“It’s no use — it won’t do for me to begin again. I can’t stay on. If I can’t get released from my vows I’ll — I’ll run away.”
Then there was a long silence.
When the priest spoke again, however, his voice held more of meditative speculation than of the anger which she feared.
“Supposing I could arrange it for ye — I don’t say I could, mind, but it might be done, if good reasons were shown — what would ye say to another religious order altogether? It may be that this life is unsuited to ye — there have been such cases. I know a holy Carmelite nun who was in quite another order for nearly fifteen years, before she found out where the Lord really wanted her. Are ye one of those, maybe?”
“No,” spoke Alex, almost sullenly. The conflict was wearing her out, and she was conscious only of a blind, unreasoning instinct that if she once gave ground, she would find herself for ever bound to the life which had become unendurable to her.
“What d’ye mean, No?”
“I want to go away. I want to be released from my vows.”
The formula had become almost mechanical now. The Jesuit for the first time dropped the brusqueness of manner habitual to him.
Pacing the length of the big parlour with measured, even strides, his hands clasped behind his shabby cassock, he let his deep, naturally rhetorical voice boom out in full, rolling periods through the room.
“Why did ye come to me at all, Sister? It wasn’t for advice, and it wasn’t for help. I’ve offered both, and ye’ll take neither. Having put your hand to the plough, you’ve looked back. Ye say that sooner than remain faithful ye’ll run away — ye’ll make a scandal and a disgrace for the Community that’s sheltered ye, and bring shame and sorrow to the good Mothers here. What did ye expect me to answer to that? If your whole will is turned to evil, it was a farce and a mockery to come to me — I can do nothing.
“But one thing I’ll tell ye, Sister. If ye do this thing — if it goes up to Rome, and the vows ye took in full consciousness and free will on the day ye were professed, are dissolved — so far as they ever can be, that is, and let me tell ye that it’s neither a quick nor an easy business — if it comes to that, Sister, there’ll be no going back. No cringing round to the convent afterwards, when ye find there’s no place and no welcome for ye in the world, asking to be taken back. They’ll not have ye, Sister, and they’ll be right. If ye go, it’s for ever.”
It seemed to Alex that he was purposely seeking to frighten her — that he wanted to add fresh miseries and apprehensions to those already piled upon her, and a faint resentment flicked at her in questioning acceptance of such an assumption.
The shadow of spirit thus restored to her, just enabled her to endure the seemingly endless exposition hurled at her in the priest’s powerful voice.
When it was all over, she crawled out of the room like a creature that had been beaten.
Stunned, she only knew that yet another fellow-creature had entered the league of those who were angered against her.
XXII
Rome
The crisis passed, as all such must pass, and Alex found herself in the position openly recognized as that of waiting for the dissolution of her religious vows.
It was as Father Farrell had said, neither a short nor an easy business, nor was she allowed to pass the months of her waiting at the Liège Mother-house.
They sent her to a small house of the Order in Rome, thinking, with the curious convent instinct for misplaced economy, to save the petty cost of incessant passing to and fro of correspondence and documents, between the convent in Belgium and the Papal Secretariat at the Vatican.
Alex went to Italy in a dream. It struck her with a faint sense of irony that she and Barbara, long ago, had entertained an ambition to visit Italy, standing for all that was romantic and picturesque in the South. After all, she was to be the first to realize that girlish dream, the fulfilment of which brought no elation.
At first she lived amongst the nuns, and led their life, but when it became evident beyond question that she was eventually to obtain release from her vows, the Community held no place for her any longer.
Her religious habit was taken away, and a thick, voluminous, black-stuff dress substituted, which the nuns thought light and cool in comparison with their own weighty garments, but of which the hard, stiff cuffs and high collar, unrelieved by any softening of white, made Alex suffer greatly.
The house was too small to admit of a pensionnat, but the nuns took in an inconsiderable number of lady boarders, and an occasional pupil. Alex, however, was not suffered to hold any intercourse with these. After her six months spent in Community life a final appeal was made to her, and when it failed of its effect she passed into a kind of moral ostracism.
She had a small bedroom, where her meals were served by the lay-sister who waited on the lady-boarders, and a little prie-dieu was put in a remote corner of the chapel for her use, neither to be confounded with the choir-stalls, nor the benches for visitors, nor the seats reserved for the ladies living in the house. The librarian Sister, in charge of the well-filled book-case of the Community-rooms, had instructions to provide her with literature. Beyond that, her existence remained unrecognized.
She often spent hours doing nothing, gazing from the window at the Corso far below, so curiously instinct with life after the solitude of the Liège grounds, encompassed by high walls on every side.
She did not read very much.
The books they gave her were all designed to one end — that of making her realize that she was turning her back upon the way of salvation. When she thought about it, Alex believed that this was, in truth, what she was doing, but it hardly seemed to matter.
Her room was fireless, and the old-fashioned house, as most Roman ones, had no form of central heating. She shivered and shivered, and in the early days of February fell ill. One abscess after another formed inside her throat, an unspeakably painful manifestation of general weakness.
One evening she was so ill that there was talk of sending for the chaplain — the doctor had never been suggested — but that same night the worst abscess of all broke inside her throat, and Alex saw that there was no hope of her being about to die.
The bright winter cold seemed to change with incredible rapidity into glowing summer heat, and a modicum of well-being gradually returned to her.
She even crept slowly and listlessly about in the shade of the great Borghese gardens, in the comparative freshness of the Pincio height, and wondered piteously at this strange realization of her girlhood’s dream of seeing Italy. She never dared to go into the streets alone, nor would the nuns have permitted it.
Her difficult letters to England had been written.
Cedric had replied with courteous brevity, a letter so much what Sir Francis might have written that Alex was almost startled, and her father’s man of business had written her a short, kind little note, rejoicing that the world was again to have the benefit of Miss Clare’s society after her temporary retirement.
The only long letter she received was from Barbara.
“Hampstead,
“March 30, 1908.
“DEAREST ALEX,
“Your letter from Rome was, of course, a great surprise. I had been wondering when I should hear from you again, but I did not at all guess what your news would be when it came, as we had all quite grown to think of you as completely settled in the convent.
“I am afraid that, as you say, there may be complications and difficulties about your vows, as I suppose they are binding to a certain extent, and they are sure not to let you off without a fuss.
“Your letters aren’t very explicit, my dear, so I’m still somewhat in the dark as to what you are doing and when you mean to come to London, as I suppose you will eventually do. And why Italy? If you’re going to get out of the whole thing altogether, it seems funny that the convent people should trouble to send you to Italy, when you might just as well have come straight to England. Howeve
r, no doubt you know your own affairs best, Alex, dear, and perhaps you’re wise to take advantage of an opportunity that may not come again!
“Travelling has always been my dream, as you know, but except for that time I had at Neuilly, when you came out — Heavens, what ages ago! — and then our honeymoon in Paris, which was so terribly broken into when dear mother died, I’ve never had any chance at all, and I suppose now I never shall have. Everything is so expensive, and I’m really not a very good traveller unless I can afford to do the thing comfortably, otherwise I should simply love to have run over to Rome for Easter and got you to show me all the sights.
“I suppose your time is quite your own now? Of course, when you really do leave the Sisters, I hope you’ll come straight to my wee cottage here — at any rate while you look about you and think over future plans.
“Cedric has written to you, I know, and if you feel you’d rather go to Clevedon Square, needless to say, my dear, I shall more than understand. Please yourself absolutely.
“But, of course, one’s always rather chary of unknown sisters-in-law, and Violet quite rules the roost now-a-days. She and Cedric are a most devoted couple, and all that sort of thing, but as she’s got all the money, one rather feels as if it was her house. I daresay you know the kind of thing I mean.
“She’s quite a dear, in many ways, but I don’t go there tremendously.
“Pamela adores her, and lives in her pocket. Pam tells me she hasn’t seen you since she was about fifteen — I could hardly believe it. My dear, I don’t know what you’ll think of her! She’s quite appallingly modern, to my mind, and makes me feel about a hundred years old.
“When I think of the way we were chaperoned, and sent about everywhere with a maid, and only allowed the dullest of dinner-parties, and tea-parties, and then those stiff, solemn balls! Pamela is for ever being asked to boy-and-girl affairs, and dinner dances and theatre-parties — I must say she’s a huge success. Every one raves about her, and she goes in for being tremendously natural and jolly and full of vitality and she’s had simply heaps of chances, already, though I daresay some of it has to do with being seen about everywhere with Violet, who simply splashes money out like water. She paid all Archie’s debts, poor boy — I will say that for her. The result is that he’s quite good and steady now, and every one says he’ll make a first-rate Guardsman.
“I’m writing a long screed, Alex, but I really feel you ought to be posted up in all the family news, if you’re really going to come and join forces with us again, after all these years. It seems quite funny to think of, so many things have happened since you left home for good — as we thought it was going to be. Do write again and tell me what you think of doing and when you’re coming over. My tiny spare-room will be quite ready for you, any time you like.
“Your loving sister,
“BARBARA MCALLISTER.”
Barbara’s letter was astounding.
Even Alex, too jaded for any great poignancy of emotion, felt amazement at her sister’s matter-of-fact acceptance of a state of affairs that had been brought about by such moral and physical upheaval.
Had Barbara realized none of it, or was she merely utterly incurious? Alex could only feel thankful that no long, explanatory letter need be written. Perhaps when she got back to England it would be easier to make her explanation to Barbara.
She could hardly imagine that return.
The affair of the release from her vows dragged on with wearisome indefiniteness. Documents and papers were sent for her signature, and there were one or two interviews, painful and humiliating enough.
None of them, however, hurt her as that interview in the parlour at Liège with Father Farrell had done, for to none of them did she bring that faint shred of hope that had underlain her last attempt to make clear the truth as she knew it.
She knew that money had been paid, and Cedric had written a grave and short note, bidding her leave that side of the question to his care, and to that of her father’s lawyers.
Then, with dramatic unexpectedness, came the end.
She was told that all the necessary formalities had been complied with, and that her vows were now annulled. It was carefully explained to her that this did not include freedom to marry. The Church would sanction no union of hers.
Alex could have laughed.
She felt as though marriage had been spoken of, for the first time, to an old, old woman, who had never known love, and to whom passion and desire alike had long been as strangers. Why should that, which had never come to her eager, questing youth, be spoken of in connection with the strange, remote self which was all that was left of her now?
She reflected how transitory had been the relations into which she had entered, how little any intimacy of spirit had ever bound her to another human being.
Her first love — Marie-Angèle:
“I love you for your few caresses,
I love you for my many tears.”
Where was Marie-Angèle now? Alex knew nothing of her. No doubt she had married, had borne children, and somewhere in her native Soissons was gay and prosperous still.
Alex dimly hoped so.
Queenie Torrance.
Her thoughts even now dwelt tenderly for a moment on that fair, irresponsive object of so much devotion. On Queenie as a pale, demure schoolgirl, her fair curls rolled back from her white, open brow, in her black-stuff dress and apron. On Queenie, the blue ribbon for good conduct lying across her gently-curving breast, serenely telling fibs or surreptitiously carrying off the forbidden sweets and dainties procured for her by Alex, or gazing with cold vexation on some extravagant demonstration of affection that had failed to win her approval.
In retrospect Alex could see Queenie again, the white, voluminous ball dresses she had worn, the tiny wreath of blue forget-me-nots, once condemned as “bad form” by Lady Isabel.
On Queenie Goldstein her thoughts dwelt little. She had heard long ago from Barbara of Queenie’s divorce, in an action brought by her husband, which had afforded the chief scandal of the year 1899, and then no one had heard or even seen anything of Queenie for a long while, and Barbara had said that she was reported to be abroad with her father.
Five years later Barbara had written excitedly:
“You remember that awful Queenie Goldstein? and how full the papers were of her pictures, when that dreadful divorce case of hers was on, and the five co-respondents and everything? You’ll hardly believe it, but she’s in London again, having succeeded in marrying an American whom every one says is the coming millionaire. I saw her at the theatre myself, in a box, absolutely slung with diamonds. She’s taken to making up her face tremendously, but she hasn’t altered much, and she’s received everywhere. They say her husband simply adores her.”
Alex still remembered the rebuke with which Mother Gertrude had handed her that letter, bidding her remind her sister that things of the world, worldly, had no place in the life of a nun.
Nevertheless, although she had put the thought from her, she knew that in her heart she had felt a certain gladness that her erstwhile playmate, given over though she might be to the world, the flesh and the Devil, had yet not found those things that she coveted to have failed her.
Queenie, at least, had known what she wanted, and Alex’ thoughts of her held no condemnation.
From Queenie, her mind went to the memory of Noel Cardew, and she was faintly surprised at the unvivid presentment of him which was all that she could evoke.
Noel had held no real place in her life at all.
Nothing that would endure had ever passed between him and her. It was years since she had thought of their ill-starred engagement, and then it had always been in connection with Sir Francis and Lady Isabel — their brief pride and pleasure in it, and the sudden downfall of their hopes.
Of Noel himself she had scarcely a recollection. Perhaps her clearest one was that of the earnest young egoist, only made attractive by a certain simplicity, who had taken her to sit in a di
sused ice-house one hot summer day, and had talked about photography. Of the later Noel, Alex was astounded to find that she retained no impression at all.
She could not even remember whether it was he or his brother Eric who had married red-haired Marie Munroe in the same year that she herself had taken her first vows as a nun.
Perhaps it was Noel.
At all events, he had probably married long ago, and Alex could believe that some corner of land in Devonshire was the better for the earnest supervision that he would accord to it, both in his own person and in that of the generation that would doubtless succeed him.
Mother Gertrude.
At the last and most worshipped of the shrines before which Alex had offered the sad, futile, unmeasured burnt-offerings of her life, her thoughts lingered least.
It had all been a mistake.
She had given recklessly, foolishly, squandering her all because life had cheated her of any outlet for a force of the strength of which she had had no measure given her, and now she had to pay the bitter penalty for a folly which had not even been met by answering human affection.
She wrote no letter to Mother Gertrude, and received no word from her.
As the days crept on, Alex, without volition of her own, found that her journey to England had been arranged for — that money was to be advanced to her for her expenses, that she was expected to supplement with it her utter penury of worldly possessions. One day she went out, frightened and at a loss, and entered some of the first shops she saw, in a street that led down from the Pincio Gates.
They were not large shops, and she had difficulty in making herself understood, but she purchased a ready-made blue-serge skirt, with a coat that she called a jacket, and an ugly black toque, that most resembled in shape those that she remembered seeing in London ten years earlier. She wore these clothes, with a white cotton blouse that fastened at the back and came high up under her chin, for some days before she left Rome, so as to grow accustomed to them, and to lose the sense of awkwardness that they produced in her.
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 115