Thunder On The Right Read Online Free PDF Page B

broke in a jet of apprehension. All at once it became urgent, immediate, that she should see Gillian: it was both wrong and absurd that this should be made so difficult; a convent was not a prison, and, in any case, Gillian could not possibly have taken any vows yet, so the convent rules could not bind her. Why, then, should these impalpable barriers be erected between them at every turn? Ridiculous as the suspicion appeared, she began to see, in the silence of the girl at the gate, and in the unresponsiveness of this woman, evidence of a mysteriously motivated effort to keep her away from Gillian.
    She said levelly, "I know that my cousin has been ill; she wrote and told me so. If she is ill at present, I should be glad if you will tell me the truth about it. In any case, well or ill, I should like to see her. At once, please."
    This, at any rate, elicited some response. The heavy lids lifted, and the expressionless eyes met hers.
    "I am afraid that is not possible."
    "You mean I can't? " Jennifer moved sharply. "Why not? She's here still, isn't she?"
    Something flickered again behind the dark Spanish eyes, and, quite suddenly, Jennifer felt once more, deep inside her, the cold twist of fear.
    " Isn't she?"
    "Oh, yes," said the cool voice, "she is here. She died two weeks ago, senorita, and was buried in our churchyard. Shall I take you to her now?"

4 The Walk to the Paradise Garden
    It was in a state of merciful numbness, as yet unthawed into grief, that Jennifer, following her new guide, retraced her recent steps. Down the corridor, between the blind doors and the glaring windows, where the saints waited, dumb in their shadowed niches . . . I have found that which was lost ... St. Anthony's changeless smile passed over her unheeding head; nor did she lift her eyes as she went softly down the broad staircase between yet other ranks of watchers . . . St. Francis, St.
    Teresa, St. Sebastian . . . whatever of consolation lay in those dim canvases went unsought; she gave them never a glance. The hall, rich still in swimming light that swarmed gold-dusty with motes of blue and scarlet and topaz, the tunnel's cool echoing passage, the chapel door . . . these flowed by like a dream, forgotten even as it passes.
    And then they had left the building, and over them broke the brilliance of the blazing garden.
    If poverty had been the keynote of the convent buildings, its garden was redolent of wealth. There was, even here, certain evidence of monastic austerity, in that no flowers grew for the sake of their beauty alone, but the formal beds beneath the peach trees were rich with thyme and lavender and purple rosemary, while the feet of the pear and apple trees espaliered on the surrounding walls stood deep in a silver drift of sage. A row of apricot trees lent support to a disciplined riot of vines; below it, in careful ranks, fading stems were weighted with the fabulous red of tomatoes.
    There was even a pair of orange trees, standing sentinel at the end of a box-bordered path, looking, with their symmetrical heads hung with glossy green fruit, for all the world like guardians of some fantastic gateway to fairy tale, or to the herb garden pictured on some faded medieval page . . . basil, vervain, borage; saffron, hyssop, juniper; violet for heart's-ease, and blue clary and the little lemon thyme. . . . Over all hung the scent of spices and warm earth, and the resinous smell of the near pinewoods mingled sleepily with the fragrance of lavender. Not a bird sang, but the air was loud with bees.
    Of none of this was Jennifer even remotely aware; neither, it appeared, was her black-robed guide, who, for some doubtless cogent reason of her own, passed swiftly between the orange trees with downcast eyes, and led the way along a path whose borders held back a tide of balsam and drowsy poppies, toward an iron gate set in the east wall of the garden. But before she reached it, something—whether it was the sudden high drone of a bee passing