The inquiry was more than tinged with doubtfulness, as Bertha eyed her friend coldly, and Mrs. Severing, with a sudden access of austerity, replied in accents grown markedly remote:
“Really, Bertie, you mustn’t ask me to come between Frances and her conscience. I have a very great deal of influence with her, as you know, and I shouldn’t care to take such a responsibility on myself. The child’s instinct is a very pure and holy one, and personally I can’t see why she shouldn’t follow her own inspiration. It may very well be a God-given one.”
“I never heard such an outrageous piece of nonsense in my life,” declared Mrs. Tregaskis, for once losing control of her temper. “Anything to save trouble, Nina. That’s you all over. Always the line of least resistance! Well, I’m not going to let Frances ruin her life by taking a step of which she doesn’t even realize the meaning, before she’s seen anything of life. Even Roman Catholics insist on their daughters waiting until they’re of age before letting them enter a convent.”
“I’m afraid Frances isn’t your daughter, Bertie, which may make all the difference. Though really,” said Nina dreamily, “it doesn’t seem to matter much nowadays, since the younger generation takes its own line without reference to any standards but its own. The myth of parental authority is altogether done away with.”
“Frances isn’t made of the same stuff as Morris, my dear. Well, if you won’t or can’t help me, I must tackle the situation myself. It isn’t the first time I’ve taken on a tough job single-handed, and it won’t be the last, I don’t suppose. Ah well! it’s better to wear out than to rust out!”
In the ensuing weeks at Porthlew it appeared not unlikely that the process of wearing out would extend to other members of the household in addition to Mrs. Tregaskis.
Frances, white and exalted, spent her days in writing to the Prior of Twickenham and to Mère Pauline and the major part of her nights in tears. Only Rosamund realized how inflexible was the determination that underlay her sobbing protests.
Miss Blandflower bleated frightened auguries and ejaculatory condemnations, and Rosamund upheld Frances passionately and told herself that it would only be an experiment, and that, of course, Frances would never, never stay at the convent for life.
“Will they let you come away if you want to?” she asked tensely.
“Yes,” said Frances almost violently. “That’s what a novitiate is for.”