by A. J. Cronin
‘Such a disappointment she’s had,’ murmured Miss Tinto.
‘That’s it, don’t you see?’ shot out the inexorable Dandie. ‘She was ripe for it. It was just inevitable.’
‘Inevitable?’
‘Give a woman like her a big enough drop and she’ll fall for religion. It’s the same the world over. Oh, I had a great old argument with her the other day about the whole business. But she near took the nose off me.’
‘But what on earth is she going to do?’
‘She knows all right, if you don’t,’ answered Dandie sagely. ‘Believe me, she’s a woman that knows her own mind.’ He swung back to his table with a grin. ‘So long as she doesn’t start smashing the whisky bottles!’ But Miss Tinto gave no answering smile. Instead, she frowned and shook her head slowly, uncomprehendingly, as though it might be a bad business – a bad business for somebody.
Chapter Two
Lucy went towards the tramway station quite quickly, like a woman with a fixed objective, she who, a few months ago, dragging herself about, had so abjectly considered that there was nothing for which she might live. It was indeed miraculous. And as such she recognised the magnitude of the blessing bestowed on her, the magnitude of the change which she knew to have overswept her life.
Let Miss Tinto frown and wonder; let Dandie grin as sneeringly as he chose. She did not care. If this sweet ardour which now thrilled her served merely to excite their ridicule, it was to her a matter of complete indifference. She was happy, happier than she had ever been; and how could they comprehend this happiness – this great inward joy at which she herself had scarcely ceased to marvel? But it was hers none the less, a glowing, tender flame before which all else paled to insignificance; the leaping flame which she had always sought, which she had always found elusive – hers it was at last. That was the reason of her new serenity and her air of quiet purpose.
At Kelvinbank she descended from her tram-car and began to traverse the familiar route towards Flowers Street. Amidst these fusty streets which once had caused her such high aversion her face was devoid of all repugnance. When she reached home, she prepared her tea and made an adequate meal. Then, without delay, she rose, washed her face and hands, tidied her hair, and again went out.
Upon the landing her eye fell for an instant upon the neighbouring door which, newly shorn of its name-plate, mutely proclaimed the Finches’ departure. Yes, inevitably that short idyll had worn to its end: Bessie with gushing eyes had returned to her mother; and John discovered some bland haven with his bottle. Could more patent evidence be shown of the folly of earthly vanities?
As she went down the stairs, a suppressed sigh came from Lucy’s lips. She was sorry for Bessie. Once she, too, had been like that – mistaken, straining to express a single drop of happiness from what held merely emptiness.
Outside, as she slipped through the gathering darkness, avoiding by design the main, well-lighted thoroughfares, she was touched by a transient recollection of those days when she had striven to capture the fleeting satisfactions of the world, when lights and crowds and shop windows had interested her, when she had been bound even by the petty vanities of dress. Had there once been a zibelline in which she had postured before her mirror, demanding of Netta ‘if she would do’? Had there been a time when she had sat down to sate herself with cream cakes? Cream cakes, indeed! The memories seem unsubstantial and shadowy – far, far away. Yes, in this wondrous happiness which had come to her those trivialities had become remote, her only feeling a vague remorse that she had once so foolishly indulged herself.
Now she had almost reached Garnet Square, and with an ease born of familiarity she followed the short though devious course of an ill-lit alley and came out into the open opposite the Church of St Mary’s. The sudden freshness in her escape from that confined and tortuous way she felt always to be symbolic: like the great, the miraculous release which had befallen her upon the occasion of her first visit to the church. And again, as she passed through the narrow Gothic porch, she thought of that sublime spiritual experience which then had come to her. How, indeed, could she forget it. In one great sweep, like a torrent released, it had rushed over her, a flash, a lightning stroke of grace, a pure inward glow of a blinding light and it was done, the whole current of her life diverted, the very suddenness of her liberation dazzling. Nothing short of a miracle had compassed it! And to think that all her life she had been chasing phantoms whilst this – the great, the only reality – had escaped her.
Nine months ago it had happened, upon that Sunday – oh, blessed, blessed day! – in this same dark and dingy church. Upon her knees, half concealed behind a pillar, she had essayed to utter a prayer – mechanically, almost heedlessly, too crushed by her misery to raise even that formal earnestness which customarily marked her devotions. Perhaps it was that she had never been devout, moved merely by usage and what she knew to be her duty. And on this day at least surely she was too stricken to find the energy for prayer. So spent was she, her being seemed like a cord tautly drawn that soon unendurably must snap.
Then suddenly she had lifted her head. Then, indeed, that cord had snapped and, amongst the echoing vibrations of its sundering she looked directly into His face. His face! She had started. Sideways and downwards that face was turned, and from beneath the drooping lids the eyes gazed towards her with a calm yet anguished recognition. Instantly a strange stab of pain transfixed her, and she sank down into the shadow of the pillar. But she could not remove her eyes. They were bound irrevocably to those tranquil sorrowful eyes which seemed to sorrow because of her, which for her seemed clouded by a sad reproach. Then she began to feel herself trembling, for the face held everything that now she herself could feel. Suffering stamped its every lineament: the brow pierced and bleeding, the cheeks sunken and exsanguine, the lips half parted to reveal the thirsting tongue. The frightful agony of a tortured and abandoned death was seared upon those riven features. But the face was not dead. It was animate, lifting her upwards with that strange compelling power, mingling pity with pain, strength with weakness, sternness with compassion. Suddenly she felt faint, and strove desperately to collect herself, to lower her eyes. It was only a crucifix fixed to the pillar above her head: the face of Jesus as He had hung upon the cross: nothing she had not known, nothing she had not seen a thousand times before. Large and lifelike it might be; yet it was nothing more than wood and plaster and paint. But her haunted eyes would not fall. Oh, she had often seen that face of the suffering Christ, but never, never like this.
It was so close to her, actual and living, with breath upon the tortured lips, and sweat upon the anguished brow; with eyes awaiting her, it seemed, understanding her misery, offering her mercy and peace and love. All her life Jesus had been awaiting her, patient and long-suffering; and only now did she realise it. He had been waiting for this moment. Her surroundings grew hazy as from a mist, through which the figure took on a quality both luminous and transplendent. Jesus! Jesus! His face was shining towards her. Her Saviour, whom she had neglected and forsaken; was offering His love to her! Empty, cast down, deserted even as He had been, she was still His. He understood her; He was calling her: His eye enkindled by compassion, His side bleeding for her, His lovely body flogged for her, His arms – extended upon this gibbet of a cross – opened wide to receive her. He too had suffered, and that suffering, omniscient eye saw all that she had borne. He it was who had proclaimed the worthlessness of all things but the love of God. Had He not so ordained the pattern of her destiny that she might come unto Him at last?
Suddenly in her ears came a ringing voice: ‘Seek ye first the Kingdom of God.’ Her face paled; she was overwhelmed; a melting tenderness ran through her. Oh, the sight of that transfigured face! – it was now too bright to be endured. Her heart throbbed to bursting with a strange ardour that welled out of her very sadness; it grew and grew until her poor body could no longer contain the swelling of that ardour; within her something dissolved; her spirit suddenly took wing
s and soared upwards towards the figure of Christ – her Saviour. Rushing upwards, upwards, upwards into His waiting arms, Oh, unexpected, unbelievable joy! In her ecstasy she felt the arms of her Redeemer softly enfolding her. Her head fell forward, and a fearful gush of tears streamed blindly from her eyes. She was on His breast, weeping for joy. Jesus, Son of the living God – the splendour of the Father – the brightness of eternal light – the desire of the eternal hills – He was hers, and she at last was His. Why had she never turned to Him before? She had walked through deserts of uselessness, outworn herself with a travail of futility. But now she had come to Him; now her soul had surged to sweet union with its Creator. It was the end for which she had been created. Beside that union life was nothing – death was nothing! Around her the voices of angels blended in a celestial harmony of happiness.
‘Jesus! Jesus!’ she murmured in ecstasy. ‘At last I have come to You. You are mine, and I am Yours for ever and for ever.’
For a long time she remained upon her knees, rapt by the transport of her beatitude. She saw nothing of the Mass; heard nothing of the sermon. She observed no one, nor was she herself observed. Without her knowledge the church emptied of its impoverished congregation; she was alone.
Then at last slowly she stirred. Her face, like the face shining in her vision, was now transfigured. Could she have believed that, entering this church so wretchedly, she would leave it thus, consoled and at peace. Swiftly, fervently, she stooped and kissed the feet of the figure upon the cross.
So uplifted did she feel, that a lurking fear had haunted her that her happiness would not endure. The treasure seemed too precious to be hers. But her fear was groundless. Never had she embraced a cause that she did not pursue with a fervent intensity. It had endured; it was indeed hers; and it had grown daily, become the essence of her life. There was much for which she must make atonement: all her early coldness and negligence.
It was wonderful how richly and how rapidly her fervour had flowered, and with that flowering those deep interior roots of happiness had increased. She had returned to St Mary’s; and had again returned; made of the church a sweet refuge towards which she inevitably turned. There was no special virtue in this small and unpretentious chapel, but it was here that through the sublime goodness of her Creator she had found grace. Here then she came to pray, to offer up her work, her life, herself to God, to attend the Sacrifice of the Mass, to make her daily communions: those treasured moments when Jesus gave to her His Body, uniting Himself with her, now flooding her soul with that unbelievable ecstasy of joy. Never before had she realised the full significance of the Sacrament. In the past, when she she had made her duties at Easter-time, to receive the. Host and feel the tiny disc of wafer dissolve upon her tongue had been a solemn but not a moving or convincing moment. She accepted it as part of her belief; so she had been taught; but now – how different it was! This fusion with Jesus was real and actual, fanning her fervour, increasing the passion of her yearning – sweet repetition of that moment when in her vision He had compassed her with His loving arms.
But what could she do to show her love and gratitude in return? The very intensity of her ardour demanded that she do more, driving her onwards in sweetness towards a greater and still a greater sacrifice. She desired a closer and more binding union. All for Jesus – that was indeed the motif of her life, and it bore her forward like an irresistible tide.
Then suddenly revelation had come to her, one evening as she sat meditating within her own quiet room; so perhaps had the Annunciation come to Mary. It was so simple, so inevitable; presumptuous perhaps; to those who could not understand, merely ridiculous; but to her an inspiration of exceeding sweetness. To give herself entirely to God! It was that impulse of complete surrender which moved her. And what was there in her life to prevent her leaving the world? No; nothing existed which might restrain her; it was as though her entire life – that gradual shedding of all earthly faiths – had been a preparation towards this sublime end. At once she fell upon her knees and thanked Jesus for the thought. Slowly the resolution had firmed in her mind. From her confessor she sought advice and received it. Then quite calmly she had decided.
Nine months ago she had entered this church a wretched and disillusioned woman. Everything had failed her. But that was all behind her: now she had something which would never fail her. This, then, was the reason of her sudden step in determining her employment with Henderson & Shaw; and it was in part the reason of her attendance here upon this present evening.
When the service of Benediction was over, she remained kneeling, observing the priest as he left the altar and entered the sacristy. He it was who had helped her; and now she wished to speak with him.
It was Father John Talbot who had at this time the charge of the Church of St Mary’s in Garnet Square. Severe, assiduous, a man of unimpeachable sincerity, even his enemies could not impugn the intensity of his belief. This fierce faith had drawn him from his possessions – he was of a known landed family – into the Church; this same conviction it was which drove him still. A zealot working alone in his impoverished parish, fasting consistently, eating no meat, drinking only water, wearing always a hair-shirt, flagellating himself at midnight before the altar – he practised in secret every chastisement of the flesh. He was named a fool, a saint, a bigot, but never – his very presence precluded it – never a humbug.
Tall, thin, and erect, his cadaverous figure had a relentless and almost bitter urgency. He was dark, with a lean, pale face, a fine beak of a nose, pinched nostrils, lips like a seam, large, severe, slightly sunken eyes. That face, like his manner, never relaxed, but remained always grave, strict, inwardly absorbed, openly almost formidable. Now, disrobing in the sacristy – a room dim, subtly tinged with the aromatic odour of incense and warm wax, and quiet save for the movements of two altar-boys, shuffling out of their cassocks in the corner – he took off his cope, folded it, removed his surplice. Then, suddenly, there was a knock at the inner door – that door communicating with the church.
‘Go out,’ said Talbot to the two boys, without turning his head. His voice was cold, austere, and they immediately obeyed him, leaving by the back way which gave immediate access to the yard. He finished smoothing the folded cope, put on his biretta, then advanced to the inner door and himself opened it.
‘I was expecting you,’ he said at once. And, admitting Lucy to the sacristy, he paused, contemplating her seriously. ‘So you have made up your mind?’
‘Yes, father.’
‘You have considered everything that I told you?’
‘I have considered it.’
‘To give yourself up utterly –’
She gave an emphatic affirmative, and for a moment the two stood facing each other in silence. His face was sombre and still severe, but now, as in the past, she drew a strange comfort from that firmness.
‘It’s the one thing I’m set on,’ she murmured, after a moment, ‘I’m determined on it. Nothing else has any value to me. I couldn’t give up the idea, and – and you advise it. I’m in your hands.’
‘You are in God’s hands,’ he corrected her sternly. There was a pause; he did not ask her to sit down, but stiffly made the interview a penance for them both. ‘I’ve known you for nearly nine months,’ he said at length, ‘and I know something of your life. You are not young. It is only the remnant that you have to offer. Still, if you are prepared to endure hardship, to make complete submission –’
‘I will – oh, I will!’ she broke in.
‘Then I am prepared to help you. I do consider that you have the vocation. That alone influences me. It has come to you late – but still, it is there.’ He paused, aloof, utterly detached, whilst she watched him with glowing eyes. ‘ I have given the matter some thought,’ he resumed. ‘The Order of the Servants of God; I know it well. It is the most suitable to you. Already I have sent two postulants there, and they have done admirably.’
‘I thought you spoke of the Carmelites,’ she br
oke in quickly.
‘It is too severe. You are not young enough to endure their, discipline,’ he asserted dispassionately. ‘Besides, you must remember your position, your age. What have you to offer that might induce them to admit you? No, under these circumstances they would not accept you.’
She flushed, but still maintained her gaze upon his face.
‘This Order I speak of – the severities are not great, though for all purposes it is enclosed. The only disadvantage is that the mother-house is abroad – it is at Sentians, near Brussels. You would be obliged to spend at least three years there – perhaps the remainder of your life. But probably when professed you would be sent back to one of the houses in this country.’
‘That’s nothing,’ she advanced eagerly. ‘I want to get away – to get away from everything.’
‘It is not what you wish. If you take the veil, you must forget what you desire.’ He paused again. ‘I have already written to the Mother General; and there are certain formalities which you must yourself complete.’
‘Yes – anything.’
‘Certain certificates – of birth, of confirmation, a medical certificate, and a certificate of your husband’s death. Finally, you will require two references. I, myself, naturally offer one of these, and the other’ – he looked at her swiftly – ‘I suggest that Canon Moore supply you with that.’