Part 23

“However that may be,” he said tolerantly, and disregarded Nina’s interpolated: “I’ve just told you how it is----” “However that may be, mother, if you really want to go down there, we could take the car to-morrow. It would be a really long run.”

He was quite aware that his mother had never for a moment seriously entertained the project of raiding the convent and obtaining an interview with Frances.

“I don’t know,” said Nina austerely. “I shall have to consider very carefully, Morris. It’s not the sort of undertaking that can be lightly rushed into.”

“Why not? The car is running beautifully just now.”

Nina gave him a glance of contemptuous rebuke. She could be flippant herself, but the flippancy of Morris caused her acute vexation.

“You are too inexperienced to know how extremely cautiously one may have to move in this sort of matter,” she said coldly. “People talk only too readily, and for the sake of poor little Frances, I don’t want gossip about her being kept at the convent against her will.”

“Considering she didn’t know a soul to speak of, and wasn’t even ‘come out’ before she went, I don’t think anyone is very likely to talk about her, I must say. Besides, no one is particularly likely to know whether you go down there or not, surely?” inquired Morris in tones of simplicity.

Few things, indeed, were better calculated to annoy the composer of the “Kismet” series than an assumption that her movements were left unchronicled and unregarded by the public eye. She now laughed with all the violent amusement so frequently simulated by intense fury.

“My dear, ridiculous boy! You’ve no idea how you make me laugh--if anybody could _hear_ you! Do you really think that your little, stupid, childish innuendoes, which one can see through so easily, can touch _me_--an experienced woman of the world?”

Nina made this inquiry of her son so frequently that only an infinitesimal pause was ever consecrated by either of them to the reply which Morris invariably confined to a sudden sulky lowering of his whole expression. He had brought the production of this look to a fine art, and it gave an admirable representation of frank happy-hearted youth and confidence sharply transformed into sullen, hopeless misery by the recurrence of an unjust, and yet oft-repeated, attack.

Inwardly, he was always rather relieved when his parent proceeded to definite rhetoric. It justified his own sense of grievance far more effectually than the covert and undignified verbal sparring which marked their more surface intercourse.

When Nina pitched her voice some three semitones lower than its natural note and said, “The day will come, my poor Morris----” her son felt that she was safely embarked upon a course well known to them both, and merely retained his sombre expression by a mechanical effort of will.

The successive stages of Nina’s contempt, her amused toleration, and at the same time her almost supernatural supply of patience and love for the blind and erring Morris, were reached and left behind, the youth and ignorance and folly of Morris and the store of regrets and bitter memories awaiting him in that future when Nina’s understanding and forgiveness would no longer be available, were all touched upon with the sure hand of long practice, and the final peroration beginning, “Ah, if youth but knew!” was almost in sight when Nina suddenly, and, her son considered, most unjustly, interpolated into her discourse a reference which she seldom made use of, and which always disquieted Morris profoundly.

“And, mind you, Morris, you won’t be able to go on like this with impunity, heartless and undutiful, and ungrateful to your mother, trading on her never giving you away to other people. The day will come when people _will_ know, and _will_ talk about it. That sort of thing doesn’t remain hidden for ever. You know very well that I would rather die than betray you, but--later on--that sort of thing comes out, Morris.”

Morris’ thoughts, not for the first time, fled apprehensively to his mother’s diaries.

These volumes, slowly accumulating ever since he could remember, had always held for him a subtle menace.

He knew that Mrs. Severing flew to them for solace, and had seen her more than once, with tears still gleaming on her golden lashes, bent over her desk, after interviews with her son similar to the present one.

And although Morris did not take his parent’s fame as a composer at her own valuation, he had never been devoid of an uneasy conviction that she meant to present posterity with her own conception of the author of the “Kismet” series, and a lively apprehension had consequently circled for him round the thought of her diaries almost ever since he could remember.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said sullenly, and wishing that he did not.

Nina looked at him pityingly.

“You must know very well, Morris, that your mother is a woman with an enormous circle of friends. One doesn’t want to be blatant,” said Nina, merely meaning that she did not want to be thought so, “but do you suppose that one day there isn’t bound to be some sort of record made--letters or journals published----” She hesitated artistically, as though implying an unlimited posthumous publicity which might doubtless be insisted upon by the enormous circle of friends, but of which modesty forbade her to speak. Morris, always more or less hypnotized by the perfect assurance which characterized his mother’s most outrageous utterances, into believing them, made a violent mental effort, and told himself that he was no longer a child.

“I don’t know what you mean, mother,” he untruly assured her; “but I can tell you one thing, and that is, as far as I am concerned, letters and everything else are invariably destroyed.”

“I should never count upon your loyalty to my memory, Morris,” said his mother sombrely.

A heavy silence prevailed.

Morris wondered vaguely, as he had often wondered before: “What is it all about?”

There never seemed to be any definite reason for the state of strain which existed between Mrs. Severing and her son, nor for the crisis of anger and reproach to which that strain was the inevitable prelude.

Morris could not see any definite reason why amicable relations between them should ever be resumed, and yet he knew that in the space of an hour, or less, it was quite possible that the atmosphere would have changed, by degrees as rapid as imperceptible, to one of complete sympathy.

That this forecast was in no way an exaggerated one was amply demonstrated on this occasion.

After her withdrawal from the room in all the dignity of grief and forgiveness--a withdrawal fraught for Morris with hypothetical diary-writing--Nina suddenly sought her son again in the course of that afternoon with every appearance of affectionate confidence.

“Morris, I’m really worried about poor Bertie. Did I tell you that I heard from her this morning? Frederick Tregaskis is ill--a chill or something--and she doesn’t like to leave him, and yet these convent people are writing to say that Frances is in the infirmary, and giving no details whatever. Simply say she’s very anæmic, and it may be what the doctor calls ‘pernicious.’ Bertie is torn in two.”

Morris, who was relieved at his parent’s altered tone, felt it due to her to reply with sympathetic concern, and even added:

“Couldn’t you go down to the convent yourself, and see about Frances? They’d be sure to let _you_ in, and then you could relieve Mrs. Tregaskis’ mind.”

Nina looked pleased.

“I might do that. But really I don’t know whether their rules and regulations would admit of a surprise visit. It’s possible, too, that they mightn’t quite realize who one was, as it is so long since I went there,” said Nina with gracious humility, making it evident that Morris was not to be alone in his concessions.

But the next day was a Saturday, and as neither of them had ever had the faintest intention of proceeding to the convent, it was in perfect harmony that Morris and his mother motored down to Hurlingham for the afternoon.

On their return, Nina took up a small sheaf of letters in her white-gloved hand.

“Bertie again!” she exclaimed lightly. “What an insatiable letter-writer that dear woman is.”

As she read the letter her face changed with that dramatic suddenness of which Morris considered only himself to be past master.

Contrary to his wont, however, he did not ignore his mother’s only less admirable histrionic effort.

“What is it?” he inquired, in suitably sharpened accents of apprehension.

Nina contrived to raise a face which had paled perceptibly, an effect which Morris regretfully noted as being beyond his compass.

“Poor little Frances! Bertha writes in the greatest terror and distress. Those convent people have actually telegraphed that she is very ill indeed, and in danger. Something about the Last Sacraments. They don’t say anything about wanting Bertie to go there, and in any case she’s not able to leave Frederick. But Rosamund went down there yesterday.”

Morris felt vaguely resentful. He disliked hearing of anyone else’s grief or anxiety, and he thought his mother’s agitation distinctly overdone.

“I hope she’s better by this time,” he said with reserve.

Nina turned slowly away, her hand pressed to her heart, every symptom of distress emphasized in contrast to Morris’ obvious desire to be rid of the subject.

“This is a heavier blow to me than you can realize, my poor boy,” she murmured in stricken accents. “It has been mother and daughter between Frances and me.”

XXVI

Rosamund, sick with anxiety, sat in the hideous little convent parlour, waiting.

Presently the door opened, and Mrs. Mulholland entered creakingly.

“Miss Grantham, isn’t it? Ah yes! I remember you quite well at Sister Frances Mary’s Clothing--dear me, how little we thought then--less than a year ago, wasn’t it, and now--well, well! God’s Holy Will be done! But the very day I learnt she was ill I said: ‘Ah dear, now, to think that such a little while ago I saw her taking the habit,’ I said; ‘God’s ways are not our ways,’ I said.”

“When am I going to see her?” asked Rosamund with white lips.

“Ah,” said Mrs. Mulholland, shaking her head, and appearing to think that she had given an adequate reply.

She sat down heavily.

“Now I want you to listen to me a moment, my dear child. You don’t mind my calling you so? No--that’s right. We’re all little children in the sight of God, is what I always say, and I’m sure you feel like that too.

“Now I wonder if you know why I’ve been sent in here to you?”

Rosamund shook her head dumbly. Mrs. Mulholland’s words barely penetrated to her outer senses, and her mind was tense with waiting for a summons that surely could no longer delay.

“Well, our Assistant Superior, Mother Carolina, whom you’ve seen already, sent for me, because she thought I might be of a little help to you. She’s very busy, Mother Carolina, very much distressed and grieved at our dear Mother Pauline’s illness, though it’s nothing very serious, thank God--and very much harassed and overworked with all the responsibilities that have fallen on her shoulders. But she found time to send for me, because she thought I might be of more comfort to you, not being a nun, and you being unused to convents and religious, than one of the community. Now that,” said Mrs. Mulholland impressively, “is what I call great delicacy of feeling. But that’s Mother Carolina all over. Nothing if not thoughtful. ‘_C’est la mère aux petits soins_,’ is what I always say about her.”

She looked at Rosamund’s white, inattentive face.

“You don’t quite understand our convent ways, do you?” she said compassionately, “and of course that’s very natural. But that’s why Mother Carolina thought you’d rather have me to explain things to you than one of the nuns, though she means to send the novice-mistress and the infirmarian to you presently, so that you shall have the very latest news of our dear little sufferer.”

“Yes,” said Rosamund gently. “It’s very kind. Thank you. But I know you’ll understand that I don’t want to see anybody except my sister just at present. Can you take me to her?”

She rose as she spoke, but Mrs. Mulholland did not move, and her large old face became mottled and suffused with pity.

“Now, my dear child, my dear child, you must be very calm and brave and make a little sacrifice. You know it’s quite against all convent regulations to let strangers into the enclosure--quite unheard of. It can’t possibly be done.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sister Frances Mary’s in her cell, dear--just where she was when she was taken worse, they haven’t been able to move her. You can’t possibly see her.”

Rosamund, with a pang that shook her physically from head to foot, realized subconsciously that it was for this that she had, in some strange way, been waiting.

“I can’t go to my own sister, who may be dying, and who wants me? I must go.” Her voice sounded utterly strange to her own ears.

“Now--now--don’t take it like that, dear. It is very hard, but that’s one of the sacrifices God asks of your dear little sister in return for the great grace of her vocation, and you must help her to make it generously. I know it’s hard for you, and---- Where are you going, dear?”

“To find my sister.”

Mrs. Mulholland heaved herself out of her chair, pinioned Rosamund by a kind but iron grip upon her arm, and began again very earnestly:

“Now do listen to me, my dear child, and be reasonable. You can’t break in upon the enclosure, you know, because, apart from the fact that it would be a most wrong and sacrilegious thing to do, nothing could possibly distress your sister more. She’s joined the Order heart and soul, you know, and it would be terrible to her to see its holy rules broken on her behalf.”

“She wants me.”

“Naturally speaking, she wants you, perhaps, but grace is stronger than nature, and she is living wholly and solely by grace now, you must remember. Indeed,” said Mrs. Mulholland, hoarsely and earnestly, “it would grieve her beyond words to have a scene in the enclosure, and with Mère Pauline ill as she is--it’s to be thought of, dear Miss Grantham.”

“But is she dying--is Frances dying?”

“That’s as God wills. Perhaps He will accept this sacrifice of yours and spare her life, if He judges best, and if not--the goal of the religious life is death.”

Rosamund looked at her wildly.

“Yes, my dear child. What is the life of a religious on earth but the seeking of a closer union with God? And how can the consummation of that union be reached but through death? A religious lives only to die.”

“Frances! Frances!”

“Now do cry as much as ever you like,” said Mrs. Mulholland in practical tones that contrasted oddly with the fervour that still illuminated her coarse, plain old face. “It will do you good. God knows very well that you can’t help _feeling_ your sacrifice, even though you make it with your will. And He won’t give you more than you can bear. Now, supposing we were to ask Him together to spare your dear sister’s life, if that is best for her?”

Rosamund’s eyes dilated slowly.

“Can she want to live?” she half whispered.

“My dear, I am quite sure she wants only God’s Holy Will, whatever that may be.”

“Oh,” cried Rosamund, “you don’t understand. We’re talking of different people, you and I. You’re talking of a little prim, unnatural novice, dressed up, and doing a set of actions by routine every day, and saying her set prayers and phrases, and doing her work--and I--I’m talking of my Francie, my little sister who lived at home with me when we were in the Wye Valley, and played and laughed and was happy with me. She _must_ want to come home--she must.”

Rosamund’s voice held agony, and the shadows round her mouth and under her great eyes were deepening until they seemed carved upon her colourless face.

Mrs. Mulholland gazed at her uneasily and said:

“Now do cry, my dear, it will do you a lot of good, and listen to me. I quite see that this is a most terrible trial for you, and it all seems dreadful and unnatural that your little sister should be leading this sort of life. But you know, she’s chosen it all of her own free will, and I’m sure she’s told you that she’s very happy with us, and only longing for the day of her final vows.”

“It’s glamour--madness--an enthusiasm--it can’t last.”

“It couldn’t last if it were only an enthusiasm, as you say, but you know God gives the grace to live up to a religious vocation. Your little sister has had that grace, and so she’s very happy. At first it’s all very difficult--the home-sickness, and the obedience, and the hard life--but that’s just Nature. The flesh is weak, you know, though the spirit is willing.”

“I thought she would come home with me now. I thought I had come to fetch her, and that perhaps we should go home together. When I heard she was ill, I thought it was sure to mean that she would come away then, and give it all up.”

“She could come away to-morrow if she wanted to. Novices are not kept against their will. No, no, dear, your sister’s vocation is a very real one. Tell me, you wish for her happiness, don’t you?”

“I wish for it so much that if I’d seen her happy and at peace here I would not have said one word--not one, to make her think I wanted her back. But I haven’t even seen her--I’m only told that she’s very ill, and not allowed to go to her. I _will_ go--it’s wicked to keep me from her.”

“Now, now,” said Mrs. Mulholland soothingly.

The door opened softly.

“Here’s Mother Juliana. This poor child is nearly frantic, Mother. She can’t understand not being allowed to go to Sister Frances Mary, you see.”

Mrs. Mulholland looked almost pleadingly at the tall, gentle old nun who had just entered.

“Ah,” said Mother Juliana, in a strong, slow voice that came oddly from her slight, bent figure with its habitual stoop. “I have brought you a message, then, that will be of comfort to you. Your sister is awake, and I said to her that you would like a message, but I did not tell her you were here--it was wiser not. She is very weak, _la pauvre_, but she whispered so softly: ‘Tell her: My love, and I am so happy.’”

“Thank God for all His mercies,” said Mrs. Mulholland with a sort of matter-of-fact promptness. “Is she better?”

“I do not think her better,” said the nun quietly. “I do not think she will get better in this world. God wants her for Himself.”

Rosamund looked dumbly at them both.

“She does not suffer,” gently said Mother Juliana with the same faint, remote smile. “She is very quiet and peaceful--and, as she said, so happy! She has the smile of a little child, mademoiselle.”

“There, there,” said Mrs. Mulholland, unconscious of the tears running down her face, “what did I tell you? Come into the chapel, my dear, with me. You shall be quite quiet there, and we mustn’t keep Mother Juliana. Is not the doctor due now?”

“Yes. I came down to see mademoiselle first, but I must return to my infirmary at once. I will come and tell you what he has said, my child, but do not have false hopes. God knows what is best.”

She turned and glided noiselessly out of the room. Her whole demeanour was one of ageless, passionless aloofness. She was very unlike Mère Pauline, quick, alert, human.

“Ah, I wish that Mère Pauline could have been here to see you, my poor child,” cried Mrs. Mulholland, as though involuntarily struck by the contrast. “But human comfort can do very little for any of us. Now come with me, won’t you?”

She took Rosamund’s hand as though she had been guiding a child, and led her to the chapel door.

“Go in there,” she whispered huskily, pointing to the half-open door. “I’ll come and fetch you when the doctor has gone away again.”

Rosamund went in and heard the door swing to behind her.

The chapel was very still and hushed in the afternoon sunlight. A tiny purple patch danced and flickered over the wall. Nothing else moved. As Rosamund’s eyes became accustomed to the semi-gloom she saw that the figure of a nun knelt upon an upright carved _prie-dieu_ just in front of the Sanctuary. The black veil and heavy habit hung in motionless folds. It seemed as though nothing could, or would, ever disturb that immovable contemplation again.

Rosamund knelt mechanically and remained on her knees, thoughts seething without any conscious volition of her own across the upper surface of her mind, and beneath, an abyss of misery toward which she felt herself slowly, slowly slipping. When the surface thoughts failed her, she knew subconsciously that she must touch those yawning depths. She wondered if the nun was praying. Making intercession, perhaps, for the Superior whose illness had flung the community into disarray--asking for the forgiveness of her own half imaginary sins--involuntary infringements of some convent regulation. Was she praying for those whom she loved--those who had perchance been all the world to her, before she chose to renounce all human ties and give herself to God alone?

Rosamund slipped a little further towards the abyss with the thought.

Once upon a time the woman kneeling there in her black draperies had been a little child, living at home with a father and mother, and no doubt other children--the children who had played together--shared the countless associations of a common childhood. Did the one who was a nun remember still, or had it all become unreal to her? Was the only reality her tranquil community life, with its loyalty to the Superior, to the Order, its forgetfulness of the things outside?

She had forgotten, perhaps. The children who had played together at home, the mother who had perhaps gathered them round her in the long summer evenings and called them home from their outdoor play when the afternoons grew short and dark, were all part of another life, to the nun. Now if she were dying, her mother would not be allowed to go to her....

Nearer--nearer still to that bottomless gulf.

If they came to see her, it would be “_un parloir_” for our sister--the Superior would send her down as to a duty, the time of her stay would be regulated. There is work to be done--work for the community, for the glory of God. Our sister cannot be spared for very long. But the Superior--the Superior herself will come down to the waiting mother and sister. They shall see the building--the Chapel--the Superior will arrange that tea should be brought to them in the parlour. And our sister is grateful--that the Superior, with so much to do, so much to think of, should yet spare some of her time and of her thought for the anxious visitors waiting in the grim little parlour.

_Why--ah, why?_

The edge of the precipice is very near now.

The nun has made her sacrifice--she has given it all up--the life in the world, the love in the world, the homely affections and joys in the world. They say that she has given it all to God. He wanted it then? He gave her all those things only that she might give them back to Him--and in return He gives her Himself.

They say so.

_They told Francie that._

Francie has given everything: her innocent youth, the old happy days with Rosamund, the days when they had been little children together in the Wye Valley, the small troubles and small enjoyments that had made up her life--all merged now into one vast reality, one supreme sacrifice.

What was it the woman who had been kind had said in the parlour? Death is the goal of the religious life.