With a curious impassivity that masked the intensity of her desire she had told Magda that, by the rules of the community, penitents who desired to make expiation were admitted there, but that if once the step were taken, and the year’s vow of penitence voluntarily assumed, there could be no return to the world until the expiration of the time appointed.
Somehow the irrevocability of such a vow, undertaken voluntarily, had not struck her in its full significance until Catherine had quietly, almost tonelessly, in the flat, level voice not infrequently acquired by the religious, affirmed it.
“Supposing”—Magda looked round the rigidly bare room with a new sense of apprehension—“supposing I felt I simply couldn’t stand it any longer? Do you mean to say, then, that I should not be allowed to leave here?”
“No, you would not be permitted to. Vows are not toys to be broken at will.”
“A year is a long time,” murmured Magda.
The eyes beneath the coifed brow with its fine network of wrinkles were adamant.
“The body must be crucified that the soul may live,” returned the cold voice unflinchingly.
Magda’s thoughts drew her this way and that. A year! It was an eternity! And yet, if only she could emerge purified, a woman worthy to be Michael’s wife, she felt she would be willing to go through with it.
It was as though the white-faced, passionless woman beside her read her thoughts.
“If you would be purified,” said Catherine, “if you would cast out the devil that is within you, you will have to abide meekly by such penance as is ordained. You must submit yourself to pain.”