Only the Polwerrow concert broke the monotony of the months that
followed. It was not a very great event, but it was on that evening
that Rosamund, by one of the agonized intuitions that are among the
penalties borne by the too highly-strung, first began to suspect what
Frances had in mind.
They drove to Polwerrow in Mrs. Severing’s car, and made their way into
the reserved stalls selected by Nina.
“Don’t push, as the elephant said to the flea when the animals went in
two by two,” Miss Blandflower muttered to herself, but, as usual, no
one paid any attention to her.
They listened to much inferior singing: Bertha with a look of well-bred
tolerance, Nina with closed eyes and a small, excruciated frown.
Rosamund sat next to Frances.
She wondered idly what dreams her little sister wove into the playing
of the famous violinist. Frances’ face was absorbed, and her eyes
quite unseeing. Rosamund thought that she looked very happy, as though
her dreams were pleasant ones. Was she thinking of the ideals and
aspirations newly revealed to her in the Catholic Church, Rosamund
wondered. That Frances was finding the greatest happiness that her
short life had as yet known, she felt no doubt, but she also wondered
with quite unconscious cynicism how long that happiness would continue.
Once received into the Church, it seemed to Rosamund, there appeared to
be nothing further to which her sister could aspire, except, perhaps,
to live quite near a Catholic church.
“There isn’t one anywhere very near in the Wye Valley,” Rosamund
reflected. “I wonder if Francie will mind that, when we live there
together. But she can go to her convent sometimes and stay there for
a little while, if she wants to. They were kind and nice to her. She
likes the convent.”
And it was then that there flashed across Rosamund’s consciousness
the first sickening, unreasoning suspicion, carrying with it all the
anguish of certainty, that Frances would want to go and be a nun.
Shocked, as from a physical pang, she held on to the arms of her stall
as though afraid of falling.
There was a pause in the music, and a faint sound or two as of
uncertain applause. Rosamund saw Miss Blandflower begin to clap her
hands enthusiastically, then turn doubtful eyes on Mrs. Severing, who
had not moved, and begin to fumble with her gloves as though she had
never meant to do anything else. The plaintive, poignant strains of the
violin began again.
Rosamund suddenly felt that she dared not look at Frances, for fear of
seeing in her face some mysterious confirmation of her own thoughts.
For a little while she argued with herself. It was absurd to jump at
conclusions. Frances had never spoken, or given any hint, of wishing
to become a nun. And even supposing she were infatuated with the idea
for a time, her guardian would be the last person to encourage such a
step. It would all be stopped and forbidden, and Frances would never be
wilfully disobedient.
Such a thing could not happen--no one entered a convent nowadays.
It was in medieval times that girls of one’s own class became
nuns--not nowadays. A convent had been a refuge from the world, then.
Involuntarily Rosamund wondered whether it would not present itself in
exactly that light to Frances, now. “But she’s not going to--she can’t.
Why, it would mean shutting herself up away from me--for the whole of
her life,” thought Rosamund wildly.
She tried to look at it reasonably, to tell herself that this
full-grown certainty which had suddenly sprung into being within
her, was without any foundation in fact. She reminded herself of
Cousin Bertie’s favourite advice, not to cross bridges before they
were reached. But Rosamund happened to possess that fundamental form
of sincerity which cannot blind itself to its own inner vision, and
not all the wisdom of common sense and of Cousin Bertie’s optimistic
philosophy, weighed against that one unreasoning flash of intuition.
A sudden craving for reassurance seized her uncontrollably.
She looked at Frances.
The last notes of the violin died away, and this time everyone broke
into applause at once, and Miss Blandflower was able to clap fearlessly
and noisily with the others.
Under cover of it all Rosamund leant towards her sister.
“Francie,” she said urgently, “you wouldn’t ever want to be a nun,
would you? Promise me you wouldn’t.”
Perhaps there was some faint ray of hope underlying the wording of
Rosamund’s sudden appeal. For it was with a new and even more bitter
pang that the last certainty came to her, as Frances, without a single
word of answer, raised startled, almost terrified eyes to hers, and as
their looks met, blushed a deep, painful scarlet.
Words between them were unnecessary, nor could either have spoken.
The concert went on, and Rosamund wished that it could never stop. In
the blur of sound which seemed to surround her, she did not think that
she would ever realize what had happened. It would all remain chaotic
and unreal.
There was a little movement beside her, and Frances’ small, soft hand
sought hers, like that of a child seeking reassurance.
They did not look at one another, but for a moment their hands clung
together.
“Shall we make a move now, before the crush?” said Mrs. Severing
wearily. “Some of these renderings are really rather more than I can
stand.”
Bertha shrugged her shoulders very slightly, and looked at Rosamund and
Frances.
“Come out of the moon, Rosamund. You don’t look half awake, my child.
We want to get out of this before everyone begins to crowd. Come along,
Minnie, come along.”
Rosamund, in a dream, followed the wide, efficient figure of her
guardian. Miss Blandflower had jammed a small rabbit-skin tie into the
back of her stall, and, wrestling with it in an agony, was blocking the
exit for both Frances and Mrs. Severing.
“Oh, my fur--dear me, _isn’t_ that tiresome, now! So sorry--do excuse
me....”
It was not difficult to conjecture that Miss Blandflower was trampling
recklessly over the feet on either side of her in her endeavours to
rescue the rabbit skin.
As she left the hall with Mrs. Tregaskis, Rosamund heard the last glee
begin, and exclamations issuing in the penetrating husky falsetto which
was peculiar to Miss Blandflower when whispering:
“Don’t wait for me--but I’m afraid you can’t get out--or could you
squeeze past? This wretched fur of mine. Simply beyond the beyonds,
isn’t it? Wait a minute--the deed is done--no, it isn’t--false alarm.
Oh, how dreadful of me this is ... you’ll never forgive me, I’m afraid.
Now then, a long pull and a strong pull....”
The door swung to behind Rosamund.
“Where are the others?” asked her guardian.
Cousin Bertie always made her way through any crowd without any
difficulty at all, partly because her bulk was considerable, and partly
from a certain pleasant authoritative way she had of saying, “Thank
you--if you’ll just let me get past, please--thank you so much.”
Rosamund had noticed long ago that very few people were ever proof
against that firm civility.
“Aren’t they coming?” said Mrs. Tregaskis, when they were in the outer
hall.
“Miss Blandflower’s fur got caught into her chair or something, and the
others couldn’t get past.”
“Wretched Minnie! Now they’ll have to wait until the end of that
chorus--Nina will never come out in the middle of it. How cross she’ll
be. Well, Rosamund, you and I may as well sit down and wait for them
here.”
Mrs. Tregaskis established herself on the red plush sofa underneath
an enlarged photograph of Mme. Clara Butt, and made room for Rosamund
beside her.
“You look rather tired, old lady,” she said kindly. Rosamund felt
suddenly grateful for the kindness of her voice and said:
“A little, Cousin Bertie.”
“A real deep draught of music always gives _me_ a fresh lease of life,”
remarked Mrs. Tregaskis, drawing a deep breath that expanded her broad
chest yet more. “Not that we heard very much to-night, but the violin
was good, of course. Funny that music doesn’t mean more to you two
children, Rosamund. Your mother was wonderful. But still, I hope you
and Frances enjoyed this evening.”
“Oh yes,” said Rosamund colourlessly.
Her guardian looked rather dissatisfied.
“Why so down in the mouth, eh?” she asked genially.
Mrs. Tregaskis was always very quick to detect an atmosphere.
Rosamund hesitated.
She partly shared Frances’ old childish feeling that Mrs. Tregaskis
must always get just that answer which she expected to get, to her
kindly, peremptory questionings, and she was partly actuated by an
intense, miserable need of reassurance that made her turn even to a
source which she felt to be unlikely.
“I’m feeling rather worried about Frances,” she said rather nervously,
knowing that it was not a propitious beginning. Her tendency to torment
herself and the whole household on the subject of imaginary anxieties
about Frances’ health or spirits had been genially but quite implacably
combated by Mrs. Tregaskis ever since their first arrival at Porthlew.
She gave a half-humorous sigh.
“Well, darling, I’m sorry to hear that. But it isn’t anything so very
new, is it? You’ve pulled a long face over Frances ever since I can
remember you both, when she was a little scared thing who didn’t dare
call her soul her own. I don’t mean you ever bullied her, my dear--but
there is such a thing as over-solicitude, you know.”
Accustomed though Rosamund was to her guardian’s kindly banter on the
subject of Frances, she had never ceased to resent it with the wounded
fury of an over-sensitive child.
Instantly she resolved that it would be impossible to tell Cousin
Bertie of her new-born dread.
“Well,” said Mrs. Tregaskis, “what is it this time? Is she tired, or
has she got a cold, or has Nina been hurting her feelings? Out with it.”
Rosamund asked herself desperately: “_Why_ was I such a fool as to
begin this?” and aloud said in a sort of uncertain tone which to her
own ears sounded very unconvincing:
“I was just thinking of her having become a Catholic, and all that.
Whether--whether she’ll be happier now, or--want anything more.”
It was the nearest she could get to the sudden terror that had lain
like lead at her heart ever since that silent interchange of looks with
Frances.
“Want anything more!” Mrs. Tregaskis repeated rather derisively. “Are
you afraid of her asking to join the Salvation Army next? Upon my word,
Rosamund, I think better of the child than you do. She was very silly
and wrong-headed about it, but at least it was all perfectly genuine,
and she’s in earnest about the religious part of it.”
“Yes. I know she is. That’s just it.”
“My dear, don’t be a little goose. She’s ’verted to the faith that
your mother was born into, after all, and it’s perfectly natural that
she should take the whole thing very much to heart and prove a trifle
_exaltée_ about it all. It’s a most wholesome symptom, I assure you,
and one I’ve been watching for. Presently there’ll be a reaction, and
then she’ll settle down normally, I hope. But you’ll do her much more
harm than good if you sit like a cat watching a mouse--waiting for
every sign. It will only make her self-conscious.”
Under the flow of so much common sense, such sound, kindly advice,
Rosamund had nothing to say. A creeping sensation of numbness invaded
her mind. She ceased to feel acutely unhappy or apprehensive.
Mrs. Tregaskis, solid, competent, looking at her with rather puzzled
eyes, seemed a sufficient bulwark against any such ephemeral fears as
those which lay at Rosamund’s heart.
“My dear little girl,” said Bertha earnestly, “don’t go looking for
trouble. I’ll give you a piece of advice which has helped me over some
very rough bits of ground, rougher than any you’re ever likely to meet
with, please God:
“‘Look up, and not down;
Look out, and not in;
Look forward, and not back,
Lend a hand.’
That’s pretty well coloured my whole life, Rosamund. I wasn’t as old
as you are now when I first read those words, and I’ve never forgotten
them.”
There was a moment’s silence, and Mrs. Tregaskis’ fine eyes grew for
once introspective.
Then she roused herself briskly and exclaimed:
“Here are the others at last! Well, Nina, what happened to you?”
The drive home passed almost in silence. Mrs. Severing was annoyed
at having been delayed, and replied coldly to all Bertha’s cheery
assurances of enjoyment that much was lacking to the more modern
interpreters of music. Had not Bertie felt it so? Ah well, perhaps not!
Miss Blandflower, contrite and incoherent, was responsible for most of
the conversation, such as it was.
That night Rosamund and Frances exchanged only a very few words.
Rosamund indeed did not feel that words were needed to emphasize the
unhappy certainty that was hers, and any discussion seemed to distress
Frances, who said stammeringly and with tears in her eyes that nothing
would be done for a long, long time, and _even_ Father Anselm and Mère
Pauline didn’t know yet.
“Have you thought of what Cousin Bertie will say?”
“No,” said Frances, the sudden whitening of her face belying the
courage of her tone. “It’s no use thinking about that until the time
comes.”
“And when will it come?” Rosamund asked wonderingly.
“I don’t know. I suppose Father Anselm will settle that. He is my
director. Oh, Rosamund, it’s such a relief to know that one can’t do
wrong as long as one is obedient. I just have to submit my own private
judgment to what the Church teaches through her priests, and it’s such
a comfort.”
Rosamund marvelled.
But she saw that Frances, in spite of the lurking apprehensions for the
future which she so resolutely tried to put from her, was essentially
happy.
It seemed to Rosamund now that the weeks were slipping by with
incredible rapidity. She no longer thought of Morris Severing, and was
occasionally ashamed of her own oblivion. But the honesty which in her
was innate, did not allow her to falsify her own scale of relative
values, and she knew that Morris was relegated to the unimportance of
an episode.
After a little while she induced in herself a sort of surface sense of
reassurance about Frances. No one else ever hinted at any thought of
religious vocation, and Frances never spoke of it. Rosamund thought
wistfully that perhaps she had abandoned the idea and sought to confirm
the trembling hope that sometimes rose within her, in tiny ways that
she strove to persuade herself would mean a great deal. She sometimes
spoke to Frances of “next winter,” or asked if she meant to get new
frocks for going, later on, to stay with Hazel in London, and Frances
always answered naturally and without demur. But Rosamund did not dare
to make any allusion to their old plan of going back to live together
in the Wye Valley.
It seemed as if life at Porthlew would always consist of the same
uneventful routine, and Rosamund, far from feeling it tedious, found
herself regarding each monotonous day as it slipped past in the light
of a respite.
But the sword of Damocles fell at last, when her anxiety was almost
dormant.
“Francie, my child, there’s quite a large mail for you to-day,”
cheerily exclaimed Bertha, distributing the letters. “Two fat
envelopes.”
“I always say that Frances mustn’t expect to _get_ many letters,
because she seldom _writes_ any,” said Miss Blandflower with an air of
sapience.
Frances took her correspondence without saying anything, but something
in her face brought Rosamund’s every apprehension to life again in one
unreasoning rush of terror.
She restrained herself with difficulty from making inquiries of her
sister when breakfast was over, but in the course of the morning
Frances sought Rosamund in the garden of her own accord.
“I’ve heard from Father Anselm and from Mère Pauline,” she said gently.
She looked nervous, but not at all agitated. It was as though she were
stating the accomplishment of some long-expected project.
“I didn’t know you’d written to them,” said Rosamund dully.
“I thought it wasn’t any use to say anything till I had the answers,”
Frances said apologetically. “They might have told me to put the whole
thing out of my mind, you know.”
“They--they don’t do that, then?”
“No. I’ve brought the letters for you to read, Rosamund.”
The Prior of Twickenham’s letter was not a long one, and struck
Rosamund as that of a peculiarly simple and unworldly man. He told
Frances that he had long ago guessed the destiny which God held in
store for her, and that he believed her vocation to the religious life
to be a real one. She must speak to her guardians and obtain their
consent before taking any step. Meanwhile, she was to write freely and
to count upon his prayers that her decision might be guided and blessed
from above. There was little else in the letter, but something in its
tone of matter-of-fact acceptance frightened Rosamund.
Mère Pauline wrote at much greater length. She congratulated Frances
on “the great honour she had received” and promised her many prayers,
but after that she became at once characteristically practical in her
advice. If Frances’ director thought with her that she was suited
to their own form of convent life, then Mère Pauline would be very
glad to receive her, and meanwhile Frances must try and fit herself
to be of great use. She must take care of her health, so as to be
strong, and she must study, so as to be able to work, and above all,
she must not neglect prayer and meditation. And, added Mère Pauline
in a matter-of-fact postscript, it might be no bad plan to set about
learning Latin, for greater facility in the recitation of the Holy
Office. But she need not impress upon her dear child that, above all,
must the feelings of that family, so soon to be called upon for so
great a sacrifice, be tenderly considered.
“Frances!” said Rosamund aghast. “She writes as though the whole thing
were settled.”
Her little sister looked at her with compassionate, loving eyes, and
said nothing.
But Rosamund knew, more surely than any words could have told her,
that in effect, the whole thing, as she had said, was settled.
The conviction remained with her even when it became obvious that the
main conflict was yet to come.
“When are you going to tell _them_?” she asked later.
“Soon,” said Frances.
But that Frances’ courage had not yet proved equal to the avowal was
made manifest some weeks later when Rosamund, unnoticed in the window,
heard part of a conversation between Frederick Tregaskis and his wife.
“I shall want the trap in the morning, Frederick. I’ve got to drive
Francie into Polwerrow.”
“Why?”
“Church, my dear man, church. It’s some holy Roman feast or other, and
I promised the child she should get in to Mass if possible.”
“Very unreasonable,” growled Frederick.
“I knew you’d say so, dear,” patiently replied Bertha, who was apt to
display tolerance of her ward’s inconvenient religion in proportion
as her husband grumbled at it. “I should have thought Sundays quite
enough, myself.”
“As to that,” replied the disconcerting Frederick, “she pays for her
own cab on Sundays and doesn’t inconvenience anyone but herself. I’m
not saying anything to her Sunday expeditions.”
“Well, well--it’s something to have peace. The child is perfectly
happy, and has looked much better since she stopped fretting. Thank
goodness, the religious crisis, since apparently she had to have one,
is safely over and done with.”
Rosamund wrung her hands together in silent anguish.
She did not know what Frances’ latest decision might portend, but there
seemed to stretch before her a despairing vista of pain and separation,
based on principles that appeared to her but as the shadow of a dream.