What was it the woman who had been kind had said in the parlour? Death is the goal of the religious life.
If she died it would be all over. Over for Frances, the long separation that the years would widen between her and Rosamund; over, the aching sense of home-sickness that surely the most detached of our sisters must know, the secret wail of “Never more” that is now only a temptation to be met and crushed. Over, the hard daily life—the monotonous early rising, battling with sleep in the cold of the chapel, the heavy day’s work, the inevitable recreation with guard on tongue and senses, the struggle to fix a tired mind on prayer or contemplation; over, the infinite tension, the stretching towards an unattainable ideal—all over in death.
So near to the abyss now that no more clutching at thoughts and memories can save her, Rosamund prays:
“Let her die. Let it all be over for her. Oh God, if there is mercy and pity in You let Frances die now. She has made the sacrifice—she was willing to give up everything for You—let that be enough—let her die now. Don’t let her come back to it all. If she dies now, it will be all over. She will be with You in Heaven perhaps, or else it will just be nothing—all over. That would be best—oh, that would be best. Never to know or feel anything any more—to be at rest.
“Let my Francie die now. I don’t even ask to see her again—it would break her heart to see me like this; let her only remember me as in the old days when we were together—she and I—as we shall never, never be any more.”
Never.
The sense of irrevocability has suddenly become poignant and unbearable. There is no going back. There is no solution.
And with that certainty comes the last failing clutch at the sense of proportion which lies at the back of sanity—and then the abyss.
“Poor child, poor child,” sobbed Mrs. Mulholland noisily outside the door. “Shall I bring her to you, Mother dear?”