In all the absolute novelty of her surroundings the singleness of mind which was characteristic of Frances led her to seek and find that penetration into detail, that individual discipline, which she had instinctively asked from the Catholic Church. The convent world, where religion, and the outward and inward practice of religion, were the only admitted goals, brought to her mind that singular sense of completeness which is only achieved in an atmosphere where the scale of relative values held by our surroundings is identical to that which we have long borne in our own inner consciousness. She wrote long and happy letters to Rosamund.
Far otherwise was it with the unfortunate Nina Severing, who had already written to Morris, with whom she maintained a desultory correspondence that alternated between indignant denunciations and affectionate confidences, that “it really was too bad of Bertie to persuade me into this trip, simply because she wouldn’t undertake it herself. The nuns are very happy and peaceful in their narrow little world, but it is a narrow and borné outlook, and naturally a woman of my temperament, who has seen a great deal of life, is altogether out of her element here.”
Nina generally wrote with greater frankness to her son than to anyone else. The mental affinity between them was a strong one, and each was more agreeably aware of it when away from the other’s immediate society.
This aspect of her relations between herself and her prodigal, however, was not presented by Nina to Mère Pauline.
Morris served, as it were, as the point d’appui on which Mère Pauline’s interest in Mrs. Severing’s spiritual perambulations rested. It was painfully evident that in the eyes of the whole community the event of the Retreat was to be Miss Grantham’s reception into the Church—Mrs. Severing was merely an accessory, and one of considerably less importance, moreover, than even that unknown quantity, the family of the young convert who had, it was understood, given so generous a consent to her admission into the fold.
It grew hourly more imperatively evident to Nina that in Morris, and Morris alone, lay her sole claim to distinction.
“Ah, la pauvre! Elle a un fils qui la fait bien souffrir. Il faut prier, n’est-ce-pas?”
Such murmurs, from one to another of the community, might add faint lustre to Mrs. Severing’s name.
“Very interesting your little friend is, very interesting,” said Mrs. Mulholland to the reluctant Nina on the evening when the Retreat was about to begin. “We shall none of us forget her in our prayers, I’m sure—but I shall remember you too, Mrs. Severing. You have your troubles, I know—who hasn’t—but I shan’t forget yours during this holy time—no, indeed. I declare there’s the bell—we must go to the chapel. Well, well, pray for me and I’ll pray for you.”
Mrs. Mulholland adjusted her veil, stuffed a monstrous pile of small books and devotional-looking little black notebooks under her arm, grasped her long string of black rosary-beads, and hastily joined the stream of devout and thronging ladies now making towards the open door of the chapel.