung badly. Perhaps the
 
 326 SISTER TERESA 
 
 pleasantest days to remember were the days when 
 she went to her singing lessons every morning, and 
 when Owen had come from England to visit them. 
 They had given dinner-parties and dances in that 
 house, in the Rue Balzac, and she remembered that 
 Owen had to leave her to escape from the torment 
 of desire. She remembered that it was difficnlt for 
 them to sit in the same room when others were 
 present. 
 
 But this life of sin had been forgiven her, and 
 to save herself from memories of Owen she had to 
 think of Ulick's gentleness, and the different de- 
 light she had taken by his side. She thought of the 
 days they had spent in Ireland, and fell asleep, 
 dreaming of a long beautiful day in the lonely 
 country. 
 
 But before the first bird began to sing her sleep 
 had become broken, and when the first bird chirped 
 a cry escaped from hen", and she moaned and seemed 
 to resist someone. " Xo, oh, no, Owen, I cannot." 
 Then her voice sank to a murmur and she waved 
 her arms. " It is sacrilege," she cried, and she 
 sank back. " Stay here with me, no one will know 
 you are here, but in the chapel you may be seen. 
 I cannot do that, T cannot commit sacrilege; God 
 would never forgive that." 
 
 She lay stark and white beneath the obscene op- 
 pression, unable to resist Owen, who led her from 
 her cell to the chapel where the nuns were assem- 
 bled to Mass. All the way down the stairs she
 
 SISTER TERESA 327 
 
 besought Lira, asking liim why he wished this one 
 thing. There was a strange leer in his eyes, and 
 his lips were strangely curled when he said she 
 dared not go for she knew ^Monsignor was the cele- 
 brant. He grasped her by the wrist and dragged 
 her, and though she resisted with the other arm, 
 placing it against the door-post, she was hurled 
 along, her strength giving way each time. The 
 chapel door was open, and all the nuns were in choir. 
 She could see her empty place, but the nuns did 
 not seem to see it was empty; they were deep in 
 prayer. She was not certain who was the celebrant. 
 It might be Monsignor as Owen had said. She 
 could not see the celebrant very distinctly, but the 
 server she saw quite distinctly. The server was 
 Veronica, and she wore a surplice. She had dis- 
 guised herself, but her naked feet showed beneath 
 the surplice, and when she clianged the book from 
 the right to the left Evelyn feared she would be 
 discovered. 
 
 All this while Owen and Evelyn were hiding be- 
 hind a pillar, and they watched Veronica, who, 
 regardless of the danger of discovery, stood by the 
 celebrant, helping him to find the place in the 
 book. Evelyn besought Owen to come back to her 
 cell with her, but they remained in hiding, and at 
 the Elevation it seemed to her it was not ]\ronsignor 
 who was saying !Mass, but a satyr — a satyr whom 
 she had once seen in a picture in the Munich gal- 
 lery, and she watched the vestments, catching sight
 
 328 SISTER TERESA 
 
 every now and then of the hoofs. Then, forgetting 
 the celebrant, she watched the nuns, thinking every 
 momeat one of them wonld look towards where she 
 aud Owen were hiding, and one did look, but to 
 Evelyn's surprise she did pot seem to see them. 
 
 On the altar a statue lay at length, and Evelyn 
 was puzzled to explain its presence along the altar. 
 The priest continued to say Mass as if he were not 
 aware of the statue, or even inconvenienced by it, 
 and then it seemed to Evelyn not to be a statue 
 but a woman. She noticed that the face was like 
 one of the nuns — she could not tell which, and as 
 the priest bowed his head the woman looked round 
 and watched. Monsigno* came from the sacred 
 table to give them communion, and as he was about 
 to return to the altar he caught sight of her and 
 Owen, though Owen had shrunk into the shadow 
 of tlie pillar. He asked him what he had come 
 for, and Owen answered " to communicate." She 
 besought Owen to say that he had not come to 
 commit sacrilege; but Owen begged the priest to 
 give him the sacred Host. He put it into his hand- 
 kerchief, and as they were about to leave the church 
 a sha^-p rap at the door awoke her. 
 
 It was the Sister who had come to tell her to 
 watch before the sacrament. 
 
 " I cannot, I cannot get up." 
 
 " Are you ill. Sister ?" 
 
 " Yes, I am very ill indeed. I cannot watch to- 
 day, I cannot; someone else must take my place."
 
 XXXV 
 
 There was no will in her to get up ; she lay quite 
 still, her eyes wide open and her look was vague 
 like an animal's. She did not dare to rouse herself 
 lest any stir might bring back a glimpse of her 
 dream. There was no sign of life in her, except 
 that her face sometimes contracted in an expression 
 of suffering, and when at last she slipped out of 
 bed and began to dress herself, she was certain 
 that come what may she could not endure another 
 month in the convent. The alternative of leaving 
 the convent no longer frightened her. Even if it 
 were to kill the Prioress she must leave; her own 
 soul was at stake, and every moment she lingered in 
 this convent, she was losing it. 
 
 She hastened a little so that she might be in time 
 for Mass, and she had begun to hope she might be 
 able to pray. To pray ever so little would alter 
 everything. But when she knelt among the nuns 
 her heart was empty and prayer seemed like sacri- 
 lege. The worst was that at the Elevation she could 
 think of nothing but her dream. She doubted no 
 longer that her soul was a lost soul, and to live 
 with her soul, knowing it to lost, was really hell. 
 Only by leaving the convent could she save her 
 soul. But she could not see the Prioress till noon, 
 and it seemed as if she could not live through her 
 
 329
 
 330 SISTER TERESA 
 
 anxiety. She did not dare to think ; and at dinner 
 she crumbled a i)iece of bread and drank a little 
 water, thankful for the silence, for she would not 
 have been able to answer if she had been spoken to. 
 
 After dinner she escaped from recreation and 
 went into the chapel and tried to pray. She called, 
 but lie answered not, and unable to control her 
 nerves she left the chapel, and catching sight of 
 the Prioress in the passage she hurried after her, 
 but paused at the foot of the stairs to think the 
 matter out. Thinking did not help her; the knot 
 remained untied in spite of all her trembling 
 thoughts, and she went upstairs. 
 
 The firm, white face, and the old wrinkled hands 
 turning over some papers unnerved her, and she 
 thought of the chill e3'es reading in the recesses 
 of her soul. 
 
 " I know, my dear child, that the great crisis of 
 your life has begun. It began some weeks ago. 
 I did not question you ; disease ripens best in 
 silence. Sit down, and we will talk about it." 
 
 Evelyn dropped into a chair. 
 
 " If you knew, !Mother, what I have to say to 
 you you could not speak like that. If I am to save 
 my soul I must leave ; it has come to that." 
 
 She spoke with feverish simplicity, telling that 
 her motives were spiritual, that it was because she 
 feared she could not believe sufficiently, and not 
 on account of any desire of the world, or of the men 
 whom she had once loved; they were dead to her,
 
 SISTER TERESA 331 
 
 the trouble of the flesh liad died out of her; such 
 tcnii^tations Avere light, they could he repressed! 
 almost at will. 
 
 " I feel that I can love God better in the world." 
 
 " But if you were to return to the world, the 
 passion that you could control here would subdue 
 you, and all the struggle would have been in vain. 
 Do you not think that this is so ?" 
 
 " Oh, no, Mother, T do not think so. The strug- 
 gle would not have been in vain — God would take 
 it into account. That may not be true doctrine; I 
 fear that it is not, and it is the doctrine and not 
 the flesh that I fear. It is not true that the roots 
 of doubt are in the flesh, though I thought so once, 
 and Consignor once told me so." 
 
 " So you think, my dear child, that you would 
 be safer in the world than you are here, and that 
 you would be leading a life more pleasing to God ?" 
 
 " Yes, I cannot think otherwise, and if I could 
 tell you all, you too would think so." 
 
 "Should T?" 
 
 The two women sat looking at each other, and 
 then Evelyn said, " I am the unhap])iest of women, 
 and tlie most unfortunate, T think. Imagine a nun, 
 dedicated to perpetual adoration, and unable to 
 believe in tlie sacrament." 
 
 " You mean, Teresa, that your faith is no longer 
 as complete or as fervent as it was. That may be, 
 nothing is more likely; we should be too happy 
 if a sensible faith were alwavs bv us."
 
 332 SISTER TERESA 
 
 " I have thought of all that, Mother, But my 
 case is different. There is no hope for me — my 
 soul is lost — God has deserted me." 
 
 " But what you say, my dear child, is unthink- 
 ahle. God cannot withdraw belief in His presence 
 in the sacrament in order that you may return to 
 the world." 
 
 " I see that I cannot make you understand. No 
 one can understand another, and perhaps I am diffi- 
 cult to understand. You cannot understand — I 
 mean sympathise — of course you cannot sympathise 
 with my leaving the convent, that is one of my 
 afflictions. You will always misjudge me, and it 
 is not your fault. Xo one can lay before another 
 the life that passes in her soul. . . . Words are 
 ineffectual to explain it. With words you can tell 
 the exterior facts of life ; but you cannot tell the 
 intense yet involuntary life of the soul — that intri- 
 cate and unceasing life, incomprehensible as an 
 ant heap, and so personal though it is involun- 
 tary." 
 
 At that moment a sudden haunting of her last 
 night's dream sprang upon her, bringing her, as 
 it were, to bay, and she said, " If it were not for 
 m}' dreams. Mother." 
 
 " Your dreams are involuntary, so you are not 
 responsible." 
 
 " I have thought of that too, but another night 
 like last night, and I should go mad. I thought 
 this morning I should go mad. I can only think
 
 SISTER TERESA 333 
 
 that I umst be possessed with the devil. If I could 
 but tell you the dream you would think so too." 
 
 " The devil possesses no one "^^'ho does not desire 
 him. You are excited and cannot control your 
 nerves; but a little time will bring the change." 
 
 Then the Reverend Mother mentioned one who, 
 the Scripture said, had had an evil spirit cast out 
 of her; and Evelyn mentioned another, and the 
 question was discussed for a while. Both were 
 conscious of the irrelevancy, but neither could dis- 
 entangle herself from it, and it allowed Evehii to 
 consider the wretchedness of her plight if she re- 
 turned to the world, and the Reverend Mother to 
 think how she could save her from the fatal step. 
 Suddenly there came a silence, and Evelyn said, — 
 
 " I became a nun, I am thinking, too late, or 
 too soon. I can understand the acceptation of the 
 religious life by those who passed, like Veronica, 
 from the schoolroom to the novitiate; and there 
 are those who enter the convent late in life, when 
 the vine of life has perished, in disappointment, 
 in misfortune." 
 
 The two nuns sat a long while witRout speaking. 
 
 " Yes, Teresa, the vine of life gathers round and 
 captures and overgrows our natural love of God. 
 You were seven or eight-and-twcnty, I think, when 
 you came here first — I M'as twenty-five when my 
 husband died. Before I was married I often used 
 to come to the convent. T was fond of the nuns, 
 and I was a pious girl, and, like you, I once made
 
 334 SISTER TERESA 
 
 a retreat when T was sixteen or seventeen. But 
 after our marriage I forgot our holy religion, and 
 thought seldom of God. I was captured hy life, 
 the vine of life grew about me and held mo tight. 
 One day, passing by the door of the convent, my 
 husband said, ^ It is lucky that love rescued you, 
 for when I met you you were a little taken by the 
 convent, and might liave become a nun. If you 
 had not fallen in love,' he said, ' you might have 
 shut yourself up in there — fanc}' you shut up in 
 there draped in a grey habit.' I wore that day a 
 grey silk dress, and I remember takiug the skirt 
 up as we passed the door and hitting the kerb stone 
 with it. ' Shut up in that prison house ! how could 
 I ever have thought of sucli a thing!' These were 
 my words, but God in His great goodness and 
 wisdom resolved to bring me back to Ilim. A great 
 deal is required to save our souls, so deeply are 
 Ave enmeshed in the delight of life, and in the 
 delight of one another. So God took my husband 
 from me after an illness of three weeks. This 
 happened forty years ago — far away from here I 
 used to sit on the seashore crying all day. My 
 little child used to put his arms about me and say, 
 ' What is mamie crying for V Then my child died, 
 seeminfflv without anv reason, and I felt that I 
 could not live any longer amid the desires and 
 activities of men. I will not try to tell you what 
 my grief was; you have suffered grief, and may 
 imagine it. I left my home at once and hurried
 
 SISTER TERESA 335 
 
 here, just as you did. When I saw you return 
 here after your father's death I could not but think 
 of my own returning. I saw myself in you. But 
 we nuns do not speak of our past lives, and if I 
 have told you it is because a force within me im- 
 pelled me to do so. It may help you ; one never 
 knows what may help another — help comes unex- 
 pectedly, and from an unexpected side." 
 
 " Thank you, dear Mother, I know what it must 
 have cost you to speak of these past things. There 
 is a great lesson in all you have said." 
 
 At that moment the question of whether the death 
 of a father was as wide and deep a distraction in 
 the life of a woman as the death of a husband and 
 child set itself before Evelyn. But after consider- 
 ing the question for a while, she put it aside, not 
 daring to think it out, and listened instead to the 
 Reverend Mother, who was speaking to her of what 
 her life would be in the world if she were to return 
 to it. 
 
 " You have said that to go back to the stage is out 
 of the question, so I can only think of you as a 
 music teacher. The money you gave to the con- 
 vent cannot be returned to you unless all the nuns 
 agree. I do not know if it could be managed." 
 
 " Do not speak of such a thing. To put back 
 the weight of debt on your shoulders which it was 
 my mission to lift from them! If I were to do 
 that then indeed my life would be deprived of all 
 meaning whatever. It would be all quicksand —
 
 336 SISTEK TERESA 
 
 shifting sand. The redemption of this convent 
 from debt is the one thing that I have accomplished. 
 Under no circumstances could I ever take back the 
 money. ]!^ever speak of it again." 
 
 " My dear child, I should like to say you are 
 very good, but this is not the moment for saying 
 such things. Yet I think I can say that I do not 
 believe God will allow anyone who is as good as 
 you are, who desires goodness as ardently as you 
 do, to leave the convent and start again in the 
 miserable life of the world, where all is disap- 
 pointment. We shall pray for you, and we have 
 confidence in our prayers. They have been an- 
 swered before." 
 
 " I fear this return to the world. Outside of 
 the convent what can my life be — the life of an 
 obscure music teacher, half remembered and half 
 forgotten — grey and shadow-like I shall pass — 
 
 ' When I move among ehadows a ehadow, and wail by 
 impassable streams.' 
 
 My sole reality will be the convent. I shall never 
 sec you, dear Mother, nor any of the Sisters — 
 Veronica, Mother Philippa, and Mother Mary 
 Hilda, so gentle and wise, and yet I shall see 
 nothing but you all, just as an exile sees nothing 
 but his native land. I had often wondered before 
 I came here what my end would be, and I imagined 
 all kinds of ends, but never one so shadowy as mine 
 will be if I leave you. . . . The disgrace, too —
 
 SISTER TERESA 337 
 
 undoing all the good that I have done, that seems 
 the hardest part. It is my desertion you will re- 
 member ; not you, Mother, but the convent." 
 
 The Prioress told Evelyn that when the Mothers 
 met to discuss whether they should vote for, or 
 against, her election, Mother Mary Hilda had ad- 
 vised her rejection until she had proved the reality 
 of her vocation by remaining another year in the 
 novitiate. 
 
 " But I always believed in your vocation, and 
 I shall believe in it. God will guide us aright, and 
 will listen to our prayers. But if it should so hap- 
 pen that you should feel your spiritual welfare 
 to be endangered by remaining in the convent, you 
 must leave — there can be no question of that. We 
 must all be guided by our consciences. There is 
 so much that we do not understand. We must 
 always place ourselves in the hands of God." 
 
 This admission seemed to disarm Evelyn, and the 
 terrors of the night having worn off she began to 
 think her fears were illusory, and that by strenuous 
 efforts on her part and by the aid of the prayers 
 of the nuns God would give back His grace to her. 
 
 The Prioress found wise words, and Evelyn 
 agreed that a month was the shortest time she could 
 give to the consideration of so irreparable an act 
 as the breaking of her vows. 
 
 " Oh, the restlessness of life, and how weary 
 
 I am of it!" she said, as they went downstairs, for 
 
 the chapel bell was ringing for Benediction. 
 
 2^
 
 XXXVI 
 
 The fortitude which had enabled the Prioress 
 to endure her life, after the death of her husband 
 and her child, appealed to all that Evelyn admired 
 most in human character, and she looked at the old 
 woman with affectionate and wondering eyes. The 
 simple words in which she had described the ship- 
 wreck of her life enabled Evelyn to see it clearly, 
 and she could picture the young woman, without a 
 hope in this world, driving like a ship upon the 
 rocks, but saving herself by extraordinary force 
 of character. After the death of husband and child, 
 the convent was the only consolation for a woman 
 like the Prioress, and for nearly half a century 
 her life had swung at anchor, like a ship, in a safe 
 harl^our. Evelyn entered the chapel with her, real- 
 ising the beauty of her serene age, and the wonder 
 of her life in its faith and its romance. And under 
 this influence Evelyn prayed a little while, and it 
 seemed to her that the troubles of her life had faded 
 from her. But before she had left the chapel, be- 
 fore even she had finished her prayer, her thoughts 
 had strayed back to the sacrament. The faintly 
 burning lamp had drawn her thoughts back to it, 
 and she could see it white and transparent amid 
 
 the gold. 
 338
 
 SISTER TERESA 339 
 
 Did she believe? Yes, she believed, and that 
 seemed the worst part of her misfortune. She did 
 not wish to defile the sacrament ; but she was per- 
 secuted by thoughts of how it might be defiled. In 
 her dream Owen had put the Host into his hand- 
 kerchief, and they were going to take it to her cell 
 to defile it. She awoke as they were leaving the 
 chapel, but the memory of this dream was unen- 
 durable, and she felt she could not rid herself of 
 it without leaving the convent. To avoid blasphemy 
 she must get away from the sacrament. To think 
 of God she must go to some beautiful hollow in some 
 delightful land. ... As long as she stayed in the 
 convent sin would be Avith her for a daily and 
 nightly companion. Old sins would revisit her, 
 and her calamity was the unexpectedness of these 
 thoughts. She Avas Aveary of putting them back, 
 and in sleep she was powerless against them. Her 
 nights were poisoned by dreams, out of which she 
 awoke — hollow eyed — in the blue dusk of dawn. 
 
 She had heard that our dreams are only the con- 
 tinuance of our thoughts at the moment of falling 
 asleep. And though from the moment she got into 
 bed she had prayed without ceasing, it was impos- 
 sible for her to say that some thought of Owen had 
 not come into her mind, and that her dream was 
 not the sequence of her waking thoughts, and for 
 these she was responsible, and she asked why she 
 should stay in the convent. The convent Avas a 
 cause of sin, and she could no longer approach God
 
 340 SISTER TERESA 
 
 in prajer, so she abstained from prayer, and her 
 state grew more unhappy every day. Every day 
 discovered new misgivings, finer subtleties, and de- 
 spair settled gradually down on her. She lost con- 
 trol over her nerves, and all the old symptoms mani- 
 fested themselves . . . sleepless nights and exces- 
 sive consciousness of external things. She could 
 see her life from end to end, distinct like an insect 
 under a glass, and at night she noted the quiver 
 of the antenna3 as she lay staring into the darkness, 
 or as she walked up and down her cell, afraid to 
 go to sleep. Every argument she had heard against 
 God floated through her brain, leaving her no rest. 
 At half-past six, before she had closed her eyes, 
 or slept at all, she would have to get up for medi- 
 tation, and, worse than meditation, there was Mass, 
 and Avorse than Mass was her watch before the 
 sacrament. She had reached the point of denial, 
 and she feared God while she denied God. Her 
 eyes grew hollow, her skin pale, and her health 
 deteriorated rapidly, and before the month of con- 
 sideration which the Prioress had demanded from 
 her had expired, she was unable to leave her cell. 
 The Prioress came to see her there, but Evelyn 
 could not answer her. 
 
 The Prioress said, "You are certainly very ill, 
 and we cannot accept the responsibility any longer." 
 
 And the next day was appointed for Evelyn to 
 declare that she wished to leave. One of the wit- 
 nesses would be the chaplain ; and Mother Philippa
 
 SISTER TEllESA 341 
 
 and Mother Mary Hilda, they would be witnesses 
 too if necessary. But feeling that someone from 
 outside, someone more important than the convent 
 chaplain was required, the Reverend Mother 
 wrote, — 
 
 " Deae Monsignoe, — Your help is needed very 
 sorely, and no one can help us in our extremity 
 except you — if you can help us. I beg you to come 
 here to-morrow, in the afternoon, about three 
 o'clock, and I will explain the whole matter to you. 
 T am sure I have said enough for you to understand 
 that no other engagement should prevent your 
 coming here. Trusting in God that some way will 
 be foimd out of our difficulty. — I remain." 
 
 The prelate's face assumed a grave expression as 
 he read the letter. He looked at and turned it over, 
 and he said to himself, '' So it has come at last ;" 
 for he had no doubt the matter concerned Sister 
 Teresa. " It cannot be anything else," he thought, 
 " except that she wishes to leave the convent." He 
 wrote several letters, adjourning some appointments 
 he had made, and when he arrived at the convent 
 he found the Prioress waiting to receive him in the 
 parlour, and her face was so grave and sad that 
 she need not have spoken. Then the chaplain en- 
 tered the room, and the Prioress said, — 
 
 " I will tell ]\ronsignor what has happened." 
 He remembered of course the advice that he had
 
 342 SISTER TERESA 
 
 given to the Prioress, Avhen it was agitated whether 
 Evelyn should be received into the convent, and he 
 thought for a second of the Prioress's obstinacy, 
 so he did not dare to say, " Who could have foreseen 
 this ?" lest she might suspect his thoughts. And 
 for the same reason he did not dare to say, " We 
 might have expected this." So nothing was left for 
 him to say except that it was very sad, and that he 
 hoped that the mood would pass away. 
 
 The Prioress shook her head. 
 
 " I make no complaint ; we all acted for the 
 best, and apparently we have been mistaken." 
 
 She rang a bell, and when the lay Sister ap- 
 peared she told her to tell Sister Teresa to come 
 to the parlour. " Tell Sister Teresa nothing more 
 than that I am waiting to see her in the parlour." 
 
 " Do you think," Monsignor said, ''' that my pres- 
 ence will influence her to remain here ?" 
 
 " I don't know. I put my trust in God." 
 
 The painful silence was broken by the opening 
 of the door and Sister Teresa entered. 
 
 She had expected to see the Prioress and the chap- 
 lain ; but when she saw Monsignor a personal look 
 came into her face, a mist collected in her eyes. 
 She tottered a few steps, and she fell forwards, fall- 
 ing on the floor.
 
 XXXVII 
 
 Whex she opened her eyes she was in the in- 
 firmary, and Veronica was sitting by her bedside, 
 and when she asked where she was Veronica told 
 her, and she said, " Yes, I remember, I wanted to 
 leave the convent life because I cannot believe in 
 the sacrament." Then, seeing Veronica's face 
 change, she said, " I should not tell yoii these 
 things. What will the Reverend Mother say?" 
 She closed her eyes, and when she opened them 
 again she said, " It is not that I do not believe in 
 the sacrament, but because I do not believe as I 
 wish to believe. Think of the sacrilege — I dread 
 the sacrament because I am not sure; that is it, 
 because I am not sure." 
 
 " Sister Teresa, you must lie quite still and not 
 talk. You have been very ill, and we thought you 
 would die, but now you are a little better." 
 
 " Veronica, you are one of the lucky ones ; you 
 came to the convent knowing nothing of the 
 world." 
 
 " Sister Teresa, you must not speak ; you will 
 only make yourself worse." 
 
 " But I cannot help speaking, for I cannot help 
 thinking. ... If I get worse I shall have to re 
 ceive the sacrament or refuse it. Oh, what am I 
 saying ? What must you think of me ?" 
 
 343
 
 344 SISTER TERESA 
 
 " Sister Teresa, you have been very ill, and if 
 you will keep quiet you will get well." 
 
 " I was an actress before I came here, and it 
 was Monsignor who converted me. But why am I 
 telling you these things ?" 
 
 " I must not listen to you, Sister, I have my 
 rosary to say." 
 
 And while Veronica told her beads Evelyn 
 babbled a little from time to time. She spoke of 
 Ulick, who had taught her the music of Isolde; 
 she had not wished to learn it, but he had per- 
 suaded her to; and Evelyn continued, half in de- 
 lirium, to talk about the Irish Princess and King 
 Mark. 
 
 " How badly the nuns are singing and how ugly 
 that hymn is. Close the window. If you do not, 
 I shall not remember what Isolde answers." And 
 so that she might not hear her Veronica joined in 
 the hymn under her breath. " Ah, you will not 
 listen, you are afraid to listen to my music. Listen 
 to it. It is much more beautiful than that hymn." 
 
 She did not speak again for nearly half an hour. 
 Looking towards Veronica, who was telling her 
 beads, she said, — 
 
 " I have not been a success as a nun, but I cannot 
 go back to the stage. You've drained all that out 
 of me. I should be a failure if I went back — 
 ' among shadows a shadow.' Shadows, shadows 
 everywhere ; but what is failure ? It cannot be 
 said that I have not striven, and perhaps it is the
 
 SISTER TERESA 345 
 
 striving that counts. In the way of the world I 
 am not a success, and in the way of the convent 
 I am not a success. But I know one who saw God 
 everywhere — in every flower, in every star, in all 
 the interspaces — and maybe there is a judgment of 
 which we know nothing, quite different from the 
 judgment in the narrow hearts of men and of 
 creeds." 
 
 Then suddenly Evelyn cried out that God had 
 forsaken her, and she began to sing some of the 
 music from Isolde. She was singing it when the 
 Prioress came in, and she continued singing and 
 babbling, only half-conscious of what was passing 
 around her. The Prioress asked Mother Philippa 
 if the doctor should be sent for, but before the 
 sub-Prioress could answer Evelyn declared that she 
 must see him. 
 
 So there was no choice but to send for him, and 
 when he had sat by her bedside and watched her 
 he held out very little hope to the Prioress of her 
 recovery. 
 
 Evelyn was at first anxious to know what he had 
 said, then she did not seem to care, and it was diffi- 
 cult to get her to take her food or medicine. She 
 asked them not to trouble her with medicines. She 
 seemed to desire death. Hour after hour she wasted 
 away in intermittent delirium, and the convent for 
 which she had given up so much seemed hardly to 
 concern her at all. Sometimes she listened, hearing 
 imaginary music, and she beat the time. Then
 
 346 SISTER TERESA 
 
 the orchestra would be changed in her ears to a 
 piano, and she would cry to her accompanist, "Ah, 
 there you have given me a wrong chord — begin 
 again ;" and she would sing fragments from 
 " Tristan" and " Lohengrin." 
 
 " I beseech you, Sister Teresa, listen to me, and 
 cease to sing. You are making yourself very much 
 worse, and I am responsible," Veronica said. 
 
 The doctor's orders were that she should be kept 
 perfectly quiet; but as he seemed to regard her 
 life as practically lost, the Prioress took advantage 
 of a sudden abatement in the delirium to ask her 
 if she would like to see the chaplain. She spoke 
 about confession, and commimion, and besought her 
 to make her peace with God. 
 
 " But, Mother, I am at peace with Him ; so 
 long as I do not communicate, I am at peace with 
 Him. I am very weak, but I have no fear now." 
 
 " But, my child, think of it, if you should die 
 unreconciled to our holy Church. Will you see our 
 chaplain ?" 
 
 " Mother, I dare not. He will bring the sacra- 
 ment with him. Oh, I'm so frightened. Do not 
 ask me." 
 
 " He will not bring the sacrament if you do not 
 wish it." 
 
 " He will talk to me about it. There is nothing 
 to say." 
 
 And the Prioress left her without having ob- 
 tained her consent to see Father Matthews; but in
 
 SISTER TERESA 347 
 
 the course of the morning she called Veronica and 
 said she would like to see him. 
 
 " You have doubts, my dear child, I know, in 
 the Real Presence of God in the sacrament." 
 
 *' I believe that God is everywhere." 
 
 " Do you believe that God is more immediately 
 in the sacrament than elsewhere ?" 
 
 " Yes, since we have chosen the Eucharist as the 
 symbol of our belief in the omnipresence of God." 
 
 " But, my dear child, when life hovers, as it 
 were, on the edge of death ?" 
 
 " But, Father, I have no fear. I ought to have, 
 perhaps, but I feel no fear. I feel that I have done 
 my best." 
 
 The priest could elicit no more definite declara- 
 tion of adherence to Catholic dogma, and he left 
 the infirmary perplexed. It seemed to him that 
 he would not be able to administer the sacrament 
 to her unless she was more intimately possessed by 
 the dogma than her words would seem to indicate, 
 and this point was discussed with Monsignor, who 
 called that afternoon. But !Monsignor was inclined 
 to a more liberal comprehension of belief. Belief, 
 he pointed out, was not a definite nor ponderable 
 quality. It was impossible for anyone to assign 
 limitations to their belief in God, and he seemed 
 even to insinuate that there was no criterion of 
 belief. The Church only required that the sinner 
 should declare her submission to the teaching of 
 the Church; but the quality of her belief in God
 
 848 SISTER TERESA 
 
 and in the sacrament could only be assessed by 
 God Himself. 
 
 " If Monsignor thinks so, there can be no fur- 
 ther doubt. On a theological question I should be 
 sorry to put forward my poor opinion against his. 
 Perhaps then Monsignor will accept the responsi- 
 bility." 
 
 " But, my dear Pather Matthews, I should be 
 sorry . . ." 
 
 " ^o, no, I think it will be better so. You have 
 influence with our dear Sister Teresa, which I have 
 not ; it was you who brought about her conversion, 
 so it is then for you, Monsignor, to administer the 
 sacrament, if she will accept it." 
 
 This seemed to decide the matter, and Monsignor 
 "went to the infirmary with the Prioress ; and Ve- 
 ronica, after bowing to Monsignor, gave him her 
 chair by the bedside. 
 
 The eyes of the sick woman lighted up a little, 
 and she said, — 
 
 " Monsignor, it is very good of you to come to 
 see me. I am very ill, T feel it; it is better that 
 I should die. I have given you all a great deal 
 of trouble. I have never known myself; it is so 
 difficult. I envy those who do; their lot is hap- 
 pier than mine." 
 
 " But, my dear child, I would not have you speak 
 of not knowing your own mind; I do not think 
 anyone has ever known better than you. Very few 
 have made the sacrifice that you have made. But
 
 SISTER TEEESA 349 
 
 they tell me you do not believe iu the sacrament 
 as much as they Avish you to. I have confidence 
 that your belief is sufficient." 
 
 " It is not that I do not believe — they never 
 quite understood me, but you Avill; it is that I am 
 not sure, as I used to feel sure — jov. can have no 
 idea how sure I once was, and the happiness my 
 belief brought me was more than any other hap- 
 piness. I believed once so intensely that every- 
 thing else seemed like nothing. . . . The whole 
 world was a shadow, and my belief was the one real 
 thing in it. But that belief has passed from me. 
 If I live I may regain it again; maybe I may re- 
 gain it before I die, even without getting well." 
 
 '' My dear child, I see you have been troubled 
 and am sorry for you, but you must not think any 
 more. I feel sure you will feel happier after hav- 
 ing received the sacrament. We're all so anxious 
 on the subject, the Reverend j\[other, and the whole 
 of the community." 
 
 " Oh, Consignor, I'm not happy enough, I'm 
 not filled with the love of God, and if some wicked 
 thought should cross my mind as you gave me the 
 Host, T should die of fear. I might die with a 
 dreadful thought in my mind, and next moment 
 find myself face to face with God. Monsignor, I 
 dare not, do not ask me. . . . The doctor said I 
 was to be kept quiet." 
 
 He did not answer her, and presently he thought 
 it prudent to withdraw, and when the doctor called
 
 ;J50 SISTER TERESA 
 
 a little later he inquired from Veronica if she had 
 been talking much, and if anything had happened 
 to disturb her. Veronica told him that ^fonsignor 
 liad asked her if she would receive Holy Com- 
 munion. 
 
 " And did she communicate ?" 
 
 " Ko." 
 
 The doctor's face darkened, and he murmured 
 something about his orders being disobeyed, and 
 afterwards in the parlour he told the Prioress that 
 after the great mental strain Evelyn had been sub- 
 jected to that afternoon he could not answer for 
 her recovery. But the Prioress was not in the 
 least intimidated, and she answered that the sacra- 
 ment was more important than any medicine, and 
 that it brought greater quiet. The doctor answered 
 that it was not his province to discuss such ques- 
 tions, and he told her he did not think Sister 
 Teresa would outlast the day. 
 
 " In that case," the Prioress said, " I had better 
 send for Honsignor, as she will have to receive 
 Extreme Unction." 
 
 The doctor shrugged his shoulders, feeling more 
 sure than ever that his patient would not recover, 
 and a message was sent to Veronica. 
 
 She drcAv forward a small table and covered it 
 with a white cloth. She put the crucifix and holy 
 water on the table, and a plate with some cotton 
 wool in it, and then she turned back the bedclothes, 
 leaving the feet bare. She had hardly finished
 
 SISTER TERESA 351 
 
 when many footsteps were heard on the stairs and 
 a little procession of nuns preceded the priest, and 
 they all knelt about the bedside. Veronica, who 
 Avas in charge of the ceremony, handed the priest 
 what he needed swiftly and silently. The Prioress 
 knelt close to Evelyn, and she recited the Con- 
 fiteor Avhile Monsignor took the holy oil from a 
 silver cruet and anointed the eyes, ears, and nos- 
 trils. He wiped the anointed places with the cot- 
 ton wool. The feet, long and very white, were 
 then anointed and wiped, and their beauty was 
 remarked, thousrli evervonc was in tears. The nuns 
 wept silently, remembering that the dying woman 
 had paid their debts. All jealousies and ingrati- 
 tudes were regretted, and Evelyn heard the mur- 
 mur of Latin prayers. As the nuns rose from their 
 knees and were about to leave the cell, Evelyn 
 opened her eyes, and after looking from one to the 
 other, she turned her eyes on Monsignor and 
 said, — 
 
 '' Monsignor, will you hear my confession and 
 give me communion ?" 
 
 All withdrew, leavinc; Evelvn alone with the 
 priest. 
 
 " Fearful thoughts about the sacrament have 
 passed through my mind — not now ; I am at peace 
 now. I used to put them aside, but they returned 
 almost immediately, and I could not pray, and it 
 came to this, that T dared not sleep, so dreadful 
 were my dreams. It seemed once that I was losing
 
 352 SISTER TERESA 
 
 my soul by remaining here. ... I think I have 
 said everything." 
 
 Monsignor gave her absolution, and a moment 
 after the chaplain arrived with the sacrament. 
 ]Monsignor was handed the ciborium, and Veronica 
 lifted Evelyn a little. There was little eagerness 
 in her eye, but she received the Host reverentially, 
 and Veronica laid her back on the pillow. Her 
 eyes closed and it seemed to her that she was very 
 tired, and that her sleep would be very long and 
 dark and peaceful. 
 
 She heard the procession pass away, but she did 
 not hear any more. 
 
 " Of course we must not wish her to die," said 
 Mother Hilda, " but it would have been a terrible 
 disgrace, and we must thank God for having saved 
 us from it." 
 
 The Prioress said, — 
 
 " She is not dead yet, and if she lives the strug- 
 gle will begin again."
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 Veronica moved to her side, murmuring her 
 prayers under her breath, she watched her face for 
 sonje sign of life ; but she lay quite still, and her 
 stillness frightened the nun, and when the doctor 
 called next day he seemed surprised to hear she 
 was still alive. And for the next three or four 
 days it was difficult to detect any change in her. 
 But nature never rests; change there always will 
 be, though the differences from day to day escape 
 our observation. 
 
 The summer heat exhausted her and seemed to 
 
 delay her recovery, and it was not until the end 
 
 of September that she was able to go into the 
 
 garden that year. The autumn was a singularly 
 
 beautiful one. The days Avere like July days, only 
 
 shorter and a little cooler; and in the mornings 
 
 she sat on the terrace, Avatching the fading garden 
 
 and the glittering skies. She thought she had never 
 
 seen skies so beautiful before. There Avas a strange 
 
 allurement in the blue ; the skies reminded her of 
 
 death — of some beautiful death, of something far 
 
 away. The boughs no longer lifted themselves and 
 
 danced to the light ; they hung Ioav as if burdened 
 
 with the weight of leaA-es, and all the leaves Avere 
 
 moveless in the moveless air. 
 
 23 353
 
 354 SISTER TERESA 
 
 September passed, and in October she noticed 
 that the grass was tangled and wet — the dew had 
 been heavy that niglit — and she had to keep to 
 the gravelled path. The last snn-flowers blackened, 
 and the chrysanthemnms came ont — strange 
 growths of feverish, unnatural beauty. A night's 
 frost had turned the beech tree in the middle of 
 the garden from yellow to red orange, and the same 
 frost stripped the ash of nearly all its fairy leaves. 
 
 The garden seemed to struggle against death just 
 as Evelyn had struggled. The rose tree still tried 
 to break to flower, but the outer leaves of the blos- 
 soms had been killed by the frost, and the buds 
 could not open. Evelyn noticed that the geraniums 
 she had planted in tubs and placed along the ter- 
 race hung lifeless and sapless. All the summer 
 they had been pink and scarlet, and she regretted 
 that no one during her illness had thought to take 
 them into the potting-shed. " If Sister Mary John 
 had been here this Avould not have happened," she 
 said to herself, smiling plaintively. 
 
 And it was in this dying season that Evelyn 
 began to regain her health. For the last fortnight 
 she had been very happy. She had enjoyed the ex- 
 quisite happiness of returning strength, of feeling 
 herself able to walk a little further each day, of 
 being able to do a little more ; and her weakness 
 saved her from thinking. A convalescent does not 
 think ; she yields herself to the sweet pressure of 
 returning life, and it was not until the end of
 
 SISTER TERESA 355 
 
 October, as she stopped in her walk to pity the neg- 
 lected garden, as she stooped to free a tnft of pinks 
 from some trailing nasturtium, that she suddenly 
 remembered that she would never see the spring 
 return to this garden again. She looked round for 
 a stick to prop up some of the chrysanthemums, 
 and she saw their graveyard with its nine crosses, 
 realised that if she were lying there her difficulty 
 and the convent difficulty would be at an end. And 
 as her strength returned the difficulty would grow 
 more and more acute. Xeither the danger she had 
 escaped from nor her long convalescence had helped 
 her to regain her faith. Her position regarding 
 the dogma of transubstantiation was unchanged. 
 When the priest raised the Host she believed that 
 that was the divine flesh, that the wine in the 
 chalice was the divine blood, that a change had 
 come into the elements themselves in the words of 
 consecration ; but now, standing in the middle of 
 the garden, face to face with nature, she could not 
 believe that the Host she had seen that morning was 
 the divine flesh of him who created all things, she 
 did not believe with that intense conviction with 
 which she — a nun, a Passionist Sister — should be- 
 lieve. It was very likely that many Catholics did 
 not get nearer to a sensible belief in the dogma 
 than she did, but they were not nuns vowed to a 
 perpetual adoration of the Host. It was terribly 
 sad that she no longer believed as she once believed ; 
 it was sad because she had sacrificed so much for
 
 35G SISTER TERESA 
 
 this belief, aud now when every sacrifice had been 
 made she did not believe, or she did not believe 
 enough, and her sacrifice was a vain one. No, not 
 a vain one . . . even if she had to leave the con- 
 vent. True that the difficulty lay still unsolved 
 before her, and she almost wished that she had 
 died, for it seemed to her that nothing but death 
 eould solve such a difficulty as hers and theirs. 
 
 As she watched the passing of the season she 
 noticed that the nuns avoided her, that they looked 
 at her askance, that they seemed frightened of her. 
 She sighed, for the thought passed that there was 
 good reason for their fear of her, for here she was 
 an unbeliever — an unbeliever in a community 
 vowed to perpetual adoration of the Host. She 
 knew that, from the point of view of the nuns, 
 nothing more awful could happen to them. In 
 their hearts they must think of her as some chas- 
 tisement sent by God. They could hardly think 
 that; God would not chastise them in such a way. 
 His way would be a different way ; this was the 
 devil's way. She could not imagine how they 
 thought. 
 
 But she knew that the Prioress's illness had been 
 attributed to her. The nuns could not but think 
 that the fear of the scandal which Evelyn's de- 
 parture would bring upon the convent had brought 
 the Prioress to death's door. Xo one had told her 
 so, but she guessed that the community was of one 
 mind — or nearly so — on this point. She had no
 
 SISTER TERESA 357 
 
 friends in the convent now except Mother Hilda 
 and Veronica, and Veronica had let something slip 
 the other day ; and Evelvn pondered as she walked 
 to and fro, seeing last night's rain dripping from 
 the last leaves — it collected at the very end of the 
 leaf and tlie great drop fell. Leaves were being 
 blown about, there were little pools of water wher- 
 ever there was a slight hollow in the path, and the 
 nuns were throwing a ball from one to another 
 with little joyous cries. Evelyn kept as much out 
 of their sight as possible, fearing to jar their amuse- 
 ment. She wondered if they had forgotten their 
 obligation to her, and she remembered that had it 
 not been for her singing, their beautiful garden 
 would have been taken away from them a long 
 while ago, and villa residences would have over- 
 looked the Common. She walked round the fish- 
 pond in the little plantation at the end of St. 
 Peter's Walk, and, listening to the trickling of 
 the autumn water, she said, — 
 
 " No, they have not forgotten their obligation 
 to me; they resent it." 
 
 A few days after this idea received an unex- 
 pected confirmation. Sister Veronica told her that 
 Sister Winifred had said that if the Prioress and 
 Mother Hilda would only consent to a relaxation 
 of the rule of the Order, they could make enough 
 money out of a school to pay Evelyn the eight 
 thousand pounds which she had brought to the 
 convent.
 
 358 SISTER TERESA 
 
 " Then they want to get rid of me." 
 
 " j^o, I don't think they want to get rid of you. 
 I shouldn't put it exactly that way. It is you, 
 Sister, who want to leave, and of course we should 
 not like to keep the money you gave us." 
 
 The garden was full of nuns. Some were walk- 
 ing quickly, for though the sun was shining the air 
 Avas chill. Others had hegun a game of ball ; Eve- 
 lyn thought she would like to join in it, hut she was 
 afraid they would not care to play with her, and 
 it was at that moment that the aged Prioress came 
 up to speak to her. 
 
 " I do not know if you arc strong enough to give 
 me your arm," she said. 
 
 " Oh, yes, dear Mother, I am quite strong now." 
 
 " Your strength has returned, Teresa, hut mine 
 will not return. I shall barely see another year. 
 Oh, I know it," she added, seeing that Evel\^l was 
 about to contradict her. 
 
 Evelyn did not dare to speak, for she suddenly 
 lemembered that the belief of the convent was that 
 .she had hastened the Prioress's end. On account 
 of the old woman she had to walk ver}' slowly. 
 The Prioress was now hardly more than a little 
 handful, and her strength was a dying bird's. They 
 liad not taken many steps before they had to sit 
 down, and something told Evelyn that the moment 
 had come for her to speak to the Prioress about her 
 departure. But she had only to look at the old 
 woman to see that it was impossible to mention
 
 SISTER TERESA 359 
 
 such a subject to her. Life seemed to flutter as 
 fitfully in her as in anv of the leaves dancing on 
 the stems. A leaf had just fallen at Evelyn's feet, 
 another was dancing merrily and might hold on a 
 long while, so it was with the Prioress — she might 
 live far into the winter. She had come to speak to 
 her, and Evelyn waited for her to speak, trembling 
 with anticipation. 
 
 The Prioress said not a word, and Evelyn heard 
 the childish laughter of the nuns and the wind 
 thrilled through her habit. 
 
 At last the silence became too acute, and she 
 said, — 
 
 " Mother, I have escaped from death as by a 
 miracle, but it would have been better, if I had 
 died, for myself and for you. Think, I might be 
 sleeping yonder, under the white crosses." 
 
 " If you did not die, my dear child, it was be- 
 cause God did not will it. Doubtless He did not 
 think you prepared for death, and lie resolved to 
 leave you a little longer. God is very good, and He 
 is merciful to those who have loved Him." 
 
 *' But, brother, I have never ceased to love 
 God." 
 
 "We do not judge you, my dear daughter; we 
 all pray for you. We pray for you, and we feel 
 that our prayers will be granted." 
 
 " It is not well for you, Mother, to sit in this 
 cold wind. Had you not better walk a little way ?" 
 
 " I am rested now."
 
 360 SISTER TERESA 
 
 And as thej walked towards the terrace, Evelyn 
 said, — 
 
 " I have caused yoii pain and suffering. Maybe 
 it is I who am killing you, Mother. My life seems 
 to have been all suffering. I have desired to do 
 right ; it seems that I have failed even here. The 
 others cannot understand, but you can, you do un- 
 derstand, Mother." 
 
 " I am older than the others, I am very old, and 
 in old age it is the mind that sees. We are pray- 
 ing for you, my dear child, for we know by instinct 
 when a member of our community is in danger." 
 
 She spoke out of the mystery of age and out of 
 her long convictions, and then Evelyn knew that 
 she could not leave the convent as long as this old 
 woman lived. ^Vllen she died the closest tie which 
 held her to the convent would be broken, and she 
 resolved to escape as soon as she could after the 
 Prioress's death. She had considered the various 
 ways of escape that were open to her, for she could 
 not face the will of the convent again ; her escape 
 must be clandestine. And the way of escape that 
 seemed most feasible was through the front door 
 when the portress left her keys on the nail. 
 
 The journey to London in her habit would be 
 disagreeable and difficult. It would be difficult 
 because she had no money; nuns have no money. 
 She might have to walk all the way, and when she 
 got to London she did not know where she would 
 go nor how she could get any money. She re-
 
 SISTER TERESA 361 
 
 membered Owen and she remembered Ulick, but 
 she woukl go to neither, and she imagined herself 
 knocking at Louise's door. She thought of lierself 
 standing in Louise's drawing-room in her habit, 
 but she did not smile. 
 
 She looked at the Prioress, and the conviction 
 awakened in her that she would not have to wait 
 long, and then she thought of herself, and she asked 
 herself if she possessed sufficient courage to begin 
 life afresh.
 
 XXXIX 
 
 The autumn passed into an early winter, and 
 Evelyn caught a cold which clung to her, and it 
 prevented her from singing at Benediction. It 
 seemed to her that the nuns were glad that she 
 could not sing, but the Prioress said that she missed 
 her singing, and it seemed to her sad that the 
 Prioress should not hear her; very soon the Prior- 
 ess would hear no more music, and Eveh'n sang in 
 spite of her ailing throat. 
 
 One day she found she had no voice left. A spe- 
 cialist came from London to examine her throat ; 
 he said that she had been very imprudent, he pre- 
 scribed, and said that perhaps with a couple of 
 years' rest she might be able to sing again. But 
 EveljTi did not believe him; she knew that her 
 voice had gone from her as her mother's had gone ; 
 her voice had left her in the very middle of a jiieco 
 of music, and in the middle of an opera her mother 
 had lost her voice. 
 
 And now that the irreparable had happened the 
 
 nuns were sorry for her, in a way, though she 
 
 doubted if any one of them, except perhaps the 
 
 Prioress, Mother Hilda, and Veronica, would give 
 
 her back her voice if it were in their power to 
 
 give it. 
 362
 
 SISTER TERESA 363 
 
 Her plan had been to kavo tlio convent soon after 
 the Prioress's death. She had intended to sing in 
 concerts and oratorios, and to live as economically 
 as possible, and it would not be difficult for her to 
 live economically after her experiences in the con- 
 vent. Iler expenses would consist principally of 
 a few dresses, her rooms would cost her about fifteen 
 shillings a week, and with one little serving-maid 
 she would be able to limit her expenditure to two 
 hundred pounds a year, and her calculation was 
 that she might earn twelve hundred a year. So 
 she would be putting by every year one thousand 
 pounds and when she had saved seven or eight thou- 
 sand pounds she looked forward to buying the cot- 
 tage and the large garden, the home for the six little 
 crippled boys that she had written to Monsignor 
 about. She had looked forward to this as the end 
 of her life; it was to be the inevitable packing 
 up that comes to us all sooner or later, the final 
 arrangement. She had believed that all this would 
 happen, for it seemed so natural, so like what would 
 happen, given the circumstances of her life. It 
 had never seemed quite natural to her that her life 
 should end in this convent amid these very good but 
 very childish nuns. The loss of her voice had de- 
 stroyed all hope of this little dream of hers; the 
 dream had seemed very real while it lasted, but a 
 simple accident, a month's singing with an ailing 
 throat, had made it as impossible as any dream 
 of fairyland. If she were to leave the convent,
 
 364: SISTER TERESA' 
 
 and she certainly 'would have to leave it, the end 
 would be quite different; the only end she could 
 see for herself now was to be a singing mistress, 
 a music teacher. She could see herself living in 
 some distant suburb, coming up to town third class 
 in wet months and cold months, and giving lessons 
 for a few shillings an hour. Her stage careeer had 
 been forgotten; she had not been long enough on 
 the stage to be remembered. Three or four shil- 
 lings an hour was the highest remuneration she 
 could expect. Maybe she could succeed in making 
 three hundred pounds a year; if she did that she 
 would be very lucky, for then she would have a 
 margin which she could apply to some charitable 
 purpose, to some less expensive charity than the 
 home for the little children. Well, she must be 
 content with that. 
 
 At that moment the Prioress called her. The 
 old woman had awakened suddenly, and not hear- 
 ing the sound of her pen had asked her what she 
 was doing. Evelyn excused herself. For some 
 months she had been acting as the Prioress's sec- 
 retary — they were writing together the history of 
 the convent — but the Prioress's memory was fail- 
 ing; she could not answer Evelyn's questions, and 
 Evelyn had to get up to search for some documents. 
 
 As she looked for the documents she suddenly 
 remembered Owen Asher; they would be sure to 
 meet sooner or later if she left the convent. The 
 question was, How would they meet? For the
 
 SISTER TERESA 365 
 
 moment she was unable to find any answer to this 
 question, but gradually the thought came that they 
 would meet almost as strangers, and this thought 
 gradually settled into profound conviction. Eor 
 how otherwise could they meet except as strangers ? 
 She had changed beyond his powers of recognition. 
 All that she had been was dead; all that he knew 
 her by was dead. Men do not wish to make love 
 to nuns ; a nun could never be more than a shadoAv. 
 The body would be there, but there would be a look 
 in the eyes that would tell of leagues immeasurable. 
 She could easily imagine the meeting. He would 
 ask from her an account of herself; she would 
 tell him of the convent. He would try to be kind, 
 but when she told him that she had lost her voice, 
 neither would know what to say next. 
 
 Ulick would recognise her better, for they had 
 been always going towards the same end, though 
 by different roads, and she wondered what progress 
 he had made in the spiritual life. He stirred her 
 imagination a little, but she was able to overcome 
 it, and she knew that he would be able to forego 
 sensual love more easily even than she would, not- 
 withstanding her five years in the convent, notwith- 
 standing her vows. He would want her to marry 
 him, and she shrank from the thought, remembering 
 that she was the bride of Christ. But she would 
 always be interested in his ideas, and she regretted 
 her voice for his sake ; perhaps enough voice Avould 
 come back to her to sing to him in the evenings.
 
 366 SISTER TERESA" 
 
 She wondered what music he had written, if he 
 had finished " Grania." How far away all these 
 things seemed now! 
 
 It was the Avish of the old woman who lay dying 
 in her cliair that the history they were writing 
 should be finished before she died. Her eyes were 
 strangely dim, and her flesh was grey. She looked 
 like a night light burning low in the socket. But 
 her mind was clear, though the flame flickered on 
 the edge of darkness, and Evelyn often grew afraid 
 that the old nun divined her intention of leaving 
 the convent. The dim eyes seemed to see through 
 her; they seemed to see into the very background 
 of her mind. As death approaches the mind sees ; 
 and EveljTi trembled. But the Prioress asked no 
 questions. She seemed to Evehii to acquiesce in 
 her departure. She seemed to have no more fear 
 for Evelyn's soul than for her own, and this was a 
 great consolation to Evelyn. 
 
 Nevertheless, there were times when Evelyn's 
 conscience nearly overpowered her, and she longed 
 to throw herself at the Prioress's feet and beg her 
 forgiveness, pledging herself to stay in the convent, 
 and she felt that if that pledge were given she 
 would keep it. Her knees dwindled under her, 
 and her lips were about to speak ; but at that mo- 
 ment, as if divining her intention, the Prioress 
 asked her to stir the fire, for she was getting cold. 
 And as she made up the fire Evelyn gave thanks 
 that she had not spoken, for such a confession would
 
 SISTER TERESA 367 
 
 surely have embittered the Prioress's end, and Eve- 
 lyn knew tliat the end was assuaged and made happy 
 by her presence. She knew the Prioress loved her, 
 and she knew that she loved the Prioress with the 
 same kind of passionate love with which she had 
 worshipped her father.
 
 XL 
 
 When the Prioress died Evelyn's life seemed a 
 figment, and life, whether she remained in the con- 
 vent or left it, seemed to her to be equally unbear- 
 able. The anguish Avas heightened in her by the 
 rites, by the black cloths, by the chants, and by the 
 unconsciousness of nature. A keen wind was blow- 
 ing, and the sky brightened at intervals as the pro- 
 cession moved through the gardens. The bare trees 
 were shaken, and she desired to wave innocently 
 in the air as they did, to mingle with the beautiful, 
 peaceful earth ; the earth seemed the only peaceful 
 thing, and she longed to join it and to partake 
 once again of its dark and hapi:)y life. 
 
 In losing the Prioress she had lost everything, the 
 others had only lost a Prioress, who would be re- 
 placed by another Prioress, and a new conviction 
 of her loneliness awoke in her when she knelt by 
 the newly-made grave. She remembered Sister 
 Mary John, whom she would never see again. Even 
 God seemed to have deserted her, yet she had made 
 many sacrifices for Ilim. 
 
 When she announced that she would not vote for 
 
 the new Prioress the nuns viewed her still more 
 
 coldly. They asked her if she thought that none 
 
 among them was worthy to fill the place of the late 
 368
 
 SISTER TERESA 369 
 
 Prioress. Or did she feel no further interest in 
 the welfare of the convent. Evelyn answered that 
 the choice of the new Prioress would f)robably de- 
 cide whether the rule of the Order should be 
 widened, whether they should cut themselves off 
 from the Mother House in France, and that she 
 would like to avoid the responsibility of taking 
 sides. 
 
 " But," said Sister Winifred, " no one has a right 
 to shirk her responsibility; that is why we elected 
 you a choir Sister." 
 
 She could not vote — on that point her resolution 
 did not seem to admit of any change; the nuns 
 continued to press her, and she did not like to 
 remind them that she had freed the convent from 
 debt, in order that it might remain a contemplative 
 order. As she hesitated, Sister Winifred came to 
 her rescue, saying, — 
 
 " Sister Teresa has no doubt very good reasons 
 for abstaining from voting!" 
 
 Evelyn's defection left little doubt in Sister Wini- 
 fred's mind that Mother Philippa would be elected, 
 and in that case the new buildings would be finished 
 before a year was out, a school would be in progress, 
 and before ten years the conversion of Wimbledon 
 to Rome would be an accomplished fact. The few 
 nuns who still clung to the ancient tradition of the 
 order could offer no serious opposition to so constant 
 an energ}^ as Sister Winifred's. Mother Philippa 
 was elected Prioress, and at the end of the month
 
 a70 SISTER TERESA 
 
 the subject of conversation during the morning rec- 
 reations was the possibility of obtaining the 
 Bishop's consent to their separating themselves 
 from the Mother House in France and entering 
 upon scholastic activity. Monsignor, who had just 
 returned to England, was sent for, and it was hoped 
 he would use his very great influence with his lord- 
 ship. 
 
 '' Where, for instance," the Prioress said to him, 
 " could parents get children taught as they could 
 here ? But I am very sorry to saj^ that Sister 
 Teresa lost her voice this winter; we miss her 
 voice sadly at Benediction, but for teaching it won't 
 matter in the least, and then she is an excellent 
 pianist, she can even teach composition." Mon- 
 signor sympathised with the sublime idea that a 
 constant stream of petitions was necessary to save 
 this Avorld from the wrath of God, but at the same 
 time it did not seem to him that a school would 
 seriously infringe upon the tradition of the order. 
 He si)oke volubly for some minutes, partly in the 
 hopes of distracting Evelyn's attention from the 
 Reverend Mother's remarks concerning her, which 
 had seemed to him injudicious, xit the same mo- 
 ment Evelyn was thinking how, just as she had 
 finished her work, it had undone itself, it had just 
 crumbled away, and she saw it scattering like a 
 little heap of dust. True, it was that she was 
 leaving the convent, but she did not wish the idea 
 abandoned — the idea that she had striven for; she
 
 SISTER TKMESA 371 
 
 wished it to be carried on by others ; she knew 
 herself to be weak, she knew she must fall out of 
 the ranks, but her belief in the ideal was unim- 
 paired. And she thought of these things as she 
 calculated the height of the garden walls, as she 
 listened to AEother Philippa telling Consignor the 
 price they would charge for boarders and for non- 
 boarders, and the advantages that such a school 
 would offer to the villa residents.- But before she 
 could leave the convent she must finish the Prioress's 
 book. Her promise to the Prioress to finish her 
 history of the convent, its story as it had existed 
 under her headship, had become sacred to Evelyn, 
 and the unfinished manuscript was the last tie that 
 bound her to the convent. She had hoped to finish 
 it in six weeks or a month, but the book was not 
 yet finished; new diificultics arose, and the old 
 difticulties seemed insuperable, and this manuscript 
 which she worked at day after day became like somo 
 redoubtable secret enemy. " If I do not write I 
 shall never get away from here," she cried to her- 
 eelf in the silent cloisters, and raising her eyea 
 from the paper she thought of herself as of a pris- 
 oner scraping her way through an unending wall. 
 She went about her avocations — a quiet nun, 
 gentle, almost demure; her resolution to escape 
 deep in her heart, and the nuns began to think 
 she had at last become like themselves. Only at 
 recreation did she try to avoid the rule. If it were 
 fine the nuns sat in a circle in the shade of a
 
 372 SISTER TERESA 
 
 favourite tree, and gossipped about little external 
 pieties — the lighting of candles and the repainting 
 of the statuettes, and to appear interested in these 
 conversations had always been the greatest of Eve- 
 lyn's conventual difficulties, and now it seemed more 
 difficult than ever. One day they were babbling of 
 the advantage it would be to them if some of their 
 pupils distinguished themselves in painting or in 
 music when they left the convent. Sister Winifred 
 cast down her eyes and blushed, and Evelyn felt 
 they could talk better without her. She availed 
 herself of this little incident to steal away. 
 
 To walk by herself in the sun, in the evening 
 light, thinking of the dead Prioress, or of the nun 
 who had gone away because she could not endure 
 her love, seemed like happiness, and she felt she 
 could be happy in the convent if her friends could 
 be given back to her. When they were with her 
 the convent was a pure aspiration, meagre and a 
 little grey, perhaps, but still pure and true. And 
 while thinking of the grey pieties of the cloister 
 her eyes turned to the sun-setting. The sunset 
 seemed to steal into her heart, and to become a 
 source of secret joy to her. She wondered what 
 Avas the influence of the sun; it made the woods 
 grow green and the flowers blossom, it drew all 
 things into itself, the rays darted from the horizon 
 to the zenith, and she stood at the highest point 
 of the garden watching the light, breathless and 
 delighted. She saw the beautiful earth quiescent
 
 SISTER TERESA 373 
 
 like a nun watching before the sacrament. The 
 plants lifted their leaves to the light. Everything 
 knew it, even the stones in the centre of the earth ; 
 she watched the distant woods submerged in the 
 light of the sun J her soul dilated and knew its 
 light ; the shell broke which till now had darkened 
 it from her ; her flesh and spirit seemed to become 
 one with it; her immortal spirit seemed to as- 
 cend into the immortal light; her eyes seemed to 
 see into the depths of the sea, and her ears were 
 soothed by the murmur of the waves. 
 
 The great secret was revealed; she understood 
 the mysterious yearning which impels us in turn 
 to reject and to accept life; and she had learnt 
 these things merely by watching the flowers raising 
 their leaves to the light. 
 
 She sat down in the grass and watched a sun- 
 flower till it seemed a sentient being whose silent 
 adoration of its distant shepherd in the heavens 
 was turning it into the likeness of the glory it 
 longed to reach. She closed her eyes to imagine it 
 better, and the sun-flower in her thoughts grew and 
 expanded, and went upwards to the brimming love 
 which gave it life ; and the imagined ecstasy of the 
 meeting thrilled her heart, and she remembered 
 that yesterday the elevation of the Host had left 
 her unmoved. Why was it that the mere sight of 
 a flower evoked a vanished sweetness which no 
 ritual could awaken in her? And in another mo- 
 ment of revelation she knew that to seek the Real
 
 3Y4 SISTEPt TERESA 
 
 Presence on the altar alone is a denial of the Di- 
 vine Being elsewhere, and she felt the door would 
 be closed to her until in every mood and in every 
 place she could recognise the sacrament as an eter- 
 nal act in nature. 
 
 She was wakeful that night, but in the darkness 
 there was light, and she felt that it had come to 
 lead her out as it had led her into the convent, for 
 there are not two lights, but one light. 
 
 Her book was finished, and she awaited her op- 
 portunity — her opportunity was the accident that 
 Sister Agnes should be called away suddenly and 
 leave her keys on the nail ; and the little porteresa 
 rarely left her door, and when she did her keys 
 were at her girdle. Winter passed into spring and 
 Evelyn still waited, and she sometimes said " if 
 the opportunity does not occur soon I shall not have 
 the strength," and she asked herself if she would 
 have the strength to begin life again. The weeks 
 went by, and one day in April the porteress passed 
 her in the passage, the keys were not at her girdle, 
 and Evelyn walked down the Georgian hall and 
 down the covered way, and taking the keys from 
 the nail she opened the door. 
 
 At that moment the pigeons left their roosts and 
 flew towards the fields. The fields were shining in 
 the morning light ; thrush and cuckoo were calling, 
 the spring moved among the first primroses, and 
 Evelyn stood watching the spring-tide. 
 
 She had only to take a step to regain her life in
 
 SISTEE TERESA 375 
 
 the world, but she eoukl n(»t take that step. She 
 no longer even seemed to desire it. In the long 
 months she had been kept waiting a change had 
 taken place in her. She felt that something had 
 broken in her, and she closed the door, and having 
 locked it she hung the keys on the nail. 
 
 And walking np the covered way dimly aware 
 that she was walking, she remembered that she 
 would soon come to the end of the covered way, 
 and would meet Sister Agnes returning to her post. 
 And then she remembered that she had left some- 
 thing undone in the sacristy, and she returned there 
 quickly and began to arrange some flowers for the 
 Virgin's altar.
 
 XLI 
 
 In" the middle of the following year Mademoi- 
 selle Heilbron called to see her, and Teresa came 
 into the parlour, and with ready smiles and simple 
 glee she entered into conversation with her old 
 friend. 
 
 " But may we not go into the garden ?" 
 
 " But, of course, certainly." 
 
 A little embarrassed to know what to say to her, 
 Louise talked to her about a new part in a new 
 opera by a new composer. 
 
 '' I've brought the score with me. Would you 
 like to see it ? Shall I leave it ?" 
 
 Teresa said that once she would have liked to 
 see it, but now such things were far behind her, 
 and with a merry laugh she spoke of herself as a 
 broken spirit. And then, as if speaking out of 
 some vague association of ideas, she spoke of her 
 pupils — of one who really had an aptitude for the 
 piano, and another who could really sing a little. 
 She would like Louise to hear her, and Louise was 
 not certain if she were speaking in bitterness or in 
 jest, or if her present mind was her natural mind. 
 
 They walked a little way in silence, and then 
 Louise said, — 
 
 " And you are quite happy now that you have 
 376
 
 SISTER TERESA 377, 
 
 put life aside, now that you have decided that there 
 is nothing better for joii to do in life than to teach 
 the piano and solfege?" 
 
 " Dear Louise, all things are of equal impor- 
 tance; it matters nothing whether we are teach- 
 ing little children or doing the things that the world 
 thinks glorious. The important thing to do is to 
 live, and we do not begin to know life, to taste life, 
 until we put it aside. This sounds like a paradox, 
 but it is a simple little truth. Life is the will of 
 God, and to enter into the will of God we must 
 forget ourselves, we must try to live outside our- 
 selves in the general life." 
 
 "But what is the will of God?" 
 
 " What is your own breath, Louise ? You can- 
 not explain it, and yet it is yourself. And there 
 are times when the will of God seems as near to 
 us as our own breath." 
 
 " I think I know what you mean, but if I were 
 to live here I should kill myself." 
 
 " When I was on the stage I often used to think 
 of killing myself. I did not fear death at all, for 
 life seemed so trivial, but now I do not want to die, 
 I should like to live on and on. So long as we live 
 in the will of God, it does not seem to matter where 
 we live, whether we live in this world or in heaven." 
 
 They walked round the garden twice, carrying 
 on the conversation as best they could. Louise re- 
 marked a nun reading her office, and Teresa told 
 her who she was. Louise affected an interest in
 
 378 SISTER TERESA 
 
 the flowers, and Teresa told Louise she must hear 
 her favorite pupil. 
 
 " I really don't think you will be disappointed, 
 she has got a very pretty voice, and I have just 
 taught her a song out of one of Handel's operas." 
 
 " I remember a song of Handel's that you used 
 to sing beautifully. Do you ever sing it now ?" 
 
 " No ; I lost my voice last winter ; a heavy cold 
 took it all away," and Teresa laughed just as she 
 had laughed when she spoke of herself as a broken 
 spirit, and Louise left the convent uncertain, think- 
 ing that perhaps it was this loss of her voice that 
 had decided her to remain in the convent. 
 
 " So this is the last stage," she said as she drove 
 back to London. And then Louise thought of her 
 own life. She was now forty-five, she might go on 
 singing for a few years — then she, too, would have 
 to begin her packing up, and she wondered what 
 her end would be. . ^ 
 
 THE END
 
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