Alma kept her word, though perhaps her method of protection was such as
would have commended itself only to the heart of a child.
It consisted in calling me Margaret Mary after our patron saint of the
Sacred Heart, in taking me round the garden during recreation as if I
had been a pet poodle, and, above all, in making my bed the scene of the
conversaziones which some of the girls held at night when they were
supposed to be asleep.
The secrecy of these gatherings flattered me, and when the unclouded
moon, in the depths of the deep blue Italian sky, looked in on my group
of girls in their nightdresses, bunched together on my bed, with my own
little body between, I had a feeling of dignity as well as solemnity and
awe.
Of course Alma was the chief spokeswoman at these whispered
conferences. Sometimes she told us of her drives into the Borghese
Gardens, where she saw the King and Queen, or to the Hunt on the
Campagna, where she met the flower of the aristocracy, or to the Pincio,
where the Municipal band played in the pavilion, while ladies sat in
their carriages in the sunshine, and officers in blue cloaks saluted
them and smiled.
Sometimes she indicated her intentions for the future, which was
certainly not to be devoted to retreats and novenas, or to witness
another black dress as long as she lived, and if she married (which was
uncertain) it was not to be to an American, but to a Frenchman, because
Frenchmen had "family" and "blood," or perhaps to an Englishman, if he
was a member of the House of Lords, in which case she would attend all
the race-meetings and Coronations, and take tea at the Carlton, where
she would eat _méringues glacés_ every day and have as many _éclairs_ as
she liked.
And sometimes she would tell us the stories of the novels which she
bribed one of the washing-women to smuggle into the convent--stories of
ladies and their lovers, and of intoxicating dreams of kissing and
fondling, at which the bigger girls, with far-off suggestions of sexual
mysteries still unexplored, would laugh and shudder, and then Alma would
say:
"But hush, girls! Margaret Mary will be shocked."
Occasionally these conferences would be interrupted by Mildred's voice
from the other end of the dormitory, where she would raise her head from
her pillow and say:
"Alma Lier, you ought to be ashamed of yourself--keeping that child up
when she ought to be asleep, instead of listening to your wicked
stories."
"Helloa, Mother Mildred, is that you?" Alma would answer, and then the
girls would laugh, and Mildred was supposed to be covered with
confusion.
One night Sister Angela's footsteps were heard on the stairs, and then
the girls flew back to their beds, where, with the furtive instinct of
their age and sex, they pretended to be sleeping soundly when the Sister
entered the room. But the Sister was not deceived, and walking up the
aisle between the beds she said in an angry tone:
"Alma Lier, if this ever occurs again I'll step down to the Reverend
Mother and tell her all about you."
Little as I was, I saw that between Alma and Sister Angela there was a
secret feud, which must soon break into open rupture, but for my own
part I was entirely happy, being still proud of Alma's protection and
only feeling any misgivings when Mildred's melancholy eyes were looking
at me.
Thus week followed week until we were close upon Christmas, and the
girls, who were to be permitted to go home before the Feast, began to
count the days to the holidays. I counted them too, and when anybody
talked of her brother I thought of Martin Conrad, though his faithful
little figure was fading away from me, and when anybody spoke of her
parents I remembered my mother, for whom my affection never failed.
But, within a week from the time for breaking up, the Reverend Mother
sent for me, and with a sinking heart I went to her room, knowing well
what she was going to say.
"You are not to go home for the holidays this time, my child. You are to
remain here, and Sister Angela is to stay to take care of you."
She had a letter from Father Dan, telling her that my mother was still
unwell, and for this and other reasons it was considered best that I
should not return at Christmas.
Father Dan had written a letter to me also, beginning, "My dear daughter
in Jesus" and ending "Yours in Xt," saying it was not his fault that he
could not fulfil his promise, but my father was much from home
now-a-days and Aunt Bridget was more difficult than ever, so perhaps I
should be happier at the Convent.
It was a bitter blow, though the bitterest part of it lay in the fear
that the girls would think I was of so little importance to my people
that they did not care to see me.
But the girls were too eager about their own concerns to care much about
me, and even on the very last day and at the very last moment, when
everything was bustle and joy, and boxes were being carried downstairs,
and everybody was kissing everybody else and wishing each other a Happy
Christmas, and then flying away like mad things, and I alone was being
left, Alma herself, before she stepped into a carriage in which a stout
lady wearing furs was waiting to receive her, only said:
"By-by, Margaret Mary! Take care of Sister Angela."
Next day the Reverend Mother went off to her cottage at Nemi, and the
other nuns and novices to their friends in the country, and then Sister
Angela and I were alone in the big empty, echoing convent--save for two
elderly lay Sisters, who cooked and cleaned for us, and the Chaplain,
who lived by himself in a little white hut like a cell which stood at
the farthest corner of the garden.
We moved our quarters to a room in the front of the house, so as to look
out over the city, and down into the piazza which was full of traffic,
and after a while we had many cheerful hours together.
During the days before Christmas we spent our mornings in visiting the
churches and basilicas where there were little illuminated models of the
Nativity, with the Virgin and the Infant Jesus in the stable among the
straw. The afternoons we spent at home in the garden, where the
Chaplain, in his black soutane and biretta, was always sitting under the
old tree, reading his breviary.
His name was Father Giovanni and he was a tall young man with a long,
thin, pale face, and when Sister Angela first took me up to him she
said:
"This is our Margaret Mary."
Then his sad face broke into warm sunshine, and he stroked my head, and
sent me away to skip with my skipping-rope, while he and Sister Angela
sat together under the tree, and afterwards walked to and fro in the
avenue between the stone pines and the wall, until they came to his cell
in the corner, where she craned her neck at the open door as if she
would have liked to go in and make things more tidy and comfortable.
On Christmas Day we had currant cake in honour of the feast, and Sister
Angela asked Father Giovanni to come to tea, and he came, and was quite
cheerful, so that when the Sister, who was also very happy, signalled to
me to take some mistletoe from the bottom of a picture I held it over
his head and kissed him from behind. Then he snatched me up in his arms
and kissed me back, and we had a great romp round the chairs and tables.
But the Ave Maria began to ring from the churches, and Father Giovanni
(according to the rule of our Convent) having to go, he kissed me again,
and then I said:
"Why don't you kiss Sister Angela too?"
At that they only looked at each other and laughed, but after a moment
he kissed her hand, and then she went downstairs to see him out into the
garden.
When she came back her eyes were sparkling and her cheeks were flushed,
and, that night, when she took away her black and white whimple and
gorget on going to bed, she stood before a looking-glass and wound her
beautiful light hair round her finger and curled it over her forehead
in the way it was worn by the ladies we saw in the streets.
I think it was two nights later that she told me I was to go to bed
early because Father Giovanni was not well and she would have to go over
to see him.
She went, and I got into bed, but I could not sleep, and while I lay
waiting for Sister Angela I listened to some men who as they crossed the
piazza were singing, in tremulous voices, to their mandolines and
guitars, what I believed to be love songs, for I had begun to learn
Italian.
"_Oh bella Napoli. Oh suol beato
Onde soiridere volta il creato_."
It was late when Sister Angela came back and then she was breathing hard
as if she had been running. I asked if Father Giovanni's sickness was
worse, and she said no, it was better, and I was to say nothing about
it. But she could not rest and at last she said:
"Didn't we forget to say our prayers, Mary?"
So I got up again and Sister Angela said one of the beautiful prayers
out of our prayer-book. But her voice was very low and when she came to
the words:
"O Father of all mankind, forgive all sinners who repent of their sins,"
she broke down altogether.
I thought she was ill, but she said it was only a cold she had caught in
crossing the garden and I was to go to sleep like a good girl and think
no more about her.
But in the middle of the night I awoke, and Sister Angela was crying.