chapter 11
suspects
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alexander pope: An Essay on Man, Epistle I.
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( i )
Ulrica doyle sat in class sewing her hopes and fears into a calico nightdress. The material was harsh with ‘dress,’ her needle—the second one that morning, for she had broken the first and, in consequence, had been presented with a Little Penance by Mother Cyprian for carelessness—was too fine for the type of work, and she was in morbid dread of breaking it as she had broken the first one. Since the death of her cousin Ursula, she had been nervous and clumsy over everything. Her ordinarily pale face was paper-white, and her eyes were blue-shadowed. She looked completely exhausted, as though she had not slept since the occurrence.
The fourth form began the morning on Tuesdays with needlework, and as a rule Ulrica was glad. The subject, in Lent, when the choice of the garments was guided, the children thought, by the penitential nature of the season, was not as attractive, to most of the form, as at other times of the year, when they learned embroidery, knitting and the drafting of patterns for clothes to fit themselves. But to Ulrica, who had the outlook of a mystic, there was something satisfying, in a harsh season, in the harsh material, the roughening of her fingers, even in a Little Penance for breaking needles. She needed to suffer, she felt, and wished that the suffering could be greater so that she could identify herself more closely with the solemnity and preparation of the time.
Her hopes, as she sewed, were high, and trembled on the brink of fulfilment. Already she had felt the call to the religious life, and her grandfather, her guardian now that her father was dead, had not attempted to dissuade her, in his letters, from pursuing the vision to the end, from entering one of the enclosed religious orders as soon as she was old enough to do so.
Her fears were as genuine as her hopes. She had had an interview, difficult for them both, with her aunt by marriage, after Ursula’s death. Mrs. Maslin had told her that she approved of her desire to enter upon her novitiate as soon as she was old enough, and had drawn a convincing picture of the dead child as another candidate for entry.
Ulrica, however, was not a fool. She disliked Mrs. Maslin intensely, and was always very polite to her in consequence. She saw through the attitude of approval, and reached back to the cause of it without difficulty.
“She doesn’t believe that grandfather will let his money go to the Church,” she said to herself. The thought troubled her, because Mrs. Maslin’s doubts were equally her own. She did not know how her grandfather’s fortune had been made, and she did not remember ever having seen the old man, for, although he had been her guardian for several of her fifteen years, he had had her brought up in England, and, except when they were invited to spend the holidays at Wimbledon with Mary, she and Ursula had remained at the convent, spoilt by the lay-sisters and mothered by the nuns.
“If Mary were out of the way… if Mary died,” she thought, her needle pushing carefully into the stiffness of the calico, her finger, where she had pushed the needle with it instead of with the covering thimble, springing red, “grandfather would not be tempted… he would have to leave me the money… there isn’t anybody else…”
After needlework came French with Mother Dominic, and, following French, in which she always shone—but why was the verb “tuer” that morning, and why did Mother Dominic ask her to give a sentence in the past tense, and why did she begin “
Mother Lazarus was small, white-faced and uncannily energetic. She reported upon King Henry VIII as though he were a personal enemy, and upon Martin Luther as upon a man who had cheated her at cards. She was a Frenchwoman, and had all the logic and sentimentality of an extraordinarily gifted race, so that usually Ulrica came away from a history lesson in tears, much as some Irishmen will cry at the mention of Ireland—or would, before the days of Home Rule—for history caught at all that was romantic in her nature, and with historical persons, especially the martyrs to religion, she completely identified herself. But on this particular morning she heard scarcely a word of the lesson, was all abroad when pounced on suddenly by Mother Lazarus for an answer, and achieved another Little Penance, which this time she took to her bosom with a smile as being simple, easy and near. It was to translate back into Latin and learn in the recreation hour to recite at supper that evening, a Lenten hymn. It was to Ulrica’s taste to do this, and she remained in the room to tell Mother Lazarus so. But the aged nun, with a chuckle, declined to alter the gift, and gave her a comfit out of a small tin box. It was extraordinary, Ulrica thought, as she walked sedately after her classmates to put away her books in her own form-room, that people should be so kind.
Having put away her history books, she tidied the desk meticulously against Mother Dominic’s daily inspection of lockers, put her hymnbook into the pocket of her overall so that she need lose no time after dinner in commencing her task for Mother Lazarus, and went along to the refectory. Seated next to Mother Francis, who presided, was the little old woman whom Ulrica had conducted round the grounds on the previous afternoon. ( 2 )
Mary Maslin ate slowly, and talked, in the low-voiced convent tones, to her neighbours. She was hungry; she was always hungry, and the discipline of eating slowly was for her a real one. At home she gobbled her food and talked very fast, about school. At school she conformed to the rules, because that was the easiest plan and led to the fewest complications.
After the meal was over, grace was said, and the girls went out for games. Mary played defending centre in netball, played well, and enjoyed herself. A sixth-form girl umpired the game, and two nuns, Mother Simon-Zelotes and Mother Cyprian, watched, with austere detachment, from the side-lines. That the religious took it in turns and always in pairs to supervise games and physical training lessons was a thorn in the flesh of Miss Bonnet, who regarded it as approximating to a vote of No Confidence in her, but, although she had made, at the beginning, a vigorous protest to Mother Francis upon the subject, the system of supervision was continued.
“We think it best,” Mother Francis had replied to every spirited argument. Against the rock of the headmistress’ invincible faculty of never engaging in controversy, Miss Bonnet’s protestations hammered in vain. Whatever the weather, so long as the children could be out in it at play, the two nuns on duty, stout in their habits like black birds with feathers ruffled against the cold, stood on the touch-line and watched, or appeared to watch, everything that went on.
