Vow of Obedience Read Free

a gentle radiance over the carved altar and the pews where the nuns kept their several places. At the left, at the foot of the spiral stairs giving access to the library and the storerooms above, stood a statue of the Blessed Virgin, its tinted plaster slightly faded, a vase of chrysanthemums at its feet. Sister Joan, who had a sneaking liking for the flower though Sister David complained it was an untidy bloom, blessed herself from the holy water stoup and splashed a little on to the wilting bronze petals.
    Sliding into her accustomed seat, folding her hands, she felt the tiny flare of irritation that Mother Dorothy so often roused in her flicker and die. It was, after all, only fitting to greet the Master of the house immediately. She bowed her head and thanked Him for a safe journey and for the benefits of her recent retreat. *
    She prayed briefly for the other sisters, living and dead, and added on impulse a request that the missing girl – what was her name? Yes, Valerie Pendon – might turn up safe and sound. According to the posters she’d been missing for three days. Three days was a long time, time for almost anything tohave happened. She curbed her straying imagination, murmured a Hail Mary and rose from her knees, the craving for a hot cup of tea returning almost as soon as she was back in the corridor again.
    Her next duty was to report to Mother Prioress. She went across to the antechamber and tapped on the parlour door.
    ‘Enter.’ Mother Dorothy never kept anyone waiting. ‘Dominus vobiscum.’
    The familiar greeting that never altered when one entered the parlour. Sinking to her knees Sister Joan responded respectfully, ‘Et cum spiritu sancto.’
    ‘Sit down, Sister.’ Mother Dorothy nodded towards the stools ranged before the severe flat-topped desk on which she conducted her letter writing and other business.
    This had once been the drawing-room. Taking her place on a stool, back straight, feet together, hands lightly clasped, according to rule, Sister Joan kept her eyes firmly on her prioress with no sideways glance at the silk paper on the walls, the long panels of faded and exquisite tapestry. Now no carpet covered the bare polished floor and the furniture was utilitarian but the beauty of the room shone through.
    ‘Did you have a good retreat, Sister?’ Mother Dorothy gave her an expectant look.
    ‘In many ways, yes, Mother Prioress. It was cold and lonely at times, but the loneliness was never empty. I found that I actually met several local people, which I did enjoy.’
    ‘And your example may have inspired some of them to consider the deeper aspects of life.’
    Sister Joan rather doubted that but bowed her head meekly.
    ‘And you did some painting?’ Mother Dorothy looked at her.
    ‘Yes, Mother. In my case. Unsigned.’ For the life of her she couldn’t repress a faint sigh after the last word.
    ‘We shall find time to look at them later,’ Mother Dorothy said. ‘Some of them may be good enough to be sold at the Christmas fair.’
    How Jacob would mock if he could hear those words. Jacob, with his keen, clever, Semitic face, his scorn of those who wasted or threw away their talents.
    ‘Never sell yourself short even if you’re not aMichelangelo,’ he had instructed her. ‘And always be proud of what you do. Art is above all the expression of the artist’s own personality.’
    ‘Personality must be checked and repressed to a certain degree,’ Mother Agnes had advised. ‘It cannot be entirely eradicated; nobody would wish that, but we must avoid singularity.’
    Sister Joan doubted if that counsel of perfection would ever be achieved by her. However there was no point in worrying about it now. She murmured, ‘Thank you, Mother.’
    ‘Have you any particular observations on our Scottish retreat?’ the other wanted to know.
    ‘You do know there’s a steep climb up to it? It would be impossible for older members of the community to make the climb regularly.’
    ‘That