“If we think here naturally of our own bell, the great bell of Imber which is so soon to make its triumphal entry into the Abbey, our thoughts will turn to one of our number who is also shortly to cross the lake and enter by that gateway: one in whom, and although she blushes I know she will forgive me, we so resplendently see the merits of which I have been speaking, the worth of innocence which is retained until it becomes knowledge and wisdom. She will doubtless chide me by saying that I speak of the beginning as if it were the end: and indeed the contemplative life is a way so endlessly transforming that it can scarcely be spoken of by an outsider: and he who asks for the contemplative life does not know what he is asking. But we who are merely, if I may put it so, camp-followers or fellow-travellers of holiness, must be excused our moments of enthusiasm. At such times as this one may well feel that the purposes of God are visible in this world. One may even feel that the age of miracles is not over. Certainly it will be, for this community, a most vital and perhaps decisive inspiration to know that someone who has so completely belonged to us, who has been one of ourselves, has taken that other path; and although we may rarely see her again, we shall know that she is near us and that we shall have her prayers. I had not meant to make this personal digression, but, as I say, I know dear Catherine will pardon me. And I think it no harm to say what, in this matter, we have all been thinking. And now, my friends, I must bring my remarks, which I fear have been awfully rambling and lengthy, to an end.”
James stumbled from the dais, looking rather shy and awkward now that the flow of his eloquence had ceased. Father Bob Joyce exhorted the company to pray, and with much pushing and scraping of chairs everyone knelt down. James hid his face at once in his large hands and drooped his head very low. Catherine knelt with her eyes closed and her hands folded, her face revealed and contracted with an emotion which Dora could not read. Michael had laid one hand, fingers spread out, lightly upon his brow, his eyes screwed up, frowning a little as he bent his head. Then Dora divined that Paul was watching her, and closed her eyes too. The prayer ended, the service was over, and the little congregation began to shamble out.
As they came out into the sunlit hall Mrs Mark detained Paul with some question. Catherine, who walked out just ahead of Dora, was smiling at James who was chaffing her in a rather ponderous way which was no doubt supposed to be a sort of apology. Dora felt he had laid it on rather thick, but was certainly right in thinking that he would be forgiven. His sincerity was monumental, and, in the light of his own remarks, Dora was ready to see his gaucherie as a remarkable spontaneous candour. Moved by him, she was even ready to imagine she believed in brotherly love. She smiled vaguely in his direction, and then found herself walking out onto the balcony with Catherine, James having vanished into the Common Room. He thinks a little talk with her will do me good! was Dora’s immediate reaction; but she looked at Catherine at ihat moment with interest, almost with affection.
“I liked your service,” said Dora, for something to say. She wanted to get into the sun, and began to walk slowly down the steps. Catherine walked with her.
“Yes,” said Catherine. “It’s quite simple, but it suits us. It’s difficult, you know, for a lay community where nothing’s ordained. It all has to be invented as you go along.”
They began to walk across the grass, taking the path towards the causeway.
“You’ve tried different things?” said Dora vaguely.
“Oh yes,” said Catherine. “At first we had it that everyone said the whole Office privately every day. But it was too much of a strain/
Dora, who had very little conception of what the Office was, heartily agreed. It sounded awful.
They walked out a little on to the causeway. The sun cast their shadows onto the water. The bricks, overgrown with moss and small plants, were warm underfoot; Dora could feel the warmth through her light shoes. The strong sense she now had of her companion’s shyness and nervousness set her at ease. She felt less afraid of Catherine, glad to be with her.
“It’s so hot,” she said, “it makes one want to swim. I can’t swim – I wish I could. I expect you can. Everyone can except me.”
“I never go into the water,” said Catherine. “I can swim, but not at all well, and I don’t like it. I think I must be afraid of water. I often dream about drowning.” She looked rather sombrely down at the lake: in the shadow of the causeway it was obscure and green, the water thick, full of weeds and floating matter.
“Do you? How funny. I never do,” said Dora. She turned to look at Catherine. It came to her how very melancholy she looked; and Dora, her imagination abruptly set in motion, wondered for a moment whether Catherine could possibly really want to be a nun.
“You can’t really want to go in there!” said Dora suddenly. “To shut yourself up like that, when you’re so young and so beautiful. I’m sorry, this is very rude and awful, I know. But it makes me quite miserable to think of you in there!”
Catherine looked up, surprised, and then smiled very kindly, looking straight at Dora for the first time. “There are things one doesn’t choose,” she said. “I don’t mean they’re forced on one. But one doesn’t choose them. These are often the best things.”
I was right, thought Dora, triumphantly. She doesn’t want to go in. It’s a sort of conspiracy against her. They’ve all been saying for so long that she’s going in, and calling her their little saint and so on, and now she can’t get out of it. And stuff like what James was saying this morning.
She was about to reply to Catherine when to her irritation she saw Paul coming towards them across the grass. He couldn’t leave her alone even for five minutes. Catherine saw him and with a murmur to Dora and an apologetic wave she turned and walked on across the causeway, leaving Dora standing.
Paul came up to her. “I couldn’t think where you’d got to,” he said.
“I wish you’d leave me alone sometimes,” said Dora.“I was having an interesting conversation with Catherine.”
“I can’t think what you and Catherine could find to say to each other,” said Paid. “You seem to have rather different interests!”
“Why shouldn’t I talk to Catherine?” said Dora. “Do you think I’m not worthy to, or something?”
“I didn’t say so,” said Paul, “but you evidently feel something of the sort! If you want my view, I think Catherine is everything that a woman should be – lovely, gentle, modest, and chaste.”
“You don’t respect me,” said Dora, her voice trembling.
“Of course I don’t respect you,” said Paul. “Have I any reason to? I’m in love with you, unfortunately, that’s all.”
“Well, it’s unfortunate for me too,” said Dora, starting to cry.
“Oh, stop it!” said Paul, “Stop it!”
Catherine had reached the other side of the lake and walked along under the Abbey wall. She passed the first door into the parlours, and went in by the door that led into the visitors’chapel. It seemed to Dora afterwards that she closed it behind her with a bang.
CHAPTER 10
TOBY pushed open the door of the Lodge. There was ample time after the Service and before lunch to have a swim. When he had opened the door and stepped half inside he paused, as he always did, wondering where Nick Fawley was. Murphy came forward wagging his tail and jumped up rather lazily, presenting his two forelegs to the boy to hold. Toby held him for a moment, nuzzling down onto the soft warm head, and then straightened up. No sign of Nick. He was probably out. With a feeling of relief Toby bounded noisily up the stairs and got his bathing trunks. Admonished by James he had got some cheaply in the village. He took his towel, which was rather grimy and rébarbative by now with the mud of frequent swims, but still serving.