“Ma Mère, may one ask if any of Sister Frances’ family are coming for
the ceremony to-morrow?” inquired the American novice at the evening
recreation on Easter Sunday.
“Her sister is coming for the day, and perhaps a friend. The poor child
has no parents.”
“Perhaps that is as well,” said a little French novice calmly. “It is
such a sacrifice for the parents, however pious, and the thought of
their grief must be a distraction.”
Her neighbour, a placid Spanish girl, looked surprised. In Andalusia
the parents of the Lola or Pepita who had “la vocacion” would let
her go with pride and joy, although they could not, like these
rich Americans, hope to see her for the yearly visit permitted by
the regulations, when, as would probably happen at the end of her
novitiate, she should be sent away to some house of the Order overseas.
She herself had only left home some few months ago, but even her little
sister Conchita, who was only ten, had been too glad of the great
honour and joy of seeing Maria a nun, to cry at losing her. But she
kept her thoughts to herself and remained silent.
The American novice, with a sudden recollection that hurt like a
physical pang, of a lonely, bewildered old couple in New England, as
unrelenting, as uncomprehending in their condemnation of their only
daughter’s lapse into an alien and idolatrous creed, quickly changed
the conversation by asking another question of Mère Thérèse.
“What name is she to receive, ma Mère?”
“Supposing you try to guess?”
The novice-mistress looked cheerfully at one smiling face after
another, as the novices vied with one another in childish enjoyment.
“Sœur Aimé, ma Mère! We have no one of that name.”
“‘Innocente’ would suit her, I think,” said the American.
“Is it a double name, ma Mère?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, then one of them is Mary!”
Mère Thérèse nodded.
“Mary Emmanuel!”
“Elizabeth Mary.”
The old nun shook her head, still laughing heartily.
“Lolita Maria,” exclaimed the little Spanish novice of eighteen who was
Frances’ neighbour in the chapel, selecting the names she thought the
prettiest.
There was a fresh burst of merriment.
“_Pour une novice anglaise, ah, par example!_”
“_Voilà bien Sœur Encarnaçion! une de ses idées à elle. Une religieuse
qui s’appelerait Lolita! Ce serait gentil!_”
Sœur Encarnaçion looked self-conscious, and the novice-mistress said at
once:
“Come, my children, you are not very wide awake. We have only five
minutes more--I see that I must help you. What do we call our little
_retraitante_ at present?”
“Sister Frances!”
“She is keeping her own name, then?”
“Could she have a better one? St. Francis of Assisi--dear St. Francis
of Sales--what a collection of patrons to choose from.”
“Is it Frances Mary or Mary Frances, ma Mère?” inquired the American,
whose baptismal names were Belinda Oriane, and upon whom had been
bestowed the appellation of Sister Perpetua.
“Frances Mary,” replied the novice-mistress, rising from her seat,
at which signal work was instantly folded into baskets and silence
resumed.
Frances was making the five days’ Retreat which preceded the ceremony
of her _prise d’habit_.
She was serenely happy.
There was no doubt in her mind with regard to the step which she was
about to take. It was merely a longed-for milestone on the road to the
attainment of her heart’s desire. Although more conscious than ever
before, during these few days’ pause in the activity of her daily life,
of an intense physical fatigue, she felt strangely uplifted in spirit,
and as though newly inspired with a spiritual energy which might
overcome that rock in the way of salvation, her physical frailty.
Strangely mingled with her exaltation of mind, was a trivial, childish
feeling of dread lest Rosamund might find her altered. She assured
herself in vain that she had not changed in any way that could strike
her sister with a sense of alteration. But she knew that her whole
perspective had changed, and that what was to her the reality of life
would seem no more to Rosamund than a mysterious, and rather futile,
phase.
She found herself wondering, wistfully and rather nervously, what the
regulations would be as to conduct in the parlour.
That her interview with Rosamund, brief though it was to be, would be
fraught with these, Frances could not doubt. In letters to her sister,
she had again and again to consider the injunctions laid upon every
nun or novice of the Order. Terms of excessive endearment, exaggerated
expressions of affection or solicitude, were alike unbecoming to a
religious, and of all the many details of her daily life that Rosamund
longed to know and Frances to impart, only a very few, and those of
the least personal character, did not come under the ban of convent
secrecy. The letters were always signed by the writer’s full “name in
religion.”
Frances, during the hour allotted to letter-writing on Sundays, had
often seen her American neighbour, in the unavoidable proximity of the
small, closely-ranged desks, crying silently over those difficult
letters, which in her case were never answered. Frances surmised
involuntarily that the changed handwriting, forced to conform to a
sloping, pointed, French model, the stilted phraseology which was the
inevitable outcome of that enforced reserve, the strange signature,
with its orthodox preface, “Your loving child in Christ,” were so many
additional pangs to those who understood no conventual shibboleths and
resented with a resentment that was the more bitter for its utter lack
of comprehension, being robbed of child or sister.
Rosamund would understand, Frances had told herself passionately,
inditing those first strange little letters, that made her heart ache
for the disappointment they must carry with them. And that Rosamund
_had_ understood she knew from her replies, guarded and restrained
enough, but breathing no hint of doubt or perplexity.
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.