“Can she want to live?” she half whispered.
“My dear, I am quite sure she wants only God’s Holy Will, whatever that may be.”
“Oh,” cried Rosamund, “you don’t understand. We’re talking of different people, you and I. You’re talking of a little prim, unnatural novice, dressed up, and doing a set of actions by routine every day, and saying her set prayers and phrases, and doing her work—and I—I’m talking of my Francie, my little sister who lived at home with me when we were in the Wye Valley, and played and laughed and was happy with me. She must want to come home—she must.”
Rosamund’s voice held agony, and the shadows round her mouth and under her great eyes were deepening until they seemed carved upon her colourless face.
Mrs. Mulholland gazed at her uneasily and said:
“Now do cry, my dear, it will do you a lot of good, and listen to me. I quite see that this is a most terrible trial for you, and it all seems dreadful and unnatural that your little sister should be leading this sort of life. But you know, she’s chosen it all of her own free will, and I’m sure she’s told you that she’s very happy with us, and only longing for the day of her final vows.”
“It’s glamour—madness—an enthusiasm—it can’t last.”
“It couldn’t last if it were only an enthusiasm, as you say, but you know God gives the grace to live up to a religious vocation. Your little sister has had that grace, and so she’s very happy. At first it’s all very difficult—the home-sickness, and the obedience, and the hard life—but that’s just Nature. The flesh is weak, you know, though the spirit is willing.”
“I thought she would come home with me now. I thought I had come to fetch her, and that perhaps we should go home together. When I heard she was ill, I thought it was sure to mean that she would come away then, and give it all up.”
“She could come away to-morrow if she wanted to. Novices are not kept against their will. No, no, dear, your sister’s vocation is a very real one. Tell me, you wish for her happiness, don’t you?”