Part 28 (1/2)

Whenever Sister Mary John heard the saw cease she cried out, ”Now, Sister Evelyn, what are you thinking about? You are neglecting your work.” And Evelyn would begin again, and continue until her arm ached.

”Here is Mother Abbess.”

”See, dear Mother, what Evelyn has been doing. She sawed this board through all by herself, and you see she has sawn it quite straight, and she has learned how to plane a board; and as for glueing, she does it capitally!”

XXI

”What are you looking for, Sister Evelyn?”

”Veronica asked me to go into the garden; I think it was to gather some laurel-leaves, but I can't remember where they grow.”

”Never mind the leaves, I will gather them for you. Take my spade and dig a little while. It is pleasanter being in the open air than in that hot sacristy.”

”But I don't know how to dig. You'll only laugh at me.”

”No, no. See, here is a bed of spring onions, and it wants digging out. You press the spade in as far as you can, pull down the handle, and lift out the earth. I shall be some little while away, and I expect you will have dug some yards. You can dig as far as this. Try, Evelyn, make up your mind that you will; if you make up your mind, you will succeed.”

Evelyn promised.

”But you won't stay a long time, will you?” she called after the nun.

”Now I know why Sister Mary John wears men's boots.” And she stooped to pin up her skirt.

All the while the sky was clearing, the wind drove the clouds westward, breaking up the dark ma.s.ses, scattering, winnowing, letting the sun through. Delicious was the glow, though it lasted but for a few minutes--perhaps more delicious because it was so transitory.

Another patch of wind-driven clouds came up, and the world became cold and grey again. A moment afterwards the clouds pa.s.sed, the sun shone out, and the delicious warmth filled mind and body with a delight that no artificial warmth could; and, to enjoy the glowing of the sun, Evelyn left her digging, and wandered away through the garden, stopping now and then to notice the progress of the spring. A late frost had cut the blossoms of the pear and the cherry; the half-blown blossom dropped at the touch of the finger, and Evelyn regretted the frost, thinking of the nets she had made.

”They'll be of very little use this year.” And she wondered if the currant and gooseberry-bushes had escaped; the apples had, for they were later, unless there was another frost. ”And then my nets will be of no use at all; and, I have worked so hard at them!”

The lilac-bushes were not yet in leaf--only some tiny green shoots.

”We shall not have any lilac this year till the middle of May. Was there ever such a season?” Larks were everywhere, ascending in short flights, trilling as they ascended; and Evelyn listened to their singing, thinking it most curious--quaint cadenzas in which a note was wanting, like in the bagpipes, a sort of aerial bagpipes. But on a bare bough a thrush sang, breaking out presently into a little tune of five notes. ”Quite a little tune; one would think the bird had been taught it.” She waited for him to sing it again, but, as if not wis.h.i.+ng to waste his song, being a careful bird, he continued a sort of recitative; then, thinking his listener had waited long enough for his little aria, he broke out again. ”There it is, five notes--a distinct little tune.” Why should he sing and no other thrush sing it? There was a robin; but he sang the same little roundelay all the year.... A little, pale-brown bird, fluttering among the bushes, interested her; but it was some time before she could catch fair sight of it. ”A dear little wren!” she said. ”It must have its nest about here.” She sought it, knowing its beautifully woven house, with one hole, through which the bird pa.s.ses to feed a numerous progeny, and expected to find it amid the tangle of traveller's-joy which covered an old wall.

In the convent garden there was a beautiful ash-tree, under which Evelyn had often sat with the nuns during recreation, but it showed no signs of coming into leaf; and the poplars rose up against the bright sky, like enormous brooms. The hawthorns had resisted the frost better than the sycamores. One pitied the sycamore and the chestnut-trees most of all; and, fearing they would bear no leaves that year, Evelyn stood with a black and shrivelled leaf in her hand.

”Autumn, before the spring has begun,” she said. ”But here is Jack.”

And she stooped to pick up the great yellow tom-cat, whom she remembered as a kindly, affectionate animal; but now he ran away from her, turning to snarl at her. ”What can have happened to our dear Jack?” she asked herself. And Miss Dingle, who had been watching her from a little distance, cried out:

”You'll not succeed in catching him; he has been very wicked lately, and is quite changed. The devil must have got into him, in spite of the blue ribbon I tied round his neck.”

”How are you, Miss Dingle?”

Miss Dingle evinced a considerable shyness, and muttered under her breath that she was very well. She hoped Evelyn was the same; and ran away a little distance, then stopped and looked back, her curiosity getting the better of her. ”Ordinary conversation does not suit her,”

Evelyn said to herself. And, when they were within speaking distance again, Evelyn asked her what had become of the blue ribbon she had tied round the cat's neck to save him from the devil.

”He tore it off--I mean the devil took it off. I can't catch him. If you'd try?--if you'd get between him and that bush. It is a pity to see a good cat go to the devil because we can't get a bit of blue ribbon on his neck.”

Evelyn stood between the cat and the bush, and creeping near, caught him by the neck, and held him by the forepaws while Miss Dingle tried to tie the ribbon round his neck; but Jack struggled, and raising one of his hind paws obliged Evelyn to loose him.

”There is no use trying; he won't let it be put on his neck.”