She found the little novice with all her soft straight brown hair hanging over her shoulders.
“Ah!” said Soeur Eugenie, “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 Soeur Eugenie’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.
Mere Therese looked at her very kindly, said “Vous etes contente, chere 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 sidedoor, 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 Mere Therese, 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.
Mere Therese, 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 etoufferiez!” she remarked matter-of-factly.
Then she smoothed back the hair already strained away from Frances’ temples, said “Voila!” 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. Mere 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 — very 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 heavyhanded 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 Mere Therese, waiting at the entrance of the chapel, muttering hoarsely: “Here she is, ma Mere, 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.
And it was undoubtedly Mrs. Mulholland who was whisking about the leaves of the little books on either side of her, and guiding her neighbours with an explanatory forefinger.
The little procession of acolytes, preceding the tall tonsured figure of the Prior of Twickenham, came into the Sanctuary, and Frances sank upon her knees on the red velvet cushion before the steps.
And it was only a few moments later, when the customary prayers had been recited, that she felt a pull at the back of her dress, and heard the ubiquitous voice of Mrs. Mulholland behind her.
“Sit down, sit down. He’s going to give the address now.”
Frances sat down, and Mrs. Mulholland leant forward at an angle that suffused her large old face with crimson, and arranged the train of her dress under the chair.
Father Anselm’s address was very short and simple.
There was much that was practical in it, and Frances felt vaguely relieved that it should contain no mystical allusions that might vex or distress Rosamund. This our sister, said the Prior, was about to take a step which, though to the outward eye might seem more striking, with its symbolical dress, than the more simple ceremony of a Profession, was nevertheless only a preliminary step. The goal of our sister’s religious life was still before her — those vows which should bind her irrevocably to the life to which she had been called.
Poverty, Chastity, Obedience. The vow of Poverty, which would not only mean the relinquishment of worldly goods and possessions, but also that poverty of spirit which should claim no rights and no belongings in this world, not even the rights of personal judgment, the disposal of self.
.. Then the vow of Chastity, which would discipline our sister’s earthly affections, rendering them indeed not less ardent, but more supernatural — a wide and universal charity which should include all... our sister had given up her earthly family ties: good and sacred as they were, the relinquishment of them was better still — but her family now would be the poor, the sick, the friendless — in all and each she would see and love God Himself. Finally, the vow of Obedience. Our sister would see the Will of God in the will of her Superior, and would gladly submit to it in greater as in smaller things. In the Order which our sister had joined, a nun might be sent at a moment’s notice to some far-off country, there to live and work and perhaps die, with no return to the land of her birth. But her home was not here — it was in the Heaven, towards which every step of the way was leading her... where, as the Scriptures themselves had promised, she would receive again a hundredfold all that she had given up for Christ’s sake.
The Prior’s voice ceased, and he turned again towards the Altar.
The time had come for Frances to reply to the few formal questions that would be put to her. She did so quite steadily, although her voice sounded strange in her own ears.
Then the habit which she was shortly to don was blessed, and Prior Anselm fumbled with the scissors and somehow cut from her head the symbolical lock of hair.
Mere Therese held back her veil as he did so, but Frances was conscious of Mrs. Mulholland hovering over her officiously.
Then she turned and slowly followed the Superior and Mere Therese into the little adjoining Sacristy where Soeur Eugenie was waiting to divest her of her white satin dress and lace veil, and help her into the garb which would henceforth be hers for life.
The white Cross, distinguishing mark of the Order, gleamed upon her breast now.
She lifted the linen coiffe, ingeniously pinned together, that bound her head under the veil, but Soeur Eugenie, laughing a little, pointed to her late handiwork, still erect upon the head of the novice.
“Allons,” said Mere Therese, and began to take out hairpins, careful to let none fall on the floor, where it might possibly be overlooked or swept away.
Then the lay-sister put a dustsheet over Frances’ shoulders and quickly cropped off the lengths of her brown hair.
The feeling of coolness and comfort was pleasant when the veil was again put on her head, but Frances gave one curious fleeting pang to the memory of that soft mass, lying strewn about the dustsheet.
The little Superior, who had been busying herself with the white artificial wreath of roses that lay ready, turned round.
“Sister Frances Mary “ — she greeted the novice by her new name—” God bless you, my dear daughter.”
Frances knelt for a moment to receive her Superior’s embrace, and then turned to Mere Therese.
“Et maintenant,” said that practical woman, as ever consecrating the briefest possible time to emotion, however permissible, “le baiser le paix aux soeurs.”
This exercise was one which Frances had always viewed with some slight apprehension.
The newly invested novice, bearing a lighted candle, made the round of the community, each nun and lay-sister standing at her stall in the chapel, also the bearer of a lighted candle, and exchanged with each the symbolical kiss of peace.
A nervous dread of the effect of so many lighted wax candles on inflammable veils and music scores sent the blood to Frances’ head and made her slow progress round the chapel a painful one, but the older nuns proved expert at holding veils out of possible contact with candle-grease, and moreover to her great relief, the draught of these repeated salutations extinguished several tapers, including her own.
As she returned thankfully to her prie-dieu, Mrs. Mulholland, who had mysteriously become possessed of a full-sized candle, leant forward and determinedly applied its flame to Frances’ cold and extinguished taper.
Frances smiled at her gently, and Mrs. Mulholland subsided into her seat again and blew her nose with a vigorous, trumpet-like sound denoting considerable emotion. Then the Prior read the concluding prayers and placed upon Frances’ head the wreath of artificial white roses, where it balanced insecurely until Mrs. Mulholland again sprang from her seat and
affixed it to the novice’s veil with a couple of safety-pins apparently produced by miraculous means from her person.
The Te Deum pealed through the chapel in conclusion, and then, as the community filed out in the customary order, two by two, Frances was left for a few moments to the solitude and quiet which her whole soul craved.
Her head bent and her hands tightly clasped, she made her earnest ardent thanksgiving, her simple, fervent resolution to try and be worthy of all that she had received, her tender, childlike petitions for those whom she loved, for all those for whom she had promised to pray, for that religious order which she was hereafter to count, in all its scattered branches, as her earthly home.
She lost herself in a dreamy contentment that was half contemplation and half the mental inertia following on prolonged physical and emotional strain. It was almost as though rousing herself from sleep that she heard a whispered summons to the parlour, and rose obediently to follow the lay-sister out of the chapel.
Scarcely less dreamlike was the afternoon spent in Rosamund’s company, when Frances took her once or twice round the tiny garden, showed her, in obedience to Mere Pauline’s recommendations, the poor school and the portion of the house reserved for lady boarders, and returned with her to the parlour, where Lady Argent, serenely voluble, was entertained by such of the nuns as could spare quarter of an hour.
“I can’t see your part of the house, and where you sleep, can I?” asked Rosamund.
It was almost the first suggestion that she had made, and Frances divined in her an intense anxiety lest she should unwittingly distress the novice by proposals or requests contrary to the mysterious rule of which she knew so little.
“No, of course not,” she added almost immediately, her eyes on her sister’s face. “I expect you’re not allowed to have visitors up to your cell.”
There was only the faintest sound of hope underlying the suggestion now.
“I’m afraid not,” said Frances rather mournfully. “But there’s nothing to see, really. It’s only a little cubicle in a long dormitory.”
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 83