Mary took rooms in the Victoria Palace Hotel overlooking Kensington Gardens, where with Célestine and Pierrette she settled down to spend Christmas. The gayety of the golden shops in High Street reminded her too poignantly of Christmastides when the boys came home from school for the holidays; and when Muriel who had heard of her mother's arrival in England wrote to suggest that she should spend Christmas as the guest of the Community, it seemed a wise way of escaping from the sadness of memory.
The house of which Muriel was sister-in-chargewas in a remote Gloucestershire village and was used as a home for old women whom the Order befriended. Mary felt rather like one of those old women herself when she attended vespers in the little chapel on the evening of her arrival. It did not seem credible that the capable sister of whom everybody, including herself, stood so much in awe was her own daughter. Muriel appeared not a day older than when she entered the Order ten years ago.
"I was wrong, dear," her mother said, when she was sitting in the parlor with Muriel during recreation on Christmas Eve. "I was quite wrong, dear, to oppose your becoming a nun. Your intention took me so completely by surprise that I never had time to imagine the lines on which you might develop. It is only now when I see you mistress of your own house, as it were, that I realize how perfectly the life suits your temperament."
And that night when after Mass the old women, flotsam from life's seat at last forever still, knelt round the crib where lay the image of the infant Saviour, Mary began to apprehend that there was in the Christian religion something more satisfying than the ambiguous promises and performances of crystal-gazers, than the always to be suspected rappings and tappings of mediums. Her mind went back to hours spent with Mademoiselle Lucinge in her gray room at Châteaublanc when the garden was melodious with autumnal birdsong and above the notes of robin-redbreasts Mademoiselle spoketo her about God. This summer she would revisit Châteaublanc, and perhaps in the little church where her old school-mistress had prayed for the woes of France to be lightened she should find that perfect assurance of something beyond which had been denied to her grandmother, but granted to her own daughter. She looked across to where in the flickering candlelight Muriel knelt praying, her eyes turned heavenward and full of tears. Tears for what? For the mere imagination of the reality of that Divine Infant in the manger of Bethlehem. To Muriel's limpid faith had been granted all that motherhood could confer on woman. To her kneeling there belonged a baby that would never grow up to compass her disillusionment, a baby that promised to all who believed in Him immortal life. Hers, hers by the gift of faith.
Yet when Mary tried to give herself what she was able to understand had been given to Muriel, she could only perceive the image and miss the reality it tried to express. The faces of the old women kneeling round the crib appeared as meaningless as a row of pippins on the shelf of a store-room. For the sake of a comfortable bed and plenty of food they would have been every bit as willing to kneel roundla planchette.
"Do you believe, dear child, in the possibility of communicating with the dead?" Mary asked her daughter at the first opportunity she was given of talking to her in private.
"If you mean, do I believe in spiritualism, I certainly do not," said Muriel severely. "And if thereisanything in it, I should say that it was controlled by the spirits of evil. I wish you wouldn't practice such a wretched substitute for worship," she continued. "I cannot understand why people who profess to believe in such hocus-pocus do not submit themselves to the demands of a true religion. It is surely just as easy to accept the doctrines of Christianity as the frauds of mediums."
"There are some people, Muriel, who think that real religion has been ruined by ecclesiastical bigotry. Personally I have never been able to accept a man-made religion. You see, dear, I have been so much in the world. I have suffered so many disappointments and disillusionments that the notion of a man standing between myself and the hereafter is repugnant."
"My dear mother, if you will forgive me for saying so, you are really talking nonsense. All your life you have been accustomed to rely upon yourself instead of upon God. You cannot expect to receive faith if you do not ask for it."
"Auto-suggestion!" Mary exclaimed. "When I receive a direct communication from the world of spirits, I am told it is auto-suggestion. But surely to receive a belief that you expect to receive can only be called auto-suggestion. Mind, I do not say that what you believe is not true. I am perfectly sure in any case that it is highly suitable for you to believe it, for I have never seen you looking better. Nothing could have given me greater delight than to behold your happiness in the life to which you have dedicated yourself. I am only trying to suggest that there may be other ways of approaching the unseen and, however inadequately, of solving the great problem that lies before us all, a problem which I am likely to solve, I hope, many years before you. I hold no brief for spiritualism. In fact, the more I see of its practice the less I am attracted to it. I envy you your faith, dear child. I envy and respect it. And I've greatly enjoyed my little visit."
"It is very peaceful down here," Muriel agreed with a smile.
"And old age will have no terrors for you," her mother murmured. "Because I understand so well that for you old age will simply seem a slow and tranquil drawing nearer to God. Happy little girl of mine!"
"Yes, I am happy."
"And that makes me happy, for it helps me to realize that so far as my children are concerned I have not been a complete failure. I wish I could stay here longer, but I've left my little cat in London with only my maid to look after her, and I think I ought to be getting back."
Mary perceived that an obligation to a cat was something utterly incomprehensible to her daughter, and when she kissed her good-by, kissed those cheeks cold and faintly flushed like the petals of a Christmas rose, she felt that she was parting from a creature more remote than either of her dead sons.
"Flesh of my flesh," Mary thought. "And yet my little cat is nearer to me. Those are the kind of puzzles that really do make human life a riddle."
Mary remembered how sometimes her grandmother had tried to draw near to herself, because the two of them were all that was left of a family.
"She must have supposed that my remoteness came from my mother's blood. But it probably would not have made much difference if I had been her own daughter. I suppose that we all grow to resent those first years of dependence upon other people. I suppose we all care only to think of ourselves as complete personalities. And is there anything more to come? Is there? Is there? Or do we instinctively know that this life is the whole of our individual life and for that reason do we cling so hard to being ourselves while we live it? And when we are growing old, do we crave for the contact of youth in order to delude ourselves with the belief that we shall grow young again in death?"
When Mary reached the hotel, she was met by Célestine with a grave and frightened countenance.
In a moment Mary guessed what had happened. "Pierrette is ill."
The maid burst into tears.
"Very ill?"
"Madame, Pierrette est morte. J'ai télégraphié ce matin. Le medicin était très brave pour elle,mais la grippe, Madame, la grippe! Elle a souffert beaucoup, la pauvre petite!"
The manager of the hotel drew near to express his condolences and to explain that he had assisted Mrs. Alison's maid in every way by telephoning for the best veterinary doctor in Knightsbridge. He had advised Mrs. Alison's being communicated with by telegram as soon as the animal's serious condition was obvious. Yesterday it had seemed unnecessary to summon Mrs. Alison back from the country. Of course, if he had known then that the illness was likely to terminate fatally he should have done so. He appreciated what the loss of such a pet meant. Only this summer his wife had lost a pet cockatoo, and she had been quite inconsolable for two days. One did not expect a cockatoo to die suddenly. One always thought of them as living forever. He was sorry that it had not been possible to keep the dead cat in the hotel, but Mrs. Alison would understand that it might be liable to create an unpleasant impression upon the other guests. So many people dreaded influenza in any shape. It was with the deepest regret that he had ordered the remains to be taken away; but he was sure that the sight of the poor little dead animal would have been a grief for Mrs. Alison. Could he send anything up to her room? It was early for tea; but, after her journey and the sad news, perhaps Mrs. Alison would like her tea early.
"We shall return to Paris to-night," said Mary."Go and pack my things, Célestine. I do not wish to go upstairs to my room. I shall take a little walk in the Gardens by myself. By myself."
It was an afternoon of silver frost and sunshine under a pale blue December sky. The walks of Kensington Gardens were thronged with children whose vivid laughter made Mary feel of less account in the human scene than one of the skeleton leaves lying on a bed of last year's flowers. She tried to escape from the sounds of youth and merriment; but wherever she walked the air was full of laughter, the crystalline air tinkled with laughter.
Had Pierrette wanted her at the end? Had she failed the one living creature in the whole world that might have looked to her? Question for evermore unanswerable, regret for evermore unquenchable, longing for evermore unappeasable!
She had not felt able to revisit the room where she had left Pierrette sitting so cosily by the fire, when she set out to Gloucestershire; and yet she had been able to decide to go back to the house in Paris which without Pierrette would seem emptier, vaster, lonelier than ever.
If now she could pray!
For what?
For mercy upon her old age.
For something to lead her out of the shadows.
Darling little cat! Not ever again to feel those silken chocolate paws. Not ever again to hear that deep miaow, nor behold those unyielding eyes ofblue, nor watch that absurd tail respond to her lightest murmur on the assumption that any sound uttered in an empty room was intended for herself.
An empty room? Empty indeed now, a thousand times emptier now that Pierrette was dead.
If she could only pray!
Would that serene daughter of hers be able to pray if she found herself alone like this under the trees that looked not a day older than when forty years ago she had walked beneath their boughs with Mac? Would not Muriel suffer a dismay? Would not she doubt the value of her prayers?
There would be no communication with the spirit of Pierrette. There would be no deep-voiced miaows scrawled byla planchette, not with the help of all the auto-suggestion in her being. She was irrevocably vanished, as irrevocably as a flower.
The little cat was not. Her grace and beauty were lost; her lithe and shapely form was destroyed. Her memory would endure for a little while until her friend died; and when she died there would never have been a cat called Pierrette. She would be less than one of the crushed shells among these myriads of crushed shells that were strewn upon the walks of Kensington Gardens. How heedless was the laughter of the children all around her, and yet there were few of those children who would not themselves know sorrow before they were old. Would they hear then the echo of their youth's heedless laughter?
When Mary came back to the house in Paris she found a letter waiting for her.
92 Carminia Road,Balham, S.W.,December 26, 1920.Dear Madam,This is to inform you that last week Mrs. Alison, your daughter-in-law, died of the influenza very suddenly the week before Xmas. As I understood from her who was her sister that you were anxious to have the care of her little girl, and as me and my husband cannot undertake the responsibility we are taking the liberty of asking if you would kindly accept delivery of the little girl as per this letter. My sister, Mrs. Alison, kept your address in her writing materials and I have taken the liberty to write to you direct hoping I may be pardoned for the intrusion. She is a very nice well-behaved little girl and my husband and me are very sorry to part with her which we wouldn't want to do if we hadn't six of our own which makes it a bit difficult in a small house and not being very rich people. The little girl could be dispatched to Paris to suit your convenience if you would kindly remit cost of sending her as per your instructions which we duly await.And I am,Yours truly,Emily Bocock.(Mrs. Alfred Bocock.)
92 Carminia Road,Balham, S.W.,December 26, 1920.
Dear Madam,
This is to inform you that last week Mrs. Alison, your daughter-in-law, died of the influenza very suddenly the week before Xmas. As I understood from her who was her sister that you were anxious to have the care of her little girl, and as me and my husband cannot undertake the responsibility we are taking the liberty of asking if you would kindly accept delivery of the little girl as per this letter. My sister, Mrs. Alison, kept your address in her writing materials and I have taken the liberty to write to you direct hoping I may be pardoned for the intrusion. She is a very nice well-behaved little girl and my husband and me are very sorry to part with her which we wouldn't want to do if we hadn't six of our own which makes it a bit difficult in a small house and not being very rich people. The little girl could be dispatched to Paris to suit your convenience if you would kindly remit cost of sending her as per your instructions which we duly await.
And I am,Yours truly,Emily Bocock.(Mrs. Alfred Bocock.)
"Célestine! Célestine!"
"Madame?" cried Célestine, running to find out what her mistress wanted.
"Célestine, pack my things, we are going back to London."
"Tout de suit, Madame?"
"Don't stop to argue, Célestine. Pack! Pack!"
The preparations for their return to London were no sooner finished than Mary was seized with nervousness. Suppose she presented herself at this house to fetch her granddaughter and the little girl, who by now was twelve and likely to have a mind of her own, refused to accompany her? It would be a dreadfully inauspicious beginning to what she hoped was going to be the happiest time since Richard was alive. It would be easier to welcome the child here by herself. She should feel less self-conscious, and the child separated from her companions would be more ready to accept her grandmother. If she had a house in London it would be different; but she should be afraid to take her to an hotel. Yes, it was better to be patient for an extra day and send Célestine to fetch her. Besides, there was much to prepare here. There was Mary's bedroom to be got ready. She must choose the furniture herself. She knew exactly what a child of twelve would like. There were toys to buy. She would not be too old for dolls and a really good doll's-house and a variety of games which perhaps she would enjoy playing with her grandmother. It might be advisable to begin looking about for a good governess. If only she could find somebody like Mademoiselle Lucinge. Yes, it would be wiser to send Célestine to fetch her. Célestine could be trusted? Or should she telegraph to Muriel and ask her to arrange for a trustworthy person to escort the child? No, that might delay matters. Muriel was so particular, and in Gloucestershire she might not be able to find the right person at once. No, Célestine must go.
On New Year's Day Mary was sitting by the fire-side reading a yellow French novel. The doors of thesalonwere flung open by François, and she heard the voice of her maid.
"Allez-y, mademoiselle. Voilà Madame qui vous attend."
Thin black legs moving in gingerly steps over the gleaming parquet. A shy face hiding itself in the wraps of the long journey.
"My darling child, here you are at last!"
"Oh, grandmother, you've thrown your book in the fire. Shall I pick it out for you?"
Yes, a slight Cockney accent, but what did that matter when in her arms she held youth, when to her heart she pressed youth?
"My little girl, I'm so glad you're come to live with your old grandmother."
THE END