The Guests of Hercules | Page 7

hope," Mary said, "that she might come back here, after
everything turned out so dreadfully for her, and that she'd decide to
take the vows with me. Reverend Mother would have welcomed her
gladly, in spite of all. She loved Marie. So did the sisters; and though
none of them ever talk about her--at least, to me--I feel sure they
haven't forgotten, or stopped praying for her."
"Do you suppose they guess that we found out what really happened to
Marie, after she ran away?" Peter wanted to know.
"I hardly think so. You see, we couldn't have found out if it hadn't been
for Janet Churchill, the one girl in school who didn't live in the convent.
And Janet wasn't a bit the sort they would expect to know such things."
"Or about anything else. Her stolidity was a very useful pose. You'd
find it a useful one, too, darling, 'out in the world,' as you call it; but
you'll never be clever in that way, I'm afraid."
"In what way?"
"In hiding things you feel. Or in not feeling things that are
uncomfortable to feel."
"Don't frighten me!" Mary exclaimed. They had walked to the end of
the path, and were standing by the sundial. She turned abruptly, and
looked with a certain eagerness toward the far-off façade of the convent,
with its many windows. On the leaded panes of those in the west wing
the sun still lingered, and struck out glints as of rubies in a gold setting.

All the other windows were in shadow now. "We must go in," Mary
said. "Lady MacMillan will be coming soon, and I have lots to do
before I start."
"What have you to do, except to dress?"
"Oh!--to say goodbye to them all. And it seems as if I could never
finish saying goodbye."
Peter did not meet her friend again after they had gone into the house
until Mary had laid away the habit of Sister Rose the novice and put on
the simple gray travelling frock in which Mary Grant was to go "out
into the world." Peter had been extremely curious to see her in this, for
it was three years ago and more since she had last had a sight of Mary
in "worldly dress." That was on the day when Molly Maxwell had left
the convent as a schoolgirl, to go back to America with her father; and
almost immediately Mary Grant had given up such garments, as she
thought forever, in becoming a postulant.
Not since then had Peter seen Mary's hair, which by this time would
have been cut close to her head if she had not suddenly discovered, just
in time, that she had "lost her vocation." Mary had beautiful hair. All
the girls in school had admired it. Peter had hated to think of its being
cut off; and lately, since the sudden change in Mary's mind, the
American girl had wondered if the peculiar, silvery blond had darkened.
It would be a pity if it had, for her hair had been one of Mary's chief
beauties, and if it had changed she would not be as lovely as of old,
particularly as she had lost the brilliant bloom of colour she had had as
a schoolgirl, her cheeks becoming white instead of pink roses.
It seemed to Peter that she could not remember exactly what Mary had
been like, in those first days, for the novice's habit had changed her so
strangely, seeming to chill her warm humanity, turning a lovely,
glowing young girl into a beautiful marble saint. But under the marble,
warm blood had been flowing, and a hot, rebellious heart throbbing,
after all. Peter delighted in knowing that this was true, though she was
anxious about the statue coming to life and walking out of its sheltered
niche. When she was called to say goodbye formally, with other friends

who had loved Mary as schoolgirl and novice, Peter's own heart was
beating fast.
The instant she caught sight of the tall, slight, youthful-looking figure
in gray, the three years fell away like a crumbling wall, and gave back
the days of the "three Maries." No, the silvery blond hair had not faded
or lost its sparkle.
Mary Grant, in her short gray skirt and coat, with her lovely hair in an
awkwardly done clump at the nape of a slender neck, looked a mere
schoolgirl. She was twenty-four, and nearing her twenty-fifth birthday.
Of late, she had had anxieties and vigils, and the life of a novice of
Saint Ursula-of-the-Lake was not lived on down or roses: but the
tranquil years of simple food, of water-drinking, of garden-work, of
quiet thinking and praying had passed over her like the years in dreams,
which last no longer than