Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  This profitless inquiry, which Nina had hurled at her son some three times a week from the date of his tenth birthday, he allowed to drop unheeded.

  Nina, having voiced her annoyance that Morris had not put the obvious inquiry which she had meant him to put as to her newly-taken decision, allowed a moment to elapse, and then resumed in ordinary conversational tones: “They know me at the convent, and they’ll let me see her, all right. I could tell in one moment how things were.”

  “I should have thought Mrs. Tregaskis would be the best person to go, or Rosamund.”

  “Rosamund!” Nina laughed, shrilly, as she herself recognized with inward annoyance. “Rosamund is a little girl, my dear Morris. A child is of no use. It’s a matter for a woman of the world, with tact and experience. As for poor dear Bertie, with her sledge-hammer ways, I’m afraid she’d be worse than useless. But the Superior knows me — dear Mere Pauline!”

  Nina, with a slight effort, recalled the name of the Superior, and uttered it with a marked effect of intimacy.

  Morris laughed a little.

  “You could hardly count on her remembering you, could you, considering that it’s nearly two years since you went down for those few days, and were so terribly bored? I shall never forget coming down to fetch you home, and how thankful you were to get away from it all!”

  “Morris,” said Nina with dignity, replying to the spirit which had prompted this ingeniously perverted reminiscence, “if you can speak like that to your widowed mother, there is no more to be said to you.”

  Nina seldom claimed official rank, as it were, as Morris’ widowed mother, until the last outpost of her endurance had been reached, and as Morris was in reality sincerely grateful to her for never having presented him with a stepfather, he changed his tactics.

  “Of course, you could quite well go down from here for the day, but do you really think there’s anything wrong? If she was really ill, they’d send for Mrs. Tregaskis, I suppose.

  Anyway, she’s always been more or less delicate, hasn’t she?”

  “That sort of quiet, regular life ought to have made her quite strong,” said Nina negligently. “I must say, though, this is the first time one’s heard of her having a day’s illness there. The ungrateful little thing has never written to me, either, except one rather stilted, affected letter, just after she’d been given her religious habit. Evidently she was so pleased with the novelty of it all, she couldn’t help rather playing a part. Poor little thing! It didn’t ring quite true, somehow, when she spoke of praying for one, and signed herself, ‘Yours affectionately in Christ, Sister Frances Mary.’”

  Morris laughed, with a note of indulgence that appeared to Nina’s sensitive perceptions to savour somewhat too nearly of superiority.

  “That sort of posing never rings quite true, if very young people would only realize it,” she said, skilfully transferring her condemnation from the particular to the general, whence it might safely be assumed to include her son.

  “Frances was anything but a poseuse, mother.”

  “My dear boy, you haven’t the least idea — how could you at your age — of the effect that an atmosphere of that sort can have on a silly, impressionable girl. Poor little Frances probably wrote in that exaggerated convent style simply because she thought it would impress me with her holiness,” said the discerning Mrs. Severing.

  Morris shook his head, and even indulged in the cheap provocation of slightly curling his lip.

  “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 semi-tones 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, hex 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 us 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 h
er 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 anaemic, 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 mere 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 Mere 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.