“I am afraid, dear Mother, her progress towards recovery is slow.”

“I don’t agree with you.  A great nervous breakdown!  That journey to Rome, only to see her father die before her eyes, was a great shock ­ such a one as it would take anybody a long time to recover from.  Evelyn is very highly-strung, there can be no doubt of that.  I wonder how it is that you don’t understand?”

“But I do understand, dear Mother, only I find it hard to believe that the time has come for her to take the white veil.”

“Or that it will ever come?”

“The other day she said in the novitiate she was sure she would go to hell, and that she wouldn’t be able to bear the uncertainty much longer....”

“What ever did she mean?  You must have misunderstood her, Mother Hilda.”  And the Prioress determined to talk to Evelyn “on the first occasion” ­the first occasion with the Prioress meant the very next minute.  So she went in search of her, and finding her by the fishpond, quite unaware that any one was watching her, the thought crossed the Prioress’s mind that Hilda might be right after all:  Evelyn might be sitting there thinking how, after a short struggle, the water would end the misery that was consuming her.

“Evelyn, dear, of what are you thinking?”

“Only of the fish, dear Mother.  You know they are quite deaf; fish haven’t ears.  There is a legend, however, of a boy playing the flute and the fish leaping to listen.”

“If her health doesn’t improve,” the Prioress said to herself, “we shall not be able to keep her.

“Evelyn, dear, you are not looking very well; I am afraid you haven’t been sleeping lately.”

“Last night I hardly closed my eyes, dear Mother, and to-day there is no reality anywhere.  One begins to hate everything ­the shapes of the trees, the colour of the sky.”

“It is just what I suspected,” the Prioress said to herself, “she was thinking of suicide.  Suicide in a convent ­such a thing has never happened.  Yet why shouldn’t such a thing happen?  Everything happens in this world.”

But, notwithstanding some alarming relapses, Evelyn’s health continued to improve, slowly, but it continued to improve; and after a long day’s work in the garden she would talk quite cheerfully, saying that that night for sure she would get some hours of sleep.  The Prioress listened, saying to herself, “There is no doubt that manual work is the real remedy, the only remedy.”  Sister Mary John was of the same opinion, and the Prioress relied on Sister Mary John to keep Evelyn hoeing and digging when it was fine, and making nets in the work-shop when it was wet.  She was encouraged to look after the different pets; and there were a good many to look after; her three cats occupied a good deal of her time, for the cats were always anxious to kill her tame birds.  One cat had killed several, so the question had arisen whether he should be drowned in the fishpond or trained to respect caged birds.  The way to do this, Evelyn had been told, was to put a caged bird on the ground in front of the cat, and, standing over him with a cane, strike swiftly and severely the moment the cat crouched to spring.  A cat above all other animals hates to be beaten, for a cat is probably one of the most sagacious animals, more even than a dog, though he does not care to show it.  The beating of the cat was repellent to Evelyn, but Sister Mary John had no such scruples, and the beatings proved so efficient that the cat would run away the moment he was shown a bird in a cage.  In turn each of the cats received its lesson, and henceforth Evelyn’s last presents ­ blackbirds, thrushes, linnets, and bull-finches ­lived in safety.

The feeding of these birds and the cleaning of the aviary occupied two hours a day during the winter.  She had also her greenhouse to attend to; herself and Sister Mary John, with some help from the outside, had built one, and hot-water pipes had been put in; and her love of flowers was so great that she would run down the garden even when the ground was covered with snow to stoke up the fire, if she thought she had forgotten to do so, saying that they would have no tulips, or lily of the valley, or azaleas for the altar, if the temperature were allowed to drop.  Her talk was all about her garden, and when the spring returned she was working there constantly with Sister Mary John in the morning till the Angelus rang at twelve; then they went into dinner, and as soon as dinner was over Evelyn returned with Sister Mary John to the garden and worked till it was time to go into church for Benediction.  Or sometimes they left the garden when the other nuns went there for recreation, having music to try over, for now, since she had recovered her health, Evelyn sang every day at Benediction.

“There is no reason why she should remain any longer with us,” the Prioress often said, “unless there is some hope of her staying altogether.  You will admit, Hilda, that her health is much improved, and that she is capable now of arriving at some decision.”

“There is no doubt her health is improving.”

“And her piety ­have you noticed it?  She almost sets us an example.”

Mother Hilda did not answer, and the Prioress understood her silence to mean that she would hardly look upon Evelyn as an example for the convent to follow.

“Well, something will have to be decided.”  And one evening the Prioress asked Mother Philippa and Mother Hilda to her room after evening prayers.

“We were talking of Evelyn the other day in the garden, Hilda, and you admitted that she was in a state now to decide whether she should go or stay.”

“You mean, dear Mother, that Evelyn must either leave us or join the community?”

“Or show some signs that she wishes to join it.  Her postulancy has been unduly prolonged; it is nearly a year since she returned from Rome, and she was a postulant for six months before that.”

“You think that if she hadn’t a vocation she would have left us before?  But are you not forgetting that she was suffering from a nervous breakdown, and came here with the intention of seeking rest rather than becoming one of us?”

“Her health has been mending this long while.  Really, Hilda ­”

“I am sorry, Mother, if I seem stubborn.”

“Not stubborn, but I should like to hear you explain your reasons for thinking Evelyn has not a vocation.  And Mother Philippa is most anxious to hear them, too.”

Mother Philippa listened, thinking of her bed, wondering why Mother Mary Hilda kept them up by refusing to agree with the Prioress.

“I am afraid I shall not be able to say anything that will convince you.  I have had some experience ­”

“We know that you are very experienced, otherwise you would not be the Mistress of the Novices.  You don’t believe in Evelyn’s vocation?”

“I’m afraid I don’t, and ­”

“And what, Mother Hilda?  We are here for the purpose of listening to you.  We shall be influenced by everything you say, so pray speak your mind fully.”

“About Evelyn?  But that is just my point; there is nothing for me to say about her.  I hardly know her; she has hardly been in the novitiate since she returned from Rome.”  “You think before taking the veil she should receive more religious instruction from you?”

“She certainly should.  I grant you Evelyn is a naturally pious woman, and that counts for a great deal; but what I attach importance to is that she is still alien to the convent, knowing hardly anything of our rule, of our observances.  A novice spends six months in the novitiate with me learning obedience, how to forget herself, how she is merely an instrument, and how the greatest purpose of her life is to obey.”

“It is impossible to overestimate the value of obedience, but there are some ­I will not say who can dispense with obedience, of course not, but who cannot put off their individualities, who cannot become the merely typical novice ­that one who would tell you, if she were asked to describe the first six months of her life in the convent, that all she remembered was a great deal of running up and down stairs.  There are some who may not be moulded, but who mould themselves; and they are not the worst, sometimes they are the best nuns.  For instance, Sister Mary John ­who will doubt her vocation?  And yet there is not a more headstrong nun in our community.  I don’t wish to say one word against Sister Mary John, who is an example to us all; it is only to answer your objection that I mentioned her.”

“Sister Mary John is quite different,” Mother Hilda answered.  And, after waiting some moments for Mother Hilda to continue, the Prioress said: 

“You would wish her, then, to spend some time longer with you in the novitiate?”

“I am not sure it would be of any use.  There is another matter about which I hardly like to speak; still, I must remind you that the convent has never been the same since she came here.  She has not been herself since she came back from Rome, but now she is regaining herself, and you cannot have failed to notice that both Sister Mary John and Veronica are drawn towards her.  I am sure they are not aware of it, and would resent my criticism as unjust.  Not only Sister Mary John and Veronica, but all of us; it seems to me that we all talk too much about her...  I am sometimes almost glad that she is so little in the novitiate.  Her influence on such simple-minded young women as Sister Jerome and Sister Barbara must be harmful ­how could it be otherwise, coming out of another world? and her voice, too ­you don’t agree with me?” And Mother Hilda turned to Mother Philippa.  Mother Philippa shook her head, and confessed she had not the slightest notion of what Mother Hilda meant.

“But you have, dear Mother?”

“Yes, I know very well what you mean, only I don’t agree with you.  Her singing, of course, gives her an exceptional position in the convent, but I don’t think she avails herself of it; indeed, her humility has often seemed to me most striking.”

“In that I agree with you,” Mother Hilda answered; “so I feel that perhaps, after all, I may be misjudging her.”

At this concession the Prioress’s manner softened at once towards the Mistress of the Novices.

“Well, Hilda, come, tell me, have you said everything you have to say?  Have you given us your full reasons for not wishing Evelyn to take the veil if she should decide to do so?  I see you hesitate.  I asked you here to-night so that you might speak your mind.  Let everything be said.  There is no use telling me afterwards that you didn’t say things because you thought I wouldn’t like to hear them.  Say everything.”

Pressed by the Prioress, Mother Hilda admitted that she was concerned regarding the motive which actuated the Prioress and Mother Philippa.

“I include her.”

Mother Philippa looked up suddenly.  The Prioress smiled.

“My motive!” said Mother Philippa.

“Nothing is farther from my thought than to attribute a wrong motive to anybody, but I am not quite sure, dear Mother, that you would be as anxious for Evelyn to join our community if she had no money... and no voice.”

“Situated as we are, we cannot accept penniless women as choir sisters.  You know that well enough ­am I not right, Mother Philippa?”

And Mother Philippa agreed that no one could be admitted into the convent as a choir sister unless she brought some money with her.

“But you hold a different opinion, Hilda?”

“I understand that we cannot admit as a choir sister a woman who has no money; but that is quite different from admitting an opera singer because she has money and can sing for us.  It seems to me that nuns devoted to Perpetual Adoration should not yield themselves to money considerations.”

“Yield to money considerations ­no; but as long as we live upon earth, we shall live dependent upon money in some form or another.  Our pecuniary embarrassments ­you know all about them.  I need not refer to the mortgagee, who, at any moment, may foreclose.  Think of what it would be if this house were to be put up for sale, and we had all to return to our relations.  How many are there who have relations who would take them in?  And the lay sisters ­what would become of them and our duties towards them ­they who have worked for us all these years?  Sister Lawrence ­would you like to see her on the roadside, or carried to the workhouse?  Spiritual considerations come first, of course, but we must have a house to live in and a chapel to pray in.  Do you never think of these things, Hilda?”

“Yes, and I appreciate the anxiety our pecuniary difficulties cause you, dear Mother.  I am not indifferent, I assure you, but I cannot help feeling that anything were better than we should stop, instead of going forward, towards the high ideal ­”

“Well, Hilda, are you prepared to risk it?  We have a chance of redeeming the convent from debt ­will you accept the responsibility?”

“Of what, dear Mother?”

“Of refusing to agree that Evelyn shall be allowed to take the white veil, if she wishes to take it.”

“But taking the white veil will not enable us to get hold of her money.  We shall have to wait till she is professed.”

“But if she is given the white veil,” the Prioress answered sternly, “she will be induced to remain.  The fact of her taking the white veil is a great inducement, and a year hence who knows ­”

“Well, dear Mother, you will act, I am sure, for the best.  Perhaps it would have been better if you had not consulted me; but, having consulted me, I had to tell you what I think.  I am aware that in practical matters I am but a very poor judge.  Remember, I passed, like Veronica, from the schoolroom to the convent.  But you know the world.”

“It is very kind of you to admit so much; but it seems to me, Hilda, you are only admitting that much so as to give a point to your contention, or what I suppose is your contention ­that those who never knew the world may attain to a more intense spirituality than poor women such as myself and Mother Philippa here, who did not enter the convent as early in life as you did... but who renounced the world.”

The sharp tone of the Prioress’s voice, when she mentioned Mother Philippa’s name, awoke the nun, who had been dozing.

“Well, Mother Philippa, what is your opinion?”

“It seems to me,” the nun answered, now wide awake, “that it is a matter for Evelyn to decide.  You think I was asleep, but I wasn’t; I heard everything you said.  You were discussing your own scruples of conscience, which seem to me quite beside the question.  Our conscience has nothing to do with the matter; it is all a question for Evelyn to decide herself... as soon as she is well, of course.”

“And she is now quite well.  I will see her to-morrow on the subject.”

On this the Prioress rose to her feet, and the other two nuns understood that the interview was at an end.

“Dear Mother, I know how great your difficulties are,” said Mother Hilda, “and I am loth to oppose your wishes in anything.  I know 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, feeling as I do.”

“I understand that, Hilda; we all must act according to our lights.  And now we must go to bed, we are breaking all the rules of the house.”