Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  The novice-mistress looked cheerfully at one smiling face after another, as the novices vied with one another in childish enjoyment.

  “Soeur Aime, ma Mere! We have no one of that name.”

  “‘Innocente’ would suit her, I think,” said the American.

  “Is it a double name, ma Mere?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah, then one of them is Mary!”

  Mere Therese 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 notice anglaise, ah, par example!”

  “Voila bien Soeur Encarnacion! une de ses idbes a elle.

  Une religieuse qui s’appelerait Lolita! Ce serait gentil!”

  Soeur Encarnacjon looked self-conscious, and the novicemistress 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 Mere?” 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 clays’ 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. Mere Therese 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 Soeur Marie-Edmee 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 Soeur Marie-Edmee 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 Mere Therese had said briskly: “Ou Dieu donne la vocation, il donne la sante,” 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 Mere Therese’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 Mere Therese, and be very, very nice to her, because Mere Therese 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 Mere Therese’s door.

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

  “Un petit moment, ma soeur! 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.

  “Soeur 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 Mere Therese’s room opened, and Frances heard her say: “Tres bien, tres bien. Cherchez-mo: cette petite.”

  “Elle est la, Mire Therese.”

  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.

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

  Suddenly she turned to the novice and whispered huskily: “N’oubliez pas voire 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 Mere Therese was with her.

  The novice rose to her feet.

  After a very little conversation, Mere Therese looked towards Frances, who said instantly: “Is it time for me to go, ma Mere?”

  “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.

  Mere Therese looked at the two faces, so singularly alike in colouring and outline. “C’est gentil,” she said gently to Lady Argent, “deux sccurs qui s’aiment si bien.”

  Then Frances went quietly out of the parlour and upstairs again.<
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  She was aware that tears were very near her eyes, and that she understood why some of the novices had said: “Ah! les families, 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.