THE GREY VEIL
Magda felt a sudden stab of fear. The sound of
the latch clicking into its place brought home to
her the irrevocability of the step she had taken.
That tall, self-locking door stood henceforth betwixt
her and the dear, familiar world she had known—the
world of laughter and luxury and success. But
beyond, on the far horizon, there was Michael—her
“Saint Michel.” If these months of
discipline brought her nearer him, then she would
never grudge them.
The serene eyes of the Sister who received her—Sister
Bernardine—helped to steady her quivering
pulses.
There was something in Sister Bernardine that was
altogether lacking in Catherine Vallincourt—a
delightfully human understanding and charity for all
human weakness, whether of the soul or body.
It was she who reassured Magda when a sudden appalling
and unforeseen idea presented itself to her.
“My hair!” she exclaimed breathlessly,
her hand going swiftly to the heavy, smoke-black tresses.
“Will they cut off my hair?”
As Sister Bernardine comfortingly explained that only
those who joined the community as sisters had their
heads shaven, a strange expression flickered for an
instant in her eyes, a fleeting reminiscence of that
day, five-and-twenty years ago, when the shears had
cropped their ruthless way through the glory of hair
which had once been hers.
And afterwards, as time went on and Magda, wearing
the grey veil and grey serge dress of a voluntary
penitent, found herself absorbed into the daily life
of the community, it was often only the recollection
of Sister Bernardine’s serene, kind eyes which
helped her to hold out. Somehow, somewhere out
of this drastic, self-denying life Sister Bernardine
had drawn peace and tranquillity of soul, and Magda
clung to this thought when the hard rules of the sisterhood,
the distastefulness of the tasks appointed her, and
the frequent fasts ordained, chafed and fretted her
until sometimes her whole soul seemed to rise up in
rebellion against the very discipline she had craved.
Most of her tasks were performed under the lynx eyes
of Sister Agnetia, an elderly and sour-visaged sister
to whom Magda had taken an instinctive dislike from
the outset. The Mother Superior she could tolerate.
She was severe and uncompromising. But she was
at least honest. There was no doubting the bedrock
genuineness of her disciplinary ardour, harsh and
merciless though it might appear. But with Sister
Agnetia, Magda was always sensible of the personal
venom of a little mind vested with authority beyond
its deserts, and she resented her dictation accordingly.
And equally accordingly, it seemed to fall always
to her lot to work under Sister Agnetia’s supervision.
