Sister Teresa

Chapter 3

SISTER TERESA

I

As soon as Mother Philippa came into the parlour Evelyn guessed there must be serious trouble in the convent.

“But what is the matter, Mother Philippa?”

“Well, my dear, to tell you the truth, we have no money at all.”

“None at all! You must have some money.”

“As a matter of fact we have none, and Mother Prioress won’t let us order anything from the tradespeople.”

“Why not?”

“She will not run into debt; and she’s quite right; so we have to manage with what we’ve got in the convent. Of course there are some vegetables and some flour in the house; but we can’t go on like this for long. 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.”

“I suppose so,” and Evelyn thought of driving to the Wimbledon butcher and bringing back some joints.

“But, Mother, why didn’t you let me know before? Of course I’ll help you.”

“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. And here is the Prioress.”

The Prioress stood resting, leaning on the door-handle, and Evelyn was by her side in an instant.

“Thank you, my child, thank you,” and she took Evelyn’s arm.

“I’ve heard of your trouble, dear Mother, and am determined to help you; so you must sit down and tell me about it.”

“Reverend Mother ought not to be about,” said Mother Philippa. “On

Monday night she was so ill we had to get up to pray for her.”

“I’m better to-day. If it hadn’t been for this new trouble—” As the Prioress was about to explain she paused for breath, and Evelyn said:

“Another time. What does it matter to whom you owe the money? You owe it to somebody, and he is pressing you for it—isn’t that so? Of course it is, dear Mother. Well, I’ve come to bring you good news. You remember my promise to arrange a concert tour as soon as I was free? Everything has been arranged; we start next Thursday, and with fair hope of success.”

“How good of you!”

“You will succeed, Evelyn; and as Mother Philippa says, it is very good of you.”

The Prioress spoke with hesitation, and Evelyn guessed that the nuns were thinking of their present necessities.

“I can let you have a hundred pounds easily, and I could let you have more if it were not—” The pause was sufficiently dramatic to cause the nuns to press her to go on speaking, saying that they must know they were not taking money which she needed for herself. “I wasn’t thinking of myself, but of my poor people; they’re so dependent upon me, and I am so dependent upon them, even more than they are upon me, for without them there would be no interest in my life, and nothing for me to do except to sit in my drawing-room and look at the wall paper and play the piano.”

“We couldn’t think of taking money which belongs to others. We shall put our confidence in God. No, Evelyn, pray don’t say any more.”

But Evelyn insisted, saying she would manage in such a way that her poor people should lack nothing. “Of course they lack a great deal, but what I mean is, they’ll lack nothing they’ve been in the habit of receiving from me,” and, speaking of their unfailing patience in adversity, she said: “and their lives are always adversity.”

“Your poor people are your occupations since you left the stage?”

“You think me frivolous, or at least changeable, Reverend Mother?”

“No, indeed; no, indeed,” both nuns cried together, and Evelyn thought of what her life had been, how the new occupations which had come into it contrasted with the old—singing practice in the morning, rehearsals, performances in the evening, intrigues, jealousies; and the change seemed so wonderful that she would like to have spoken of it to the nuns, only that could not be done without speaking of Owen Asher. But there was no reason for not speaking of her stage life, the life that had drifted by. “You see, my old friends are no longer interested in me.” A look of surprise came into the nuns’ faces. “Why should they be? They are only interested in me so long as I am available to fill an engagement. And the singers who were my friends—what should I speak to them about? Not of my poor people; though, indeed, many of my friends are very good: they are very kind to each other.”

“But we mustn’t think of taking the money from you that should go to your poor people.”

“No, no; that is out of the question, dear Mother. As I have told you, I can easily let you have a hundred pounds; and as for paying off the debts of the convent—that I look upon as an obligation, as a bonne bouche, I might say. My heart is set on it.” “We can never thank you enough.”

“I don’t want to be thanked; it is all pleasure to me to do this for you. Now goodbye; I’ll write to you about the success of the concerts. You will pray that I may be a great success, won’t you? Much more depends upon your prayers than on my voice.”

Mother Philippa murmured that everything was in God’s hands.

The Prioress raised her eyes and looked at Evelyn questioningly. “Mother Philippa is quite right. Our prayers will be entirely pleasing to God; He sent you to us. Without you our convent would be broken up. We shall pray for you, Evelyn.”

II

The larger part of the stalls was taken up by Lady Ascott’s party; she had a house-party at Thornton Grange, and had brought all her friends to Edinburgh to hear Evelyn. Added to which, she had written to all the people she knew living in Edinburgh, and within reach of Edinburgh, asking them to come to the concert, pressing tickets upon them.

“But, my dear, is it really true that you have left the stage? One never heard of such a thing before. Now, why did you do this? You will tell me about it? You will come to Thornton Grange, won’t you, and spend a few days with us?”

But in Thornton Grange Evelyn would meet many of her old friends, and a slight doubt came into her eyes.

“No, I won’t hear of a refusal. You are going to Glasgow; Thornton Grange is on your way there; you can easily spend three days with us. No, no, no, Evelyn, you must come; I want to hear all about your religious scruples.”

“That is the last thing I should like to speak about. Besides, religious scruples, dear Lady Ascott—”

“Well, then, you shan’t speak about them at all; nobody will ask you about them. To tell you the truth, my dear, I don’t think my friends would understand you if you did. But you will come; that is the principal thing. Now, not another word; you mustn’t tire your voice; you have to sing again.” And Lady Ascott returned to the concert-hall for the second part of the programme.

After the concert Evelyn was handed a letter, saying that she would be expected to-morrow at Thornton Grange; the trains were as follows: if she came by this train she would be in time for tea, and if she came by the other she would be just in time for dinner.

“She’s a kind soul, and after all she has done it is difficult to refuse her.” So Evelyn sent a wire accepting the invitation…. Besides, there was no reason for refusing unless—A knock! Her manager! and he had come to tell her they had taken more money that night than on any previous night. “Perhaps Lady Ascott may have some more friends in Glasgow and will write to them,” he added as he bade her good-night.

“Three hundred pounds! Only a few of the star singers would have gathered as much money into a hall,” and to the dull sound of gold pieces she fell asleep. But the sound of gold is the sweetest tribute to the actress’s vanity, and this tribute Evelyn had missed to some extent in the preceding concerts; the others were artistic successes, but money had not flowed in, and a half-empty concert-room puts an emptiness into the heart of the concert singer that nothing else can. But the Edinburgh concert had been different; people had been more appreciative, her singing had excited more enthusiasm. Lady Ascott had brought musical people to hear her, and Evelyn awoke, thinking that she would not miss seeing Lady Ascott for anything; and while looking forward to seeing her at Thornton Grange, she thought of the money she had made for the poor nuns, and then of the money awaiting her in Glasgow…. It would be nice if by any chance Lady Ascott were persuaded to come to Glasgow for the concert, bringing her party with her. Anything was possible with Lady Ascott; she would go anywhere to hear music.

“But what an evening!” and she watched the wet country. A high wind had been blowing all day, but the storm had begun in the dusk, and when she arrived at the station the coachman could hardly get his horses to face the wind and rain. In answer to her question the footman told her Thornton Grange was about a mile from the station; and when the carriage turned into the park she peered through the wet panes, trying to see the trees which Owen had often said were the finest in Scotland; but she could only distinguish blurred masses, and the yellow panes of a parapeted house.

“How are you, my dear Evelyn? I’m glad to see you. You’ll find some friends here.” And Lady Ascott led her through shadowy drawing-rooms curtained with red silk hangings, filled with rich pictures, china vases, books, marble consol tables on which stood lamps and tall candles. Owen came forward to meet her.

“I am so glad to meet you, Miss Innes! You didn’t expect to see me? I hope you’re not sorry.”

“No, Sir Owen, I’m not sorry; but this is a surprise, for Lady Ascott didn’t tell me. Were you at the concert?”

“No, I couldn’t go; I was too ill. It was a privation to remain at home thinking—What did you sing?”

Evelyn looked at him shrewdly, believing only a little in his illness, and nearly convinced he had not gone to the concert because he wished to keep his presence a secret from her… fearing she would not come to Thornton Grange if she knew he were there.

“He missed a great deal; I told him so when I returned,” said Lady

Ascott.

“But what can one do, Miss Innes, when one is ill? The best music in the world—even your voice when one is ill—. Tell me what you sang.”

“Evelyn is going to sing at Glasgow; you will be able to go there with her.”

The servant announced another guest and Lady Ascott went forward to meet him. Guest after guest, and all were greeted with little cries of fictitious intimacy; and each in turn related his or her journey, and the narratives were chequered with the names of other friends who had been staying in the houses they had just come from. Evelyn listened, thinking of her poor people, contrasting their simplicities with the artificialities of the gang—that is how she put it to herself—which ran about from one house to another, visiting, calling itself Society, talking always, changing the conversation rapidly, never interested in any subject sufficiently to endure it for more than a minute and a half. The life of these people seemed to Evelyn artificial as that of white mice, coming in by certain doors, going out by others, climbing poles, engaged in all kinds of little tricks; yet she was delighted to find herself among them all again, for her life had been dull and tedious since she left the convent; and this sudden change, taking her back to art and to her old friends, was very welcome; and the babble of all these people about her inveigled her out of her new self; and she liked to hear about so many people, their adventures, their ideas, misfortunes, precocious caprices.

The company had broken up into groups, and one little group, of which Evelyn was part, had withdrawn into a corner to discuss its own circle of friends; and all the while Evelyn’s face smiled, her eyes and her lips and her thoughts were atingle. Nonsense! Yes, it was nonsense! But what delicious nonsense! and she waited for somebody to speak of Canary—the “love machine,” as he was called. No sooner had the thought come into her mind than somebody mentioned his name, telling how Beatrice, after sending him away in the luggage-cart, had yielded and taken him back again. “He is her interest,” Evelyn said to herself, and she heard that Canary still continued to cause Beatrice great unhappiness; and some interesting stories were told of her quarrels—all her quarrels were connected with Canary. One of the most serious was with Miss ——, who had gone for a walk with him in the morning; and the guests at Thornton Grange were divided regarding Miss ——’s right to ask Canary to go for a walk with her, for, of course, she had come down early for the purpose, knowing well that Beatrice never came downstairs before lunch.