Vocations by Gerald O'Donovan

Author:Gerald O'Donovan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Handheld Press

Chapter 10

The Mercy Convent looked down on Drumbawn physically as well as morally. At its feet were the parish church, the presbytery and the river. It was surrounded by extensive grounds shaded by stately beech and elm. Field after field by the diligent and judicious use of St Benedict’s medals, had been added to the original park of the Levis family till no house in the main portion of the town beyond the river escaped observation. The process of acquisition was simple, though sometimes long. The field giving a view of the old whitewashed Dominican convent on the northern outskirts of the town fell in ten years, while the field on the slope of the steep hill that made possible a private way from the convent to the parish church, held out for nearly two generations. Nine days before the feast of St Benedict in each year a medal was thrown into the desired field, a novena was offered up to the saint that God might intervene, and the result was awaited with confidence. The manner of fulfilment varied. A recalcitrant owner died, and his heir was moved to a sense of his religious duty by a substantial price. A novice brought in a field as a dot52. Bankruptcy made another possible. But the greatest marvel of all was longest in coming. The old reprobate, who for fifty years forced the nuns to walk to the parish church by the public street, died intestate, and his property all came to Sister Angelica, his niece, to whom he had frequently sworn he would never leave a cent. Sister Angelica never walked the gravelled path, shaded by trim juniper hedges, from the convent to the parish church, without meditating on the justice of God, manifested all the more strikingly as her uncle David had left an unsigned will bequeathing in a long clause of derision of the convent, the coveted field to a cats’ home.

On a genial morning of May three nuns walked slowly along the west terrace. The external duties of the day had begun. Nuns were busy over their allotted tasks in the schools, in the orphanage, in the house. Reverend Mother, Mother Bursar and the Mistress of Novices had thus a free hour in which to discuss important affairs of direction and government.

Reverend Mother peered over her glasses at the blaze of spring flowers, stooped down with difficulty, now to smell, now to cut off, with a scissors that hung from her leather girdle, a dead leaf or a fading blossom.

‘A lot of beds need renewing,’ she said briskly. Her slight note of defiance could not be meant for the Mistress of Novices who, looking at her with admiring eyes, hastened to say:

‘Indeed they do, Reverend Mother. Badly, very badly.’

Mother Bursar shot an angry glance at the Mistress of Novices, who blushed and added defensively:

‘You know, Michael53, they’re not looking their best.’

‘There isn’t another convent in the country has a better show of flowers,’ Mother Michael stonily said.

‘Not even the tulips?’ Reverend Mother pleaded.

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