After a minute or two during which he could feel the uncomfortable violence of his heart he heard a movement and saw a dim shadow upon the gauze. Then the panel was pulled open and he saw the tall figure of the Abbess opposite to him, and behind her another little room exactly similar to his. He genuflected in the accustomed way and waited for her to sit down. Slightly smiling she sat, and motioned him to be seated too. Michael pulled his chair well up to the grille and sat down on the edge of it sideways so that their two heads were close together.
“Well, my dear son, I’m glad to see you,” said the Abbess in the brisk voice with which she always opened an audience.“I hope I haven’t chosen the most dreadfully inconvenient time? You must be so busy today.”
“It’s perfectly all right,” said Michael, “it’s a good time for me.” He smiled at her through the bars. His irritation, at least, was gone, overwhelmed by the profound affection which, mingled with respect and awe, he felt for the Abbess. Her bright, gentle, authoritative, exceedingly intelligent face, its long dry wrinkles as if marked with a fine tool, the ivory light from her wimple reflected upon it, reminiscent of some Dutch painting, reminded him of his mother, so long ago dead.
“I’m in a dreadful rush myself,” said the Abbess. “I just felt I wanted to see you. It’s been ages now, hasn’t it? And there are one or two little business details. I won’t keep you long.”
Michael felt relieved by this exordium. He had been afraid of being in some way hauled over the coals: and this was not the moment at which he wanted an intimate talk with the Abbess. In his present state he felt that any pressure from her would tip him over into a morass of profitless self-accusation. Taking courage from her business-like tone he said, “I think everything’s in train for tonight and tomorrow. Margaret Strafford has been doing marvels.”
“Bless her!” said the Abbess. “We’re all so excited, we can hardly wait for tomorrow morning. I believe the Bishop is arriving this afternoon? I hope I shall catch a glimpse of him before he goes. He’s such a busy man. So good of him to give us his time.”
“I hope he won’t think we’re a lot of ineffectual muddlers,” said Michael. “I’m afraid the procession tomorrow may be a bit wild and impromptu. There’s plenty of goodwill, but not much spit and polish!”
“So much the better!” said the Abbess. “When I was a girl I often saw religious processions in Italy and they were usually quite chaotic, even the grand ones. But it seemed to make them all the more spontaneous and alive. I’m sure the Bishop doesn’t want a drill display. No, I’ve no doubt tomorrow will be splendid. What I really wanted to ask you about was the financial question.”
“We’ve drafted the appeal,” said Michael, “and we’ve made a list of possible Friends of Imber. I’d be very grateful if you’d cast your eye over both documents. I thought, subject to your views, we’d send the appeal out about a fortnight from now. We can cyclostyle it ourselves at the Court.”
“That’s right,” said the Abbess. “I think, for a cause of this kind, not a printed appeal. After all, it’s something quite domestic, isn’t it? There are times when money calls to money, but this isn’t one of them. We’re only writing to our friends. I’d like to see what you’ve done, if you’d send it in today by Sister Ursula. We can probably add some names to the list. I wonder what sort of publicity our bell will get? That might help in some quarters, mightn’t it? I see no harm in the world being reminded, very occasionally, that we exist!”
Michael smiled. “I thought of that too,” he said.“That’s why I don’t want the appeal delayed. We won’t have any journalists present of course. Not that any have shown signs of wanting to turn up. But I’ve prepared a hand-out for the local press, and a shorter one for the national press. I talked the wording over with Mother Clare. And I’ve asked Peter to take some photographs which we might send along as well.”
“Well done,” said the Abbess. “I just can’t think how you find the time to do all the things you do do. I hope you aren’t overworking. You look rather pale.”
“I’m in excellent health,” said Michael. “There’ll be a let-up in a week or two anyway. I’m sure the others are working far harder than I am. James and Margaret simply never stop.”
“I’m worried about your young friend at the Lodge,”said the Abbess.
Michael breathed in deeply. That was it after all. He could feel a hot blush spreading up into his face. He kept his eyes away from the Abbess, fixing them on one of the bars beyond her head. “Yes?” he said.
“I know it’s very difficult,” said the Abbess, “and of course I know very little about it, but I feel he’s not exactly getting what he came to Imber to get.”
“You may be right,” said Michael tonelessly, waiting for the direct attack.
“I expect it’s largely his own fault,” said the Abbess, “but he is dreadfully out of things, isn’t he? And will be more so when Catherine is in with us “
Michael realized with a shock of relief that the Abbess was speaking of Nick, not of Toby. He turned to look at her. Her eyes were sharp. “I know,” he said. “It’s been very much on my mind. I ought to have done more about it. I’ll see to it that something is done. I’ll put someone, perhaps James, quite seriously on his tail. We’ll move him up to the house and just make him join in somehow. But as you say, it’s not easy. He doesn’t want to work. I’m afraid he’s only putting in a little time here. He’ll soon be off to London.”
“He’s a mauvais sujet to be sure,” said the Abbess, “and that’s all the more reason for us to take trouble. But a man like that does not come to a place like this for fun. Of course he came to be near Catherine. But the fact that he wants to be near her now, and the fact that he wants to stay in the community and not in the village, are at least suggestive. We cannot be certain that there is not some genuine grain of hope for better things. And if I may say so, the person who ought to be, as you express it, on his tail, is not James, but you.”
Michael sustained her gaze which was quizzical rather than accusing. “I find him difficult to deal with,” he said.“But I’ll think carefully about it.” He felt an increased determination not to be frank with the Abbess.
The Abbess studied his face. “I confess to you”, she said, “that I feel worried and I’m not quite sure why. I feel worried about him and I feel worried about you. I wonder if there’s anything you’d like to tell me?”
Michael held on to his chair. From behind her the spiritual force of the place seemed to blow upon him like a gale. It was ironical, he reflected, that when he had wanted to tell the Abbess all about it she had not let him and now when she wanted to know he would not tell her. The fact was, he wanted her advice but not her absolution; and he could not ask the one without seeming to ask the other. Not that the Abbess would be tolerant. But he shied away almost with disgust from the idea of revealing to her his pitiable state of confusion. The story of Nick she almost certainly knew already in outline; what she wanted was to understand his present state of mind, and that would inevitably involve the story of Toby. If he began to tell the whole tale he knew that he could not tell it, now, without an absurd degree of emotion and without indulging in that particular brand of self-pity which he had been used to mistake for penitence. Silence was cleaner, better, in such a case. Looking down he saw, laid along the ledge of the grille, quite near to him like a deliberate temptation, infinitely wrinkled and pale, her hand, which had been covered with the tears of better men than himself. If he were to reach out to that hand he was lost. He averted his eyes and said, “I don’t think so.”