Frances wisely forbore to say anything further. “Tell me some more about Mother Serafina,” she pacifically suggested.
“Well, dear, I went to see her very frequently, and quite as much for my own sake as for poor Aunt Charlotte’s, who was quite past understanding things by that time—a sort of senile paralysis the doctor said it was, though I think myself it was only second childhood, as they call it; and of course she was very weak, and sinking a little every day. Nothing but beef-tea and milk, dear, and her rosary always in her hand, though I’m sure she couldn’t say a bead. She was a most devout Catholic, and the priest used to come and see her every day—and I remember I couldn’t bear him, which shows what a dreadful thing prejudice is. He was an Irishman, and very stout—I remember the stairs were such a trial to him—and really I could hardly understand a word he said, he spoke with such a brogue. I am afraid,” said Lady Argent with unutterable melancholy, “that I was far from looking upon him as I should have done, with the reverence due to a priest. He always used snuff, which seemed to me such a disgusting habit, and his hair wanted cutting so dreadfully. I am afraid I was most dreadfully narrow-minded about him, and I’m sure he was a very holy man.”
“It was a pity he was—untidy,” said Frances delicately.
“Yes, dear, but one is especially taught by the Church not to make rash judgments. I dare say I missed many graces by not talking to poor old Father O’Leary.
“However, poor Aunt Charlotte died, and I had to stay on after the funeral, sorting her things—such a collection, my dear! and I found so many references in her old letters and papers to my dear husband and myself, and wishing so much we might become Catholics. Not that dear Ludovic’s father would ever have dreamed of such a thing, though, of course, God can do anything he pleases; but dear Fergus was a Scotchman, and if he had one prejudice stronger than any other, it was against Romanists, as he always called them. Of course, if the Lord had willed it....” said Lady Argent very doubtfully, and shaking her head at the memory of the late Sir Fergus Argent’s determination, as opposed to Divine Omnipotence.
“But dear Fergus had been dead a long while, even then, and no doubt he views things very differently now. It’s such a comfort to feel that he must thoroughly approve, now, whereas if he’d been alive I’m very much afraid, dear, shocking though it is to say so, that he would have disliked my becoming a Catholic quite dreadfully—in fact, I really don’t know what might have happened.”
Lady Argent devoted a moment to the consideration of her spouse’s probable attitude towards her adoption of the Catholic faith, and hastily abandoned the tableau thus conjured up with a slight shudder.
“God certainly knows what He is about, dear,” she said thankfully.
“Did you go on seeing Mother Serafina at the Convent?”
“Oh yes. I had grown very fond of her by that time—and talked to her a great deal, and I shall never forget what a shock it was when I found I couldn’t ask her to stay with me here. She told me the nuns had all made vows of perpetual enclosure, you know, dear, and couldn’t move a yard out of the grounds except for the most serious reasons and with a dispensation from the Holy Father himself. And it wasn’t at all like the sort of old convent gardens one reads about, with alleys and box-hedges and cedars and things, but quite a tiny little gravel court at the back of the house, and only a plane-tree in one corner. In fact, I don’t know how all the community and the plane-tree and everything ever fitted into it at all, when they were out there for the midday recreation, though some of them did walk backwards, but I think that was only so as to see the Superior and hear what she was saying. But I’m sure they must all have bumped into the plane-tree a number of times. However, they all seemed very happy, and Mother Serafina always told me she had never known what happiness was until she became a nun.”