“Sister Paul!” Unorna exclaimed, recognising her as her face came under the glare of the lamp, and holding out her hands.
“Unorna!” cried the nun, with an intonation of surprise and pleasure. “I did not know that you were here. What brings you back to us?”
“A caprice, Sister Paul — nothing but a caprice. I shall perhaps be gone to-morrow.”
“I am sorry,” answered the sister. “One night is but a short retreat from the world.” She shook her head rather sadly.
“Much may happen in a night,” replied Unorna with a smile. “You used to tell me that the soul knew nothing of time. Have you changed your mind? Come into my room and let us talk. I have not forgotten your hours. You can have nothing to do for the moment, unless it is supper-time.”
“We have just finished,” said Sister Paul, entering readily enough. “The other lady who is staying here insisted upon supping in the guests’ refectory — out of curiosity perhaps, poor thing — and I met her on the stairs as she was coming up.”
“Are she and I the only ones here?” Unorna asked carelessly.
“Yes. There is no one else, and she only came this morning. You see it is still the carnival season in the world. It is in Lent that the great ladies come to us, and then we have often not a room free.”
The nun smiled sadly, shaking her head again, in a way that seemed habitual with her.
“After all,” she added, as Unorna said nothing, “it is better that they should come then, rather than not at all, though I often think it would be better still if they spent carnival in the convent and Lent in the world.”
“The world you speak of would be a gloomy place if you had the ordering of it, Sister Paul!” observed Unorna with a little laugh.
“Ah, well! I daresay it would seem so to you. I know little enough of the world as you understand it, save for what our guests tell me — and, indeed, I am glad that I do not know more.”
“You know almost as much as I do.”
The sister looked long and earnestly into Unorna’s face as though searching for something. She was a thin, pale woman over forty years of age. Not a wrinkle marked her waxen skin, and her hair was entirely concealed under the smooth head-dress, but her age was in her eyes.
“What is your life, Unorna?” she asked suddenly. “We hear strange tales of it sometimes, though we know also that you do great works of charity. But we hear strange tales and strange words.”
“Do you?” Unorna suppressed a smile of scorn. “What do people say of me? I never asked.”
“Strange things, strange things,” repeated the nun with a shake of the head.
“What are they? Tell me one of them, as an instance.”
“I should fear to offend you — indeed I am sure I should, though we were good friends once.”
“And are still. The more reason why you should tell me what is said. Of course I am alone in the world, and people will always tell vile tales of women who have no one to protect them.”
“No, no,” Sister Paul hastened to assure her. “As a woman, no word has reached us that touches your fair name. On the contrary, I have heard worldly women say much more that is good of you in that respect than they will say of each other. But there are other things, Unorna — other things which fill me with fear for you. They call you by a name that makes me shudder when I hear it.”
“A name?” repeated Unorna in surprise and with considerable curiosity.
“A name — a word — what you will — no, I cannot tell you, and besides, it must be untrue.”
Unorna was silent for a moment and then understood. She laughed aloud with perfect unconcern.
“I know!” she cried. “How foolish of me! They call me the Witch — of course.”
Sister Paul’s face grew very grave, and she immediately crossed herself devoutly, looking askance at Unorna as she did so. But Unorna only laughed again.
“Perhaps it is very foolish,” said the nun, “but I cannot bear to hear such a thing said of you.”
“It is not said in earnest. Do you know why they call me the Witch? It is very simple. It is because I can make people sleep — people who are suffering or mad or in great sorrow, and then they rest. That is all my magic.”
“You can put people to sleep? Anybody?” Sister Paul opened her faded eyes very wide. “But that is not natural,” she added in a perplexed tone. “And what is not natural cannot be right.”
“And is all right that is natural?” asked Unorna thoughtfully.
“It is not natural,” repeated the other. “How do you do it? Do you use strange words and herbs and incantations?”
Unorna laughed again, but the nun seemed shocked by her levity and she forced herself to be grave.
“No, indeed!” she answered. “I look into their eyes and tell them to sleep — and they do. Poor Sister Paul! You are behind the age in the dear old convent here. The thing is done in half of the great hospitals of Europe every day, and men and women are cured in that way of diseases that paralyse them in body as well as in mind. Men study to learn how it is done; it is as common to-day, as a means of healing, as the medicines you know by name and taste. It is called hypnotism.”
Again the sister crossed herself.
“I have heard the word, I think,” she said, as though she thought there might be something diabolical in it. “And do you heal the sick in this way by means of this — thing?”
“Sometimes,” Unorna answered. “There is an old man, for instance, whom I have kept alive for many years by making him sleep — a great deal.” Unorna smiled a little.
“But you have no words with it? Nothing?”
“Nothing. It is my will. That is all.”
“But if it is of good, and not of the Evil One, there should be a prayer with it. Could you not say a prayer with it, Unorna?”
“I daresay I could,” replied the other, trying not to laugh. “But that would be doing two things at once; my will would be weakened.”
“It cannot be of good,” said the nun. “It is not natural, and it is not true that the prayer can distract the will from the performance of a good deed.” She shook her head more energetically than usual. “And it is not good either that you should be called a witch, you who have lived here amongst us.”
“It is not my fault!” exclaimed Unorna, somewhat annoyed by her persistence. “And besides, Sister Paul, even if the devil is in it, it would be right all the same.”
The nun held up her hands in holy horror, and her jaw dropped.
“My child! My child! How can you say such things to me!”
“It is very true,” Unorna answered, quietly smiling at her amazement. “If people who are ill are made well, is it not a real good, even if the Evil One does it? Is it not good to make him do good, if one can, even against his will?”
“No, no!” cried Sister Paul, in great distress. “Do not talk like that — let us not talk of it at all! Whatever it is, it is bad, and I do not understand it, and I am sure that none of us here could, no matter how well you explained it. But if you will do it, Unorna, my dear child, then say a prayer each time, against temptation and the devil’s works.”
With that the good nun crossed herself a third time, and unconsciously, from force of habit, began to tell her beads with one hand, mechanically smoothing her broad, starched collar with the other. Unorna was silent for a few minutes, plucking at the sable lining of the cloak which lay beside her upon the sofa where she had dropped it.
“Let us talk of other things,” she said at last. “Talk of the other lady who is here. Who is she? What brings her into retreat at this time of year?”
“Poor thing — yes, she is very unhappy,” answered Sister Paul. “It is a sad story, so far as I have heard it. Her father is just dead, and she is alone in the world. The Abbess received a letter yesterday from the Cardinal Archbishop, requesting that we would receive her, and this morning she came. His eminence knew her father, it appears. She is only to be here for a short time,
I believe, until her relations come to take her home to her own country. Her father was taken ill in a country place near the city, which he had hired for the shooting season, and the poor girl was left all alone out there. The Cardinal thought she would be safer and perhaps less unhappy with us while she is waiting.”
“Of course,” said Unorna, with a faint interest. “How old is she, poor child?”
“She is not a child, she must be five and twenty years old, though perhaps her sorrow makes her look older than she is.”
“And what is her name?”
“Beatrice. I cannot remember the name of the family.”
Unorna started.
CHAPTER XIX
“What is it?” asked the nun, noticing Unorna’s sudden movement.
“NOTHING; THE NAME of Beatrice is familiar to me, that is all. It suggested something.”
Though Sister Paul was as unworldly as five and twenty years of cloistered life can make a woman who is naturally simple in mind and devout in thought, she possessed that faculty of quick observation which is learned as readily, and exercised perhaps as constantly, in the midst of a small community, where each member is in some measure dependent upon all the rest for the daily pittance of ideas, as in wider spheres of life.
“You may have seen this lady, or you may have heard of her,” she said.
“I would like to see her,” Unorna answered thoughtfully.
She was thinking of all the possibilities in the case. She remembered the clearness and precision of the Wanderer’s first impression, when he first told her how he had seen Beatrice in the Teyn Kirche, and she reflected that the name was a very uncommon one. The Beatrice of his story too had a father and no other relation, and was supposed to be travelling with him. By the uncertain light in the corridor Unorna had not been able to distinguish the lady’s features, but the impression she had received had been that she was dark, as Beatrice was. There was no reason in the nature of things why this should not be the woman whom the Wanderer loved. It was natural enough that, being left alone in a strange city at such a moment, she should have sought refuge in a convent, and this being admitted it followed that she would naturally have been advised to retire to the one in which Unorna found herself, it being the one in which ladies were most frequently received as guests. Unorna could hardly trust herself to speak. She was conscious that Sister Paul was watching her, and she turned her face from the lamp.
“There can be no difficulty about your seeing her, or talking with her, if you wish it,” said the nun. “She told me that she would be at Compline at nine o’clock. If you will be there yourself you can see her come in, and watch her when she goes out. Do you think you have ever seen her?”
“No,” answered Unorna in an odd tone. “I am sure that I have not.”
Sister Paul concluded from Unorna’s manner that she must have reason to believe that the guest was identical with some one of whom she had heard very often. Her manner was abstracted and she seemed ill at ease. But that might be the result of fatigue.
“Are you not hungry?” asked the nun. “You have had nothing since you came, I am sure.”
“No — yes — it is true,” answered Unorna. “I had forgotten. It would be very kind of you to send me something.”
Sister Paul rose with alacrity, to Unorna’s great relief.
“I will see to it,” she said, holding out her hand. “We shall meet in the morning. Good-night.”
“Good-night, dear Sister Paul. Will you say a prayer for me?” She added the question suddenly, by an impulse of which she was hardly conscious.
“Indeed I will — with all my heart, my dear child,” answered the nun looking earnestly into her face. “You are not happy in your life,” she added, with a slow, sad movement of her head.
“No — I am not happy. But I will be.”
“I fear not,” said Sister Paul, almost under her breath, as she went out softly.
Unorna was left alone. She could not sit still in her extreme anxiety. It was agonising to think that the woman she longed to see was so near her, but that she could not, upon any reasonable pretext, go and knock at her door and see her and speak to her. She felt also a terrible doubt as to whether she would recognise her, at first sight, as the same woman whose shadow had passed between herself and the Wanderer on that eventful day a month ago. The shadow had been veiled, but she had a prescient consciousness of the features beneath the veil. Nevertheless, she might be mistaken. It would be necessary to seek her acquaintance by some excuse and endeavour to draw from her some portion of her story, enough to confirm Unorna’s suspicions, or to prove conclusively that they were unfounded. To do this, Unorna herself needed all her strength and coolness, and she was glad when a lay sister entered the room bringing her evening meal.
There were moments when Unorna, in favourable circumstances, was able to sink into the so-called state of second sight, by an act of volition, and she wished now that she could close her eyes and see the face of the woman who was only separated from her by two or three walls. But that was not possible in this case. To be successful she would have needed some sort of guiding thread, or she must have already known the person she wished to see. She could not command that inexplicable condition as she could dispose of her other powers, at all times and in almost all moods. She felt that if she were at present capable of falling into the trance state at all, her mind would wander uncontrolled in some other direction. There was nothing to be done but to have patience.
The lay sister went out. Unorna ate mechanically what had been set before her and waited. She felt that a crisis perhaps more terrible than that through which she had lately passed was at hand, if the stranger should prove to be indeed the Beatrice whom the Wanderer loved. Her brain was in a whirl when she thought of being brought face to face with the woman who had been before her, and every cruel and ruthless instinct of her nature rose and took shape in plans for her rival’s destruction.
She opened her door, careless of the draught of frozen air that rushed in from the corridor. She wished to hear the lady’s footstep when she left her room to go to the church, and she sat down and remained motionless, fearing lest her own footfall should prevent the sound from reaching her. The heavy-toned bells began to ring, far off in the night.
At last it came, the opening of a door, the slight noise made by a light tread upon the pavement. She rose quietly and went out, following in the same direction. She could see nothing but a dark shadow moving before her towards the opposite end of the passage, farther and farther from the hanging lamp. Unorna could hear her own heart beating as she followed, first to the right, then to the left. There was another light at this point. The lady had noticed that some one was coming behind her and turned her head to look back. The delicate, dark profile stood out clearly. Unorna held her breath, walking swiftly forward. But in a moment the lady went on, and entered the chapel-like room from which a great balconied window looked down into the church above the choir. As Unorna went in, she saw her kneeling upon one of the stools, her hands folded, her head inclined, her eyes closed, a black veil loosely thrown over her still blacker hair and falling down upon her shoulder without hiding her face.
Unorna sank upon her knees, compressing her lips to restrain the incoherent exclamation that almost broke from them in spite of her, clasping her hands desperately, so that the faint blue veins stood out upon the marble surface.
Below, hundreds of candles blazed upon the altar in the choir and sent their full yellow radiance up to the faces of the two women, as they knelt there almost side by side, both young, both beautiful, but utterly unlike. In a single glance Unorna had understood that it was true. An arm’s length separated her from the rival whose very existence made her own happiness an utter impossibility. With unchanging, unwilling gaze she examined every detail of that beauty which the Wanderer had so loved, that even when forgotten there was no sight in his eyes for other women.
It was indeed such a face as a man would find it hard
to forget. Unorna, seeing the reflection of it in the Wanderer’s mind, had fancied it otherwise, though she could not but recognise the reality from the impression she had received. She had imagined it more ethereal, more faint, more sexless, more angelic, as she had seen it in her thoughts. Divine it was, but womanly beyond Unorna’s own. Dark, delicately aquiline, tall and noble, the purity it expressed was of earth and not of heaven. It was not transparent, for there was life in every feature; it was sad indeed almost beyond human sadness, but it was sad with the mortal sorrows of this world, not with the unfathomable melancholy of the suffering saint. The lips were human, womanly, pure and tender, but not formed for speech of prayer alone. The drooping lids, not drawn, but darkened with faint, uneven shadows by the flow of many tears, were slowly lifted now and again, disclosing a vision of black eyes not meant for endless weeping, nor made so deep and warm only to strain their sight towards heaven above, forgetting earth below. Unorna knew that those same eyes could gleam, and flash, and blaze, with love and hate and anger, that under the rich, pale skin, the blood could rise and ebb with the changing tide of the heart, that the warm lips could part with passion and, moving, form words of love. She saw pride in the wide sensitive nostrils, strength in the even brow, and queenly dignity in the perfect poise of the head upon the slender throat. And the clasped hands were womanly, too, neither full and white and heavy like those of a marble statue, as Unorna’s were, nor thin and over-sensitive like those of holy women in old pictures, but real and living, delicate in outline, but not without nervous strength, hands that might linger in another’s, not wholly passive, but all responsive to the thrill of a loving touch.
It was very hard to bear. A better woman than Unorna might have felt something evil and cruel and hating in her heart, at the sight of so much beauty in one who held her place, in the queen of the kingdom where she longed to reign. Unorna’s cheek grew very pale, and her unlike eyes were fierce and dangerous. It was well for her that she could not speak to Beatrice then, for she wore no mask, and the dark beauty would have seen the danger of death in the face of the fair, and would have turned and defended herself in time.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 476