Part 20

All letters to or from the members of the novitiate were, of course, examined by the novice-mistress, as were those of the professed nuns by the Superior. Nor was this censorship a nominal one. Mère Thérèse understood Spanish as well as French, and had a fair knowledge of English, but twice already Frances had been told to translate various unintelligible portions of her correspondence. Once, only a few weeks ago, she had heard the calm habitual silence of the little room where the novices’ desks were ranged against the wall violently broken by the noise of sudden uncontrollable sobbing. Frances blamed herself that she had not had the presence of mind to keep that custody of the eyes enjoined by every precept and practice of the religious life, but she had raised her head quickly and instinctively, and had seen Sœur Marie-Edmée crying hysterically over the torn pieces of a letter lying on her desk.

It was not difficult to guess that her letter to the anxious, waiting mother or little sister in the South of France had been found unsuitably restrained or full of indiscreet detail, and would not be sent that week.

But Sœur Marie-Edmée was from Marseilles, impulsive and emotional, and very soon afterwards she had disappeared from the novitiate.

The novices were told, as was customary in such cases, that her health was not equal to the strain of the religious life.

Frances thought again how terrible a breakdown of health which should necessitate leaving the convent would be. She was sincerely convinced that to one who had tried the cloistered life, existence “in the world” must be unendurable.

She remembered how often Mère Thérèse had said briskly: “Où Dieu donne la vocation, il donne la santé,” and reflected with perfect simplicity that it would really only be necessary for her health to hold out until after her final vows, which she hoped to take in three years’ time. She knew that many of the older professed nuns suffered almost permanently from disease, mostly of the digestive system, and almost all had to endure the nightly torture of senses atrophied and nerves strained by the want of sufficient sleep, but very few of them ever broke down, even for a day or two.

After all, thought Frances, what did it matter once the earthly goal attained? One entered the religious life in order to give oneself to God. Should He not take toll of the life dedicated to Him as best He pleased?

She waited for this first ceremony which should mark her entrance into the road of self-immolation with no shadow of apprehension.

Easter Monday dawned clear and cloudless.

Immediately after the first Mass, Frances was summoned to Mère Thérèse’s room and told that the ceremony was to take place at midday.

“Your sister will arrive, with Lady Argent, very soon after ten, so you must go to them in the parlour for a few moments,” she said considerately. “Then, of course, after the ceremony, you can return to them again.”

Frances, far more overwrought than she knew, found it impossible to command her thoughts that morning. She went about her work with her mind in a tumult, often referring to the tiny notebook in her pocket, in which she had written down various things that she wanted to say to Rosamund. When Advent came, and Lent, now that she was really a novice, Frances would not be able to write or receive any letters during these seasons, so Rosamund must not expect to hear from her. Rosamund was to ask to see Mère Thérèse, and be very, very nice to her, because Mère Thérèse had been so good to Frances. Would Rosamund send some fern-roots from Porthlew as soon as she got back? They would be so nice in the garden, where no flowers would ever grow. Frances was allowed an extra half-hour in the garden almost every day, because she was used to fresh air. It would please Rosamund to hear that.

Then Frances heard the sound of a motor in the street below. She might not look out of the window, but her heart beat violently, and she could not but strain her ears for the sound of the front-door bell.

It came.

She wondered whether she ought to go on sweeping the corridor, and if the lay-sister in charge of the parlour would know where to find her. But when old Sister Louise finally creaked slowly upstairs, she only smiled and nodded at the little novice with her long-handled broom, and went to knock at Mère Thérèse’s door.

Frances heard “Entrez!” and then through the open door the clear incisive accents of her novice-mistress.

“Un petit moment, ma sœur! Je vous appellerai tout-de-suite.”

Evidently she was engaged in the direction of one of her flock.

Old Sister Louise retired submissively, closing the door again. She leant her tired old body against the wall, and then suddenly straightened it again with an effort and stood wearily, her weight leaning on one foot, fingering the brown rosary that hung from her girdle and slowly praying with moving lips and closed eyes.

Frances finished the last few yards of corridor.

“Sœur Louise!” came from the novice-mistress’s room.

This time Sister Louise shut the door behind her as she went in to deliver the message.

Frances, her heart beating violently and a mist before her eyes, went and put her broom away in its accustomed corner.

She dawdled unconsciously, to delay the moment when she must return to the more remote community room belonging to the novitiate. Then the door of Mère Thérèse’s room opened, and Frances heard her say:

“Très bien, très bien. Cherchez-moi cette petite.”

“Elle est là, Mère Thérèse.”

Frances came forward quickly.

“You are needed in the parlour,” said her novice-mistress smiling. “Go with Sister Louise, my child.”

Frances turned, still blindly, to follow the old lay-sister.

“Your apron--your sleeves,” muttered Sister Louise in a scandalized whisper.

With fingers that shook, Frances took off the black apron and sleeves that protected her habit. She folded them and laid them in the accustomed pigeon-hole.

How slowly Sister Louise creaked downstairs! With what deliberation she turned, in the hall, to make mysterious signs that should not infringe the rule of silence, and should yet convey a communication.

Frances gazed at her in an agony. What further delay was this?

Suddenly she understood that her habit was still tucked up over her petticoat as it had been while she swept the corridor.

She caught at the folds round her waist and pulled them down, her hands shaking uncontrollably.

Sœur Louise’s hand was actually on the parlour-door now.

Suddenly she turned to the novice and whispered huskily:

“_N’oubliez pas votre Ave Maria._”

Frances stared at her for an instant and then put her hand across her eyes.

She never knew what it was that she said.

The next moment the door was open and she was in the parlour, with Rosamund.

Neither of them knew how long that first eager clasp endured, neither was in the least conscious of the presence of Lady Argent, gazing, already tearful, out of the window.

When at last she turned from her lengthy contemplation, Frances was seated, flushed and trembling a little, but sedate in her ample white habit, and Rosamund was kneeling on the floor beside her, their hands tightly locked together.

It always struck Frances afterwards with a curious sense of incongruity that her first words, after that prolonged gaze, should have been uttered in a strangely shaking little voice:

“Oh, Rosamund, you’ve got on new clothes that I’ve never seen before!”

It was the odd, trivial expression of the enormous interval that lay between their life together and the new evolution of Frances.

Then Lady Argent kissed them both and said:

“My dearest child, you look just exactly the same, and yet so utterly different, and the habit and everything--so absolutely natural to see you in it, and so very strange, dear--you know what I mean. I never was so glad of anything in my life, only, of course, one knows there is no joy without sacrifice, and, my dear, you really look better than I’ve ever seen you. Are you quite well?”

“Are you happy?” asked Rosamund.

“Oh, yes,” Frances replied fervently to both questions. “I’m _so_ happy--it’s everything I ever thought it would be--only better. And I’m very, very well. I haven’t seen myself in a looking-glass, but they all say I’m fatter than when I came.”

“So you are,” said Rosamund doubtfully. “Your face is much rounder, but you’re very black under your eyes, darling.”

“Am I?” replied Frances laughing a little, and instinctively putting up her hand to the tell-tale eyes.

Lady Argent fumbled in her satin bag.

“My dear, if it isn’t absolutely against the rule, and I don’t think it can be, would you like to see yourself in my little tiny hand-mirror? To think you’ve never seen yourself in the glass since you came here! And really the habit is so very becoming, though how you ever get your veil straight without a glass--not that a little one this size would be any use, only my maid and Ludovic always insist on my carrying it about with me because of my hat, you know. To keep it straight,” Lady Argent explained with a gentle push which drove her black toque over her left ear.

Frances laid the little mirror gently on her lap without looking into it. She did not know if the use of a looking-glass was for ever forbidden to a nun, but she felt no desire to risk a transgression of the rule.

“How long can you stay with us?” asked Rosamund wistfully.

Frances started painfully--she had forgotten to inquire.

“I don’t know,” she faltered. “You see, the _prise d’habit_ is at twelve, and it’s nearly eleven now. They will want me to go and get ready.” She gazed at Rosamund, wondering if her sister would think her more occupied with the observance of convent etiquette than with their meeting. That no such lack of comprehension was Rosamund’s was evident in her reassuring, “Of course, darling. Do you think you ought to go and find out when they’ll want you?”

Only the look in her eyes spoke the effort of sacrificing any of those few precious moments together, and Frances’ heart went out to her in passionate gratitude.

“Why can’t I ask to see Mother Theresa?” inquired Lady Argent. “I should like to see her, and then you can talk to Rosamund, dear, and we can find out all about how much time you can give us--but, of course, as it’s only one day like this, they’re sure to send you for the whole time--so much more satisfactory, I always think, than half-an-hour here and there and then rushing away because some dreadful little bell has rung and leaving one to look for hours at those very uninteresting photographs of Rome and places, in enormous albums. You know the sort of thing, my dear; I can see two of them on that big table over there. Don’t move, either of you. I’m going to find the portress and ask for Mother Theresa.”

Lady Argent left them.

It seemed to Frances only a few moments later that she reappeared, and Mère Thérèse was with her.

The novice rose to her feet.

After a very little conversation, Mère Thérèse looked towards Frances, who said instantly:

“Is it time for me to go, ma Mère?”

“I fear so, my child. You know that there is a grand _toilette_ to be made to-day. But you will return to _ces dames_ at once after the ceremony, and remain until they go.”

“Oh, thank you,” breathed Rosamund, gazing at her sister.

Mère Thérèse looked at the two faces, so singularly alike in colouring and outline. “_C’est gentil_,” she said gently to Lady Argent, “_deux sœurs qui s’aiment si bien_.”

Then Frances went quietly out of the parlour and upstairs again.

She was aware that tears were very near her eyes, and that she understood why some of the novices had said: “_Ah! les familles, un jour de prise d’habit_----” and had left the sentence unfinished except for an ominous shake of the head.

But she was also deeply and ardently thankful.

Nothing was changed between her and Rosamund. She thought with compassionate amazement of a _prise d’habit_ she had seen during her first week in the novitiate, when the novices had been asked to pray especially for their companion because her father and mother, non-Catholic, had refused to come to the ceremony or to send any token of forgiveness to the daughter who had taken her own way at the bidding of her conscience, and in defiance of her parents.

Even Cousin Bertie had written a very kind letter which Frances had received that morning, bidding God bless her in the way that she had chosen, and only asking her to remember that there was always a home waiting for her at Porthlew, and a welcome when, or if ever, she should come back there.

Hazel had written too, a very affectionate letter, and asked if she might send Frances anything for a present, whatever would be nicest and most useful, and would Frances always remember that good people were needed in the world dreadfully badly, and if she ever came out of the convent, and wanted somewhere to go to, she must come straight to Hazel, who would always love to have her.

They all wrote of her leaving the convent! Only Rosamund, the novice reflected, never said, or seemed to think, that Frances had mistaken her vocation.

Kneeling for an instant at the little shrine that stood outside the door of the dormitory, Frances thanked God for Rosamund, and prayed fervently that the step she was about to take that day might be blessed for them both.

“And some day--together again,” she ended on a stifled sob.

Then she went quietly into the dormitory.

XXIII

Frances could not help feeling that it was as well that her Retreat had officially ended that morning after the first Mass, for no further opportunity was vouchsafed her for reflection.

A French lay-sister, to whom the office was always entrusted, came to dress her in the wedding-dress of cheap white satin, convent-made, and long white lace veil.

She found the little novice with all her soft straight brown hair hanging over her shoulders.

“Ah!” said Sœur Eugénie, “au moins vous serez quitte de tout cela demain!” She picked up a strand of the long silken mass and let it fall again disdainfully.

“What a joy, to have finished with one’s _coiffure_ for ever!” she remarked complacently. Then she produced hairpins which had served in the same capacity many times before, and twisted the novice’s hair into a species of strange outstanding chignon which had been fashionable some forty years previously in Paris.

“Vous voila!” she said triumphantly, when Frances had suffered under her vigorous ministrations for what seemed a long while.

She produced a small, very old, folding mirror, and Frances gazed in silence at the monstrous erection. She was more distressed on Rosamund’s account than on her own, and tried surreptitiously to pull and coax the strained-back hair over her forehead and temples.

When the dress and veil were fastened she looked at herself in the glass again and saw with relief that the coarse lace draped over her head and face was thick enough to conceal Sœur Eugénie’s disastrous manifestations of her skill.

Then she pulled on the white cotton gloves that lay on the bed and tried to collect her thoughts whilst waiting to be summoned to the chapel.

It distressed her a little that her mind should still be vibrating from that little while with Rosamund. Nevertheless she was aware of an increasing happiness that seemed to pervade her soul, and to make all lesser, more surface preoccupations, of no account.

In a few moments she heard the brisk and heavy tread of the novice-mistress, and rose to meet her.

Mère Thérèse looked at her very kindly, said “Vous êtes contente, chère petite?” more as though stating a fact than asking a question, and on the monosyllabic but heartfelt reply of the novice, blessed her very tenderly. Then she took her downstairs. Frances followed her obediently to an unaccustomed entrance of the chapel, that which was used by the professed nuns, the lady boarders and visitors to the convent.

The novices always went in and out by a small side-door, which gave directly on to that part of the chapel where the community stalls were placed.

But Frances knew that for a _prise d’habit_ the double doors at the end of the chapel would be opened, and that she must pass up the narrow aisle thronged on either side by visitors, and through the light oaken framework of screen behind which stood the harmonium and the small choir of nuns and novices, and up to the steps of the Sanctuary.

Rosamund and Lady Argent would be each provided with a _prie-dieu_ just in front of the railings, where they could see and hear to the best possible advantage.

“Wait here,” whispered Mère Thérèse, well versed in every corner of the intricate and inconveniently built house.

She beckoned Frances into a small angular nook that served as a little lobby, between the main entrance to the chapel and the narrow staircase leading to the wing of the house reserved for the lady boarders.

“No one will disturb you. The ladies are all in the chapel already. Father Anselm has just arrived. You are quite ready?”

“Yes,” said Frances gently.

Mère Thérèse, grown strangely materialistic, all the practical Frenchwoman in her to the fore, arranged the modest train where it would be least crushed, and put back the veil that Frances had kept down.

“Vous étoufferiez!” she remarked matter-of-factly. Then she smoothed back the hair already strained away from Frances’ temples, said “Voilà!” in tones of satisfaction, and prepared to leave the novice alone.

Her parting instructions were:

“I will myself be awaiting you at the chapel doors when you hear the first notes of the _Ave Maris Stella_. Do not forget to put your veil down and walk slowly.”

Frances, left alone, sank into the only available seat. She felt very tired.

She wondered whether Rosamund was already in the chapel, and wished that she had tried to explain the ceremonial of a _prise d’habit_ to her sister. Then she derided herself for supposing that their brief moments of intercourse could have been spent thus. Besides, she remembered with relief, Lady Argent would have told Rosamund what to expect, and there were doubtless innumerable little paper booklets of an explanatory nature at the disposal of visitors.

She strove to concentrate her mind on higher thoughts, but only realized afresh, at the failure of the effort, her own excessive fatigue, part physical and part emotional.

Presently the stairs began to shake, and a creaking, ponderous sound of descent became audible.

Frances straightened herself, and reflected with dismay that she was entirely visible to anyone coming downstairs.

She closed her eyes and began to say the Rosary, trying in vain to fix her attention on the words she uttered mechanically.

The heavy footsteps became incredibly loud, and then paused in front of her.

“Now don’t,” said Mrs. Mulholland’s voice, “_don’t_ let me disturb you, my dear. Don’t move--don’t stir--not one word, my dear, though, of course, there’s no actual rule of silence for you just now, to-day. If there were, I shouldn’t be speaking to you, that goes without saying. But we’re not in silence for a clothing.”

Frances, convinced that Mrs. Mulholland knew all the convent regulations at least as well as did the Superior herself, rose, smiling a little.

“That’s right,” said Mrs. Mulholland zealously, “that’s right. Now, there’s just one word I wanted to say--I’m not going to keep you one moment--not that they’re quite ready for you yet in the chapel. Mère Pauline isn’t in her place and won’t be, either, for a moment or two. She’s detained.”

Frances wondered, not for the first time, whence was the source of the mysterious information that always seemed to be at Mrs. Mulholland’s finger-tips concerning the movements of the community, both individually and collectively.

“I knew I should find you here,” pursued the triumphant old voice. “I delayed coming down on purpose, so as to catch you. _I_ knew, my dear. The novices always wait just here for the ‘_Ave Maris Stella_’ to begin--have done for years. I’ve seen about twenty _prises d’habits_ in my time--some of them lay-sisters, some of them choir-sisters. One or two of them have left, you know, even _after_ taking the holy Habit of the Order. One English novice we had went away just when she ought to have been taking her first vows. Found she had no real vocation, you know. But there’s no fear of that with you, my dear, is there? From the first time I saw you here for the Retreat last year, with that nice friend of yours who wasn’t a Catholic, poor thing, I always said ‘Miss Grantham has the vocation. Mark my words,’ I said, ‘Miss Grantham has the vocation. She’ll come back here one of these days,’ I said. And sure enough! Well, well, well, you look very happy, my dear, _and_ in the right place.”

“I think so,” said Frances, smiling at her.

“That’s it, that’s it. Ah well, there’s nothing like God’s Holy Will,” said Mrs. Mulholland with an enthusiasm which was none the less ardent for sounding strangely vague. “If He’d thought fit to call me to the religious life--but no doubt I wasn’t worthy. That’s what I always say--not worthy.”

Mrs. Mulholland’s voice became cheerfully resigned. “But there it is,” she said with the air of one reaching a conclusion, “there it is. One is taken, and the other left. And your dear sister here for the ceremony and all.”

“Please pray for her, that she mayn’t mind too much,” said Frances, her eyes suddenly filling with tears. “She isn’t a Catholic.”

“Ah well, the sacrifice that you’re both making may bring a blessing on her--no doubt it will. And tell me, my dear, what about that nice friend of yours, Mrs. Severing, who came for the Retreat last year? I hoped we were going to see her to-day.”

“She couldn’t come, but she wrote to me.”

“Ah! Couldn’t leave the poor son, I dare say. Very likely--ve-ry likely,” said Mrs. Mulholland with lugubrious sagacity. “But she’ll have your good prayers, my dear, and you know you’ll never be refused anything on your clothing day. That’s really what I came to ask you--to say a little word for a very special intention of mine. Will you do that, my dear?”

“Of course I will,” said Frances, gently and cordially.

Mrs. Mulholland fumbled for a moment in her enormous pocket and then drew forth a folded piece of paper.

“Now just let me pin that inside your waistbelt, and I shall be quite happy. I’ve just dotted down the intention--initials only, you know--but the Lord will understand. I should like you to have it on you, my dear, and you can burn it afterwards, you know.”

Frances submitted to Mrs. Mulholland’s rather heavy-handed manipulation of the old-fashioned ribbon-band round her waist.

“There now! God bless you, and pray for me; and one thing more, my dear: You can count on me to say a few words to your sister. Just a little word of sympathy, or explanation, to show her that we Catholics----”

There came a sudden sound of voices uplifted in unison from the chapel.

“_Ave Maris Stella!_” exclaimed Mrs. Mulholland, and made Frances precede her out of the narrow lobby.

Thereafter it seemed to Frances that she was conscious of nothing so much as of the activities of Mrs. Mulholland. It was Mrs. Mulholland who gave her, as it were, into the hands of Mère Thérèse, waiting at the entrance of the chapel, muttering hoarsely: “Here she is, ma Mère, here she is. Pray for me, dear.”

It was Mrs. Mulholland who squeezed hastily past her into the chapel and made vehement signals that she was to advance, and it was Mrs. Mulholland who, by some agency known only to herself, had caused her own large _prie-dieu_ to be transferred from its customary corner in the back of the church to the best possible coign of vantage in a line with those of Lady Argent and Rosamund.

Even as the “_Ave Maris Stella_” pealed through the chapel, and she came slowly up the narrow aisle, it seemed to Frances that the husky, heartfelt tones of Mrs. Mulholland sounded above everybody else’s.