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Sister Teresa by George Moore

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"Now the bird is telling of sorrows other than ours--isn't that so,
Evelyn? I don't seem to recognise anything of ourselves in its song;
it is singing a new song."

"Perhaps," Evelyn answered, "now it is singing the sadness of the
mother under the hill for her son."

"I went to see her, she is not unhappy; she is happy that her son is
With you."

"But another child died last year; and for her, if she is listening,
the bird is certainly singing the death of that child."

When they had completed once more the round of the garden, the bird
seemed to have again changed his intervals; a gaiety seemed to have
come into his singing, and Owen said:

"Now his music is lighter; he is singing an inveigling little story,
the story of first love. Look, Evelyn, do you see that boy and girl
walking under the hedge with their arms entwined? They, too, have
stopped to listen to the nightingale, but the song they really hear
comes out of their own hearts."

Then the song changed, suddenly acquiring a strange, voluptuous
accent, which carried Owen's thoughts back to a night when he had
been awakened out of his sleep by a woman's voice singing, and,
starting up in bed, he had listened, rousing himself sufficiently
from sleep to distinguish that the voice he was listening to was
Evelyn's. The song was a love-call, and, believing it to be such, he
had thrown aside the curtain, and had found her leaning out of her
window, singing the Star Song, not to the evening star, as in the
opera, but to the morning star shining white like a diamond out of
the dawning of the sky. The valley under the castle walls was
submerged in mist, and the distant hillside was indistinguishable.
The castle seemed to stand by the side of some frozen sea, so intense
was the silence. He had always looked back upon this morning as one
of the great moments of his life, and going to her room like going to
some great religious rite. Each man must worship where he finds the
Godhead.

"Who knows," he said to Evelyn, "that the bird in the nest close by
does not listen with the same rapture--"

"As you, in the box, used to listen to me on the stage? For the
comparison to hold good, I should have sung Italian music, roulades.
Listen to those cadenzas!"

"How melancholy are their gaieties!"

"Yes, aren't they?" she answered. "How poignant the two notes!--with
which _il commence son grand air_."

"But our love-call ended years ago," she said, with an accent of
regret in her voice. And they walked towards the house, Owen dreading
that some sudden impulse might throw her into his arms and her mind
might be unhinged again, and he would lose her utterly. So he spoke
to her of the first; thing that came into her mind, and what came
first was a memory of Moschus's lament for Bion and the brevity of
human life as contrasted with the long life of the world.

"'The mallows wither in the garden, and the green parsley--' how does
it go?" And he tried to remember as they went upstairs. "'The mallows
wither in the garden--' no, that is not how it begins. 'Ah me! when
the mallows wither in the garden, and the green parsley, and the
curled tendrils of the anise, on a later day these live again and
spring in another year; but we men, we, the great and mighty, or
wise, when once we have died in the hollow earth we sleep, gone down
into silence, a fight long and endless and unawakening sleep."

"Begin, ye Sicilian Muses, begin the Dirge!"

And Evelyn listened, saying, "How very beautiful! how very
wonderful!"

"But you believe, Evelyn, that we do live again?"

"It is too late to argue that question; it is nearly midnight. I hope
you will like your room. Eliza has unstrapped your portmanteau, I
see. Your bed is comfortable, I think."

It surprised him that she should follow him into his room, and stand
there talking to him, talking even about the bed he was to sleep in.
It would have been easy to lay his hands upon her shoulder, saying,
"Evelyn, are we to be parted?" but something held him back. And he
listened to her story of the buying of the bed, hearing that it had
been forgotten in the interest excited by the rumour of certain
portfolios filled with engravings supposed to be of great value. The
wardrobe, too, had been bought at the same auction, and he looked
into its panels, praising them.

"But you want more light." She went over and lighted the candles on
the dressing-table, accomplishing the duties of hostess quite
unconcerned, ignoring the past. "One would think she had forgotten
it," he said to himself. "Are we to part like this? But it is for her
to decide. So quiet, so self-contained; it doesn't seem even to occur
to her." He waited, incapable of speech or action, paralysed, till
she bade him good-night. As soon as the door closed, or a moment
after, he began to realise his mistake. What he should have done was
to lay his hand upon her shoulder and lead her to the window-seat,
and sit with her there till a greyness came into the sky and a cold
air rustled in the trees. "Of course, of course," he muttered, for he
could see himself and her in the dawn together, united again and
tasting again in a kiss infinity. In her kiss he had tasted that
unity, that binding together of the mortal to the immortal, of the
finite to the infinite, which Paracelsus--He tried to recall the
words, "He who tastes a crust of bread has tasted of the universe,
even to the furthest star." She had always been his universe, and he
had always believed that she had come out of the star-shine like a
goddess when it pleases Divinity to lie with a mortal. Of this he was
sure, that he had never kissed her except in this belief.... This had
sanctified their love, whereas other men knew love as an animal
satisfaction. It had always seemed to him that there was something
essential in her, something which had always been in human nature and
which always would be. This light, this joy, and this aspiration he
had seen in certain moments: when she walked on the stage as
Elizabeth or Elza, she had always seemed to reflect a little of that
light which floats down through the generations ... illuminating "the
liquid surface of man's life." But a change had come, darkening that
light, causing it to pass, at least into eclipse. He drew his hand
across his eyes--a phase of her life was hidden from him; yet it,
too, may have had a meaning.... We understand so little of life. No,
no, it had no meaning in his mind, and we are only concerned with our
own minds. All the same, the fact remained--she had had to seek rest
in a convent; and the idea that had driven her there, though now
lying at the bottom of her mind, might be brought to the surface--any
chance word; he had had proof. Perhaps it was as well that he had not
laid his hand upon her shoulder and asked her to stay with him, for
by what spectacle of remorse, of terror, might he not have been
confronted to-morrow or the next day? Cured! Nobody is ever cured.
Never again would she be the same woman as had left Dulwich to go to
Paris with him, he knew that well enough; and he, too, was very far
indeed from being the same Owen Asher who had gone to Dulwich to hear
a concert of Elizabethan music.

A period for every one, for every one a season. The gates of love
open, and we pass into the garden and out of it by another gate,
which never opens for us again. To linger by a closed or a closing
gate is not wise: the tarrying lover is a subject for contempt and
jeers; better to pass out quickly and to fare on, though it requires
courage to fare on through the autumn, knowing that after autumn
comes winter. True, the winds would grow harder. The autumn of their
lives was not over, the skies were still bright above them, and the
winds soft and low. The winds would grow harder, but they must still
fare on through the snow. But there is a joy by the hearth when the
yule-log is burning. So thanking God that he had not attempted to
detain her, he wandered to the window to watch the stars, which
seemed to him like a golden net; and he asked who had cast that net,
and if he and she were parcel of some great draught which, at some
indefinite date, would be drawn out of the depths, and if, when that
time came, they would remember the joy and sorrow they had endured
upon earth, or if all would be swept into forgetfulness. At some
indefinite date they might meet among the stars, but what stellar
infinities might be drawn together mattered little to him; his sole
interest was in this lag end of their journey--if their lives should
be united henceforth or lived separately.

Nothing repeats itself, so it was well he had not asked her to stay
with him. Of mistress and lover a fitting end had been written long
ago, just as the end of those stars was written long before the stars
came into being; but it might well be that they might take the road,
this lag end of it, together as husband and wife. If he didn't marry
--he could marry nobody but her--what would he do with his life? what
sort of end? He had no heart for further travels, and feared to wear
away the years amid books and pictures, collecting rare porcelain and
French furniture; there is very little else for an old man. With her
the lag end of the journey would be delectable. In the same house
together, leading her in the evenings to the piano! Even if she had
lost part of her voice, sufficient remained to recall the old days
when he used to journey thousands of miles to hear her; and he lay
quite still, listening to the sweet thought of marriage, singing like
a bird in the acacia-tree, trill after trill, and then a run--
delicious crescendos reaching to the stars, diminuendos sinking into
the valley.

The bird suddenly ceased, and with its song in his brain Owen dozed,
awakening at dawn, remembering her, how she had built herself a
cottage, and settled her life here among four or five little crippled
boys. Could she undo her life to follow him? Uprooted, transplanted,
her brain might give way again, and this time without hope of
recovery. Or was he cheating himself, trying to find reasons for not
asking her to marry him--perhaps his manifest duty towards her. Owen
looked into his soul, asking himself if he were acting from a selfish
or an unselfish motive.

Sleep seemed as far away as ever, and, getting out of bed, he drew
the curtains, seeking the landscape, still hidden in the mist, only a
few tree-tops showing over the grey vapour--the valley filled with
it--and over the hidden hill one streak of crimson. A rook cawed and
flew away into the mist, leaving Owen to wonder what the bird's
errand might be; and this rook was followed by others, and seeing
nothing distinctly, and knowing nothing of himself or of this woman
whom he had loved so long, he returned to his bed frightened,
counting his years, asking himself how many more he had to live.

A knock! Only Eliza bringing his bath water. Good heavens! he had
been asleep. "Eliza, what time is it?"

"Half-past eight, Sir Owen. Miss Innes will be soon home from Mass to
give the little boys their breakfast."

"Home from Mass!" he muttered. And he learned from Eliza that Miss
Innes got up every morning at seven, for a Catholic gentleman lived
in the neighbourhood who had a private chaplain. "And she goes to
Mass," Owen muttered, "every morning, and comes back to give the
little boys their breakfast!"

There was no Catholic gentleman within a mile of Riversdale, he was
thankful to say, and his thankfulness on the point was proof to him
of how years and circumstances had estranged him from Evelyn; for,
though he would not obstruct or forbid, it would be impossible for
him to keep a sneer out of his face when she told him she had been to
the sacraments or refrained from meat on Friday. "What a strange
notion it is to think that a priest can help one," he said, thinking
then that his presence would be a sneer, however he might control his
tongue or his face; she would feel that he held her little
observances in contempt, and her, too, just a little. How could it be
otherwise? How could he admire one who slipped her neck into a
spiritual halter and allowed herself to be led? Yet he loved her--or
was it the memory of their love that he loved? Which? He loved her
when he saw her among the crippled children distributing porridge and
milk, or maybe it was not love, but admiration.

"My dear, I didn't know you would be down so soon. If you will only
go into the garden and wait for me, I shan't be long."

"Now then, children, you must hurry with your porridge; Sir Owen is
waiting for his breakfast."

"My dear Evelyn, I am not in a hurry. Let the children take their
time."

And he went into the garden to think if life at Riversdale would suit
her as well as this life. It would be impossible for him to accompany
her to chapel, and if he did not do so there would be an
estrangement.... Nor could he allow Riversdale to be turned into an
orphanage. Perhaps he would allow her to do anything; that pleased
her; all the same, she would feel that the permission did not come
out of his instinct, only out of a desire to please her.

"Well, Owen," she said as soon as he had finished breakfast, "I don't
want to hurry you, but if you are to catch that train we must start
at once."

It was one of her off days, and she was going to spend it at the
cottage. There were a great many things for her to do. She never had
much time, but she would go to the station with him.

"But you have already walked two miles."

"Ah! Eliza has told you?"

"Yes, that you go to Mass every morning."

Owen seemed to regret the fact, and when he broke silence again it
was to inquire into the expenses of the orphanage and to deplore the
necessity which governed her life of going to London every day,
returning home late, and he offered her a subscription which would
cover the entire cost. But his offer of money seemed to embarrass
her, and he understood that her pleasure was to go to London to work
for these children, for only in that way could the home be entirely
her own. If she were to accept help from the outside it would drift
away from her and from its original intention, just as the convent
had done. Nor was it very likely that she would care to give up her
work and come to live at Riversdale, as his wife, of course as his
wife, and it would pain her to refuse him.... Better leave things as
they were.

"You are right," he said, "not to live in London; one avoids a great
deal of loneliness. One is more lonely in London than anywhere I
know. The country is the natural home of man. Man is an arborial
animal," he added, laughing, "and is only happy among trees."

"And woman, what is she? A material animal?"

"I suppose so. You have your children; I have my trees."

The words seemed to have a meaning which eluded them, and they
pondered while they descended the hillside until the piece of
low-lying land came into view and the bridge crossing the sluggish
stream, amid whose rushes he had gathered the wild forget-me-not. As
he was about to speak of them he remembered her singing classes, and
that yester evening had worn away without hearing her sing. "You have
lost all interest in music, I fear. You think of it now as a means of
making money... for your children," he added, so that his words might
not wound her.

"And you, Owen, does music still interest you,"--she nearly said,
"now that I am out of it?" but stopped, the words on her lips.

"Yes," he said, "I think it does," and there was an eagerness in his
voice when he said, "I have been trying my hand at composition again,
and I have written a good many songs and some piano pieces, one for
piano and violin."

"A sonata?"

"Well, something in that way... not very strict in form perhaps."

"That doesn't matter."

"When you come to see me I should like to show you some of my things.
You will come to see me when you are in London... when you have a
moment?"

"Evelyn always keeps her promises," he said to himself, and he did
not give up hope that she would come to see him, although nearly two
weeks went by without his hearing from her. Then a note came, saying
that she had been kept busy and had not been able to find spare time,
but yesterday a pupil had written saying she would not come to her
lesson, "so now I can come to you."

"Miss Innes, Sir Owen."

His face lighted up, and laying his book aside he sprang out of his
chair, and all consciousness of time ceased in his mind till she
began to put on her glove.

"You have only just arrived, and already you are going."

"My dear Owen, I have been here an hour, and the time has passed
quickly for you because you have been playing your music over for me
and I have been singing... humming, for it is hardly singing now."

"I am sorry, Evelyn, the time has seemed so long to you. I didn't
intend to bore you. You said you would like to see some of my music."

"So I did, Owen, and some of the best things you have composed are
among those you have shown me. Your writing has improved a great
deal."

"I am so glad you think so. When will you come again?"

"The first spare hour."

"Really? You promise."

They saw each other at intervals. Sometimes the intervals were very
long, and Owen would write to her complaining, and he would get a
note telling that her time was not her own, and that a great deal of
money was necessary for her boys. But she would try to come and see
him next week, and he would write begging her not to disappoint him,
as he was giving a concert and wanted her help to compose the
programme.

A great deal of time was spent in Berkeley Square, more than she
could afford, trying pieces over; and she would often say, "My dear
Owen, I really must go now or I shall miss my train at Victoria." He
always looked disappointed when she said she was going, and he never
could understand why she would not sing at his concerts. It was very
difficult even to persuade her to come to one.

"You see, I cannot sleep here, Owen. I have to go to a hotel."

One day she got a letter from him which she feared to open. "It is to
ask me to help him to compose another programme, and I haven't got a
minute."

She was mistaken. The letter was to tell her that he had been elected
president of the new choral society... "a group of young musicians."
The envelope enclosed a programme, and she read: "President, Sir Owen
Asher, Bart." "I'm glad, I'm glad," she said as she walked up the
room. "He has some natural talent for music, and if he hadn't been
born a rich man and spent his life doing other things he might have
done something in music. If he had begun younger... if he hadn't met
me... a good many ifs; but there it is, and that is how it has
ended."

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