Mother Philippa added another flower to the bouquet. She looked at it and, regarding it as finished, she presented it to Evelyn.
"I hope I did not say anything that caused you pain in the parlour. If I did you must know that I did not mean it. I I hope your father is quite well."
"Yes, he's quite well. You did not offend me, Mother Philippa," she said, raising her eyes, and in that moment the two women felt they understood each other in some mute and far-off way.
"The day you left us was Easter Sunday. It was a beautiful morning, and you walked round the rose garden with an old lady; she asked you to sing, and you sung her two little songs."
"Yes, I remember; her hair was quite white, and she walked with a stick."
"I am glad you remember; I feared that you had forgotten, as you were so long coming back. I often prayed for you that you might come and see us. I always felt that you would come back, and when one feels like that, it generally happens."
Evelyn raised her eyes, drawing delight from the nun's happy and contented face. She experienced an exquisite idea, a holy intimacy of feeling; there was a breathless exaltation in the heavens and on the earth, and the wild cry of a startled bird darting through the shrubberies sounded like a challenge or defiance. The sunset grew narrower in the slate-coloured sky, and the long plain of the common showed under two bars of belated purple. The priests and the Reverend Mother went up the steps and were about to enter the convent. Evelyn and Mother Philippa lingered by a distant corner of the garden marked by nine tall crosses.
"When I was here there were but six. I remember Sister Bonaventure, thin and white, and so weak that she could not move. She was dying far from all she knew, yet she was quite happy. It was we who were unhappy."
"She was happy, for her thoughts were set upon God. How could she be otherwise than happy when she knew she was going to him?"
A few minutes after, Evelyn was bidding the nuns good-night. The Reverend Mother hoped that when she made another retreat she would be their guest. Mother Philippa was disappointed that they had not heard her sing. Perhaps one day she might sing to them. They would see how it could be arranged: perhaps at Benediction when she came to make another retreat. Evelyn smiled, and the carriage passed into the night.