Sister Teresa — Chapter 29

London: T. Fisher Unwin, 8 July 1901, pages 163-171, 3,038 words

XXIX

The Prioress had wished Sister Mary John to leave Evelyn in doubt 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 hurried past 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 Evelyn would 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 temporary, 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 separation 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 remembered that the nuns were jealous of Evelyn’s voice, and that they resented the attention that always hummed round Evelyn in the parlour. She foresaw nothing but unhappiness for Evelyn; she had begun to doubt whether she had any true vocation, and she could not help feeling that the best thing that could happen would be for Mother Hilda’s opposition to succeed.

But Mother Hilda’s opposition was overruled, Evelyn was elected almost unanimously, and Monsignor 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 community of her miserable condition, but she had promised the Prioress not to speak to Evelyn of her decision to leave the convent until Evelyn had made her vows. Now this promise seemed to her most horrible 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 dependent upon the support of her friendship in this convent? how did she know that Evelyn would take the final vows if she knew how friendless she would be when her friend was away in France, and when the Prioress was dead?

She knew none of these things, but 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 declaration. 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 what 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 convent even when the Prioress was dead.' Then she saw the tall figure cross to the gospel side of the altar with the two nuns; she saw her sign her name to the vows she had made, and when she came back Sister Mary John saw Monsignor 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 ‘Veni spousa Christi.'

And the few people in the church who had witnessed 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 Evelyn to congratulate 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 realised.

'I am glad, too, dear Mother; and you are accountable for a great deal of what has happened; for I doubt if I should ever have had the strength without you. 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 congratulate me? For some time I have noticed that she avoids me 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 example 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 will 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 terrible, and she lay awake thinking of it. Her thoughts roved about the truth, not daring to approach it, whereas Sister Mary John knew it and she foresaw that Evelyn would question her. Her unhappiness 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 great labour, but the morning was now at hand, for the lady with whom Sister Mary John was to travel had written to the Prioress saying that her departure had been unexpectedly hastened. She hoped that it would suit dear Sister Mary John’s convenience equally well to travel this week as the following week. Sister Mary John looked upon this shortening of her torment as providential, for yesterday Evelyn had stopped 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.

Next 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 instantly, for Sister Mary John wore 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.’

‘Now I understand why you have not spoken to me for so long. This is the reason of the change. Now 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 reason why she wanted to leave. She did not like to ask her if she had consulted the other nuns or Father 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 temporary. 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 that there is no room for other love in our hearts. We 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 reasonably, and she was staring blankly out of the window when the Prioress entered the library.

‘Mother, what does all this mean? Why did you let her go?’

The Prioress sat down slowly, and looked at Evelyn 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.

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 believe she acted on mere scruples.’

‘She felt that by staying here she was imperilling 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 possible 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 different from anyone else’s.’

'Don’t think I blame either 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 rules 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 mistake; her scruples were imaginary, and her going has done nothing except to trouble my peace of mind. And what will 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 between 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 we 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 it; but when I burnt it I was glad. We must try to understand that the things of this world are nothing; that this world is passing always like water and that our lives pass 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 outside 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? Hers 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. For you there was no danger in this friendship, for you are different 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, 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 happy 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 Novice Mistress to run to when she is uncertain or despondent. She will find help and cheerfulness in her. When the final vow releases 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.’