“Let me speak,” earnestly said Mrs. Mulholland. Unnecessarily.
No one could have stopped her.
Bertha Tregaskis did not attempt to, but listened with a broad, if
rather fixed smile, and an impatient foot tapping the floor with sharp,
irregular beats.
Regardless of the fact that it was Sunday evening, and that Mrs.
Mulholland’s hands were locked, severely unoccupied, in her ample lap,
Bertha was knitting vigorously.
She had had a day of interviews, in which it seemed to her that the
Prior of Twickenham’s bland assumption of a knowledge of the world
which he obviously did not possess was only less provoking than Mère
Pauline’s austere conviction that _le bon Dieu_ alone was conducting
the _affaire Frances_ and was not, and never had been, in receipt of
extraneous aid from even the most chosen of His instruments.
Smilingly refusing to take these or similar assertions in any way
for granted, Bertha had nevertheless made small headway against
the unescapable fact that Frances, and that potent agent, Frances’
conscience, were arrayed against her.
Vexed in spirit, but still indomitable, she had fallen a victim, at the
end of the day, to the assiduous pursuit of the zealous Mrs. Mulholland.
“_La mère des dames pensionnaires_,” was her emotional introduction of
herself, spoken with an atrocious accent.
“That’s what our lay-sisters here all call me, you know. The mother
of the lady boarders. That’s what it means: the mother of the lady
boarders.”
Bertha smiled.
“_La mère des dames pensionnaires_,” she repeated, less because she
was impressed by the title than in order that her French pronunciation
should make it evident how extremely unnecessary Mrs. Mulholland’s
translation had been.
“That’s it, my dear--excuse me calling you so--that’s it. I see you
understand French as well as I do myself. I always say that’s one of
the advantages of living with a French community, as I do--one gets to
know the language as though it was one’s own. Quite a French order,
ours is, you know--founded by a Frenchwoman, Mam’selle Simone Vergy de
Lange, in Paris. Ah, poor Paris! No convents there now, you know, Mrs.
Tregaskis.”
“No, alas! Even when I was last there, about ten years ago, it----”
“Terribly sad, terribly sad,” interrupted Mrs. Mulholland; “but it’ll
bring a judgment on the country. Mark my words, it’ll bring a judgment.
All those flourishing Orders scattered and sent into exile--they can’t
feel it anything but exile, you know--there they are, all over the
place.”
Mrs. Tregaskis cleared her throat resolutely.
“A good many of them have found hospitality here in England,” she began
firmly.
“Ah, yes, yes, yes. A blessing in disguise for this poor Protestant
country--that’s what I always feel. Who knows what it may lead to?
I dare say it’s largely for England’s sake that all this terrible
persecution has been allowed, and then in return for the charity and
hospitality they’ve received, these good monks and nuns will help to
spread the Faith.”
“I’m not a Roman Catholic,” said Mrs. Tregaskis.
She might have omitted the “Roman” but for her certainty of Mrs.
Mulholland’s complete invulnerability.
In effect, Mrs. Mulholland merely retorted in unabashed assent:
“Quite so, quite so. You’ll excuse me saying that I was already aware
of that, Mrs. Tregaskis, quite aware of it. But I always say just what
I think--no respecter of persons, so to speak. Say what you think and
think what you say is my motto--always has been.”
Mrs. Tregaskis felt rather as though she were listening to a caricature
of herself.
“Now I dare say you have a prejudice against religious orders--many
people have, I know--quite good people, mind you, who only need a
little enlightenment.”
“On the contrary, I can assure----”
“Never mind, never mind!” cried Mrs. Mulholland with breezy
inattention. “I know all about it, and you must remember that I’m a
woman of the world, Mrs. Tregaskis, though I do live in a convent, and
can see your point of view as well as ours. It’s all quite natural, and
I can assure you that a great many people have felt just as you do.
Especially about foreign Orders--French and the like, you know. Not got
quite our ideas about fresh air, for instance, or a daily bath--_that_
sort of thing.”
Bertha drew a deep breath.
“I dare say not,” she said in a louder voice than usual, “but I’ve had
plenty of truck with convents and the like in my time, you know--in
Italy, and so on. Naturally, one has no insular prejudices of an early
Victorian kind, after knocking about the world as I’ve done.”
She laughed heartily, but briefly, being well aware that any opening
would be seized upon by Mrs. Mulholland to make her own voice heard
once more.
“Now, you must forgive me, but I must go and hunt up my chick-a-biddy.
I don’t know where the child’s got to since supper.”
“Now, my dear Mrs. Tregaskis, listen to me, and let that child alone.
Let her alone, I say,” commanded Mrs. Mulholland, in accents of
authority such as had never been addressed to the astonished Bertha
since her schooldays.
Mrs. Tregaskis drew herself up to the full of her very considerable
height, looked Mrs. Mulholland up and down with an expression of
astounded contempt, and rose without a word from her seat. Upon which
Mrs. Mulholland, with surprising and most unexpected agility, rose
also, and planted her enormous bulk against the closed door of the
small parlour.
“Now, listen to me,” was her superfluous injunction as she and Mrs.
Tregaskis stood facing one another, at a distance of about two yards
apart. “You’ll think me very strange, I dare say”--Bertha’s face showed
the absolute correctness of this supposition--“very strange, perhaps.
But what people think doesn’t matter to me, Mrs. Tregaskis. We’ve got
to trample human respect underfoot in a matter like this. I shouldn’t
feel that I was doing my duty if I didn’t speak out. You may say it’s
no business of mine, but Miss Grantham has talked to me--very fully, I
may say, on the whole--and so’s Mère Pauline. That child wishes to be
received into the Church, Mrs. Tregaskis.”
“I see no reason for discussing the subject with you,” said Bertha,
thoroughly incensed, and ignoring the very tangible reason in front of
her. “Kindly let me pass out of that door.”
But the person who is hampered by the instincts of good breeding is at
a disadvantage when dealing with an antagonist prepared serenely to
ignore even the more elementary canons of behaviour. It did not occur
to Bertha, resolute as she was, to launch herself bodily upon the
sturdy old woman who stood in front of the door and force a way past
her. Still less did it occur to her that Mrs. Mulholland would continue
to maintain her spread-eagle attitude the more defiantly for this very
forbearance.
But no trifling considerations for the ethics of good taste were ever
destined to stand in Mrs. Mulholland’s way.
Her massive bulk against the door, her large hands gesticulating
emphatically, she freed her mind in hoarse, vehement accents that
completely overpowered the spasmodic attempts of her audience to
interrupt her.
“I know very well that Mère Pauline’s been talking to you, and that
good holy Prior. But there it is, people in the world look upon
priests and nuns as unpractical--they won’t listen. But I tell you,
Mrs. Tregaskis, speaking as one woman who’s seen life to another, that
if ever there was a case of absolute genuine conversion, it’s that
child--that ward of yours, or whatever she is. If you withhold her
from the true Light, out of worldly consideration or any other motive,
you’ll be doing a most serious wrong, Mrs. Tregaskis--a most serious
wrong. I’m all for obedience and discipline, as a rule. ‘If you don’t
obey,’ I say, ‘you’ll never know how to command,’ is what I say. But if
little Miss Grantham comes to me for advice, I shall tell her just what
I think.”
“Kindly let me----”
“_Just_ what I think. She must go straight ahead and follow her
conscience in spite----”
The door-handle turned from outside.
“Who is there?” almost shouted Mrs. Mulholland in truculent accents.
“It is I. Mère Pauline.”
The small, trenchant voice fell like a douche of cold water on the
agitation within. Mrs. Mulholland, in some strange way, seemed to
Bertha to crumple up under the severely inquiring gaze of the little
French Superior.
“What is all this?”
“A most unjustifiable piece of interference on the part of this
person,” said Mrs. Tregaskis, in no uncertain accents. “She appears
to think herself called upon to give me advice about the child I’ve
brought up.”
The corners of Mère Pauline’s little mouth closed more firmly, and she
turned an inquiring gaze through her spectacles on to Mrs. Mulholland,
whose face was now suffused. She had the angry, confused aspect of a
child detected in naughtiness.
“Well, well, ma Mère, I may have exceeded my rights a little in what I
said. I know very well I’m apt to get excited when it’s a question of
gaining a soul for God----”
“I think you ’ave exceeded them very considerably,” said Mère Pauline
with perfect candour. “It was not your business.”
The mighty bulk of Mrs. Mulholland seemed to droop under the icy
accents of the little Superior.
She gulped loudly two or three times, and then said very humbly, and
with obvious effort, to Mrs. Tregaskis:
“Then I hope you’ll excuse me. I--I hope you’ll forgive me, Mrs.
Tregaskis. I’m afraid my interference may have done more harm than
good.”
“Say no more about it,” said Bertha bluntly. “I quite understand.”
She was astounded at the sudden change operated in the redoubtable Mrs.
Mulholland, and when the old woman had gone heavily and dejectedly from
the room she told Mère Pauline so frankly.
“Oui, oui,” said the imperturbable Superior dispassionately. “Elle a
beaucoup de vertu, beaucoup d’humilité, la pauvre. One word is enough.
She is very good, in spite of that tongue.”
“Now, is that the effect of her religion--the humility, I mean, not the
tongue?”
“But yes, madame, naturally. What else should make her own herself in
the wrong, like a child that is scolded? The Catholic religion teaches
nothing if not the practice of humility in everyday life.”
“Upon my word,” cried Bertha, half-laughing, “if I thought it would
have that effect upon Frances, she should do as she liked to-morrow.”
It was perhaps the strategical opening for which she had subconsciously
been waiting in order to effect a graceful retreat from a position of
resistance rapidly growing untenable.
At all events Frances found that her guardian offered no further
definite opposition to her wishes.
“Mind you, my child, I don’t approve of what you’re doing,” Bertha
told her gravely, “but neither your Cousin Frederick nor I wish to
forbid it definitely. As you know, I’m not very much bound by any creed
myself, so perhaps I don’t attach as much importance to your leaving
the Church of England as other people may. So long as we all keep as
straight as we can and play the game it doesn’t seem to me to matter
very much what we call ourselves. So I’m going to leave you free to
make your own choice, my little Francie.”
“I _wish_ you didn’t mind--I _wish_ I hadn’t got to make you unhappy,”
said Frances in tears.
Bertha kissed her.
“My poor little girl, I wish I’d never let these people get hold of you
and your poor little conscience.”
Frances immediately drew herself away, colouring.
“What! Mustn’t I even criticize them?” said Bertha, half sadly, half
playfully. “Fathers and mothers get left alone in the old nest very
quickly, when the young birds first find their wings, Francie. You’ll
find that out one day.”
Frances told herself, with a quick pang of compassion, that Cousin
Bertie was thinking as much of Hazel as of her.
“It won’t make any difference,” she faltered anxiously, hardly knowing
what she said. “At least----”
“Ah! At least----” said Bertha, laughing a little. “Well, my Francie,
you’re joining the Church into which your mother was born, and I hope
with all my heart that you’ll find all you expect there. And your
old heretic guardian will be in a corner in the chapel when you’re
received, praying for whatever is best for you.”
The ceremony of Frances’ reception into the Catholic Church took place
quietly in the convent chapel a day or two later.
Only Bertha Tregaskis and one or two members of the Community were
present, but before the brief ceremony was over Mrs. Mulholland creaked
in, with elaborate gestures of silence, sank upon her knees in the
bench beside Bertha, and turned upon her a smile in which triumph and
compassion were strangely blended.
“The deed is done,” wrote Bertha that evening, in a hasty scrawl
addressed to Miss Blandflower. “The child seems happy, and I hope
she’ll settle down after this. Everyone goes through some sort of
youthful crisis, and I have a great belief in getting it over early.
We shall be back on Friday, after a night spent with Hazel in London.
One hint, Minnie, before I finish this scribble--treat Frances just as
though nothing had happened, won’t you? The excitement is _over_ now,
and I don’t want her to go on brooding over it, and thinking her own
little affairs of enormous importance to the world in general. The best
thing now is to let her settle quietly down to everyday life again.”
In the days that immediately ensued, however, Mrs. Tregaskis saw with
satisfaction that this aspiration appeared likely to be realized.
Frances was calmly, silently happy.
She was more affectionate towards her guardian than she had ever shown
herself before, as though to demonstrate that no added difference
should join itself to that new, deeper one of which she was more
conscious than was Bertha.
There was also much less exaggeration in her devotion to her new creed
than Mrs. Tregaskis had expected. Beyond attending the daily Mass, as
did all the lady boarders, and spending a little while in the chapel
every evening, Frances appeared willing to spend the whole of the day
in Bertha’s company, a certain radiant serenity of outlook that now
encompassed her making her a charming companion.
She was delighted at the prospect of staying for one evening with
Hazel before the return journey to Cornwall, and when, on the eve of
departure, Bertha asked rather curiously whether she minded leaving the
convent, Frances replied with a surprised look:
“No, not really. Not a bit. I hope I shall see them again one day, and
you won’t mind my writing to Mère Pauline from time to time, will you,
Cousin Bertie?”
Bertha looked at her sharply.
A desire to test the reality of the steadfast-seeming happiness that
shone from the eyes of her ward made her say, rather curtly:
“I don’t know, dear. Why this necessity for correspondence?”
“I’d like to write to her, that’s all; but, of course, not if you don’t
want me to,” said Frances placidly.
Bertha laughed, her good-humour suddenly restored.
“You can write if you want to, within reason. You are not generally a
good correspondent, Frances.”
And Frances said calmly that no, she was afraid she wasn’t, except,
perhaps, as regarded Rosamund.
Evidently the crisis was over, thought Bertha, not without relief.
There might come a reaction later on, but with that she could trust
herself to cope when at Porthlew.
They left the convent amid a crowd of auguries and farewells.
“Vous nous reviendrez, ma petite,” the Superior said as she embraced
Frances, and her voice had all the authority of an assertion of fact.
“Oui ma Mère,” said Frances timidly. She was always shy of speaking
French, especially in front of her guardian, who was apt to jeer
good-humoredly at the schoolroom _lingua-franca_ of her wards.
“_Mais oui, mais oui!_” cried Bertha heartily. “_A bientôt tout le
monde!_” In the universal benevolence which always pervades the welcome
hour of departure from a boring sojourn, she even added cordially:
“_Vous nous reverez l’année prochaine!_”
In the cab which was to take them to the station, the last wave
exchanged between Frances and the substantial form of old Mrs.
Mulholland, who stood agitating her arms like a semaphore in the
convent doorway, Frances turned inquiringly to her guardian.
“Do you really think we shall come back next year, Cousin Bertie? Did
you mean for the Retreat?”
“Perhaps, Francie. If you’re very keen about it. We’ll see.”
“Oh,” said Frances, with a sudden and most unusual effusion, “you _are_
so kind to me, Cousin Bertie. I don’t feel I can ever be grateful
enough to you. I wish I need never--never do anything but just what you
liked!”
Bertha was amazed, and also rather touched.
She laid her hand kindly on Frances’.
“Well, my dear little girl, that depends on yourself, doesn’t it? But
you’ve always been a good child, my Francie, and I know the poor little
conscience is responsible for _most_ of our differences of opinion, eh?”
She laughed a little.
“As long as you’re good and happy, that’s all I want, my darling.
One only lives for the younger generation, you know, as one goes on.
Hazel--and Hazel’s child, and, I hope, some day, your children and
Rosamund’s--that’s all I care about.”
“I’m so _glad_ we’re going to Hazel now,” said Frances sympathetically.
Bertha squeezed her hand suddenly.
“Oh, my dear, think of it! To see her with a baby of her own--to see
little Richard Frederick at last!”
She stopped abruptly, as though afraid of her own emotion.
Frances reflected rather mournfully that Cousin Bertie saw pathetically
little of her daughter nowadays. On the causes which had led to that
estrangement she preferred not to dwell. She had known very little
of the difficulties surrounding Hazel’s marriage, and the subject
was never discussed at Porthlew. Perhaps Frances, innocent and
affectionate, and looking upon Hazel as a sister only less dear to her
than Rosamund, unconsciously shrank from applying the standards of her
new-found creed to the position held by the second Lady Marleswood.
She had by her a letter from Rosamund that added to her happiness. Her
sister had written:
“I do understand Francie, and I can’t help being glad that you are
a Catholic at last. Cousin Frederick has been nicer about it that
you would have supposed. It was he who told Cousin Bertie that as
things were they had no right to forbid you, and he suddenly asked
me last night if you were happy. So I said you were. Unluckily, Miss
Blandflower was in the room, and said it was a case of live and let
live, or something of that sort, and you know how angry she always
makes him, so he said nothing more. As a matter of fact, I think that
live and let live _is_ rather what Cousin Frederick would like to do
... and that’s what made him say you were to do as you liked. As for
me, I’m so thankful you really are happy about it all. I think the
convent sounds nice, and Mrs. Mulholland. I wish I could see her, and
thank her for being so nice to you. Some day, darlingest, when we can
go back home to the Wye Valley and live together, we can ask her to
come and stay, can’t we? After all, it may not be so very far off, now
I am so nearly of age.”
Frances felt very happy as she gazed from the train window, dreamily
absorbed in her own thoughts. The Retreat, the sense of illumination
vouchsafed her, the directions and instructions received from Father
Anselm, and the present joy of knowing herself in the Church where
she had longed to be, filled her mind. She did not want to think of
the future. If there was a lurking sense of apprehension, as of some
sacrifice that was to be demanded of her in return for all that she
had been given, a grievous dread of inflicting pain, far sharper and
stranger than any yet, upon those whom she loved best and from whom she
felt already separated as though by an invisible gulf, Frances would
not dwell upon it.
Everyone was so kind to her, and she was happy, and Cousin Bertie had
understood that never, never of her own free will would Frances grieve
or disobey her, and had been so good to her--and they were going to
see Hazel and the wonderful baby, Dickie.
And besides, had not Father Anselm and Mère Pauline both said that she
was to leave the future in God’s hands, and not to look ahead at all,
just yet?
Frances thought that it was nice to be told just what one ought to
do, and to feel such perfect confidence that the advice given came,
even though through human agency, from a Divine source. It simplified
everything very much. Later on, perhaps, that simplification might be
terribly needed.
She resolutely put the thought from her.
“Wake up, Francie,” said Mrs. Tregaskis’ voice, tense with excitement;
“we’re just in. Of course, she won’t have been able to meet us herself,
I don’t suppose--just at lunch-time----”
But she scanned the platform eagerly, all the same, even as she spoke.
The next moment there was a double exclamation of joy, as Hazel’s
charming, laughing face appeared at the window and her hands tugged at
the stiff handle of the door.