XV
WHETHER or no Morris was fully aware of the complete success which crowned this endeavour might remain open to question. He had recently, while in Paris, made an Italian friend who, a victim to home-sickness, had spoken much and eloquently of “la famiglia” in distant Rome. The impressionable Morris, rapidly becoming a dozen times more home-sick, if possible, than his friend, was soon finding it imperative that he should return to Pensevern, and his widowed mother. The reception, on the very morning of his departure, of Nina’s letter announcing her sudden descent upon the convent, had merely served to increase her son’s impetuous ardour for a meeting.
“I thought of you in uncongenial surroundings, as you wrote that you were, and probably lonely, and I felt I had to come,” said Morris, with the direct and manly air of simplicity that he always regarded as one of his achievements.
“And how many times during the last year have I written and told you that I was lonely, and implored you to come home, and you have turned a deaf ear, Morris?” asked Nina, with stern sadness.
His face hardened—intentionally.
“I have made a mistake, evidently. I thought that after all these months—but I might have known——” He broke off with a shrug, which he felt to be a distinct improvement on that of the Italian friend, who happened to be small and weedy.
“Might have known what? Don’t be so affected and ridiculous, Morris, giving mysterious hints that mean nothing.”
“I might have known,” said Morris slowly and sadly, “that you would hardly want to be interrupted in the midst of a new—enthusiasm.”
His deliberate gaze round the convent parlour gave great point to the description.
Nina, too much vexed at the moment to think of any repartee to this shaft, and considerably wrought upon by conflicting emotions, saw nothing for it but to burst into tears.
“Morris, darling!” she sobbed. “I can’t bear to welcome you like this. You know I’m glad to see you, my precious, precious boy. Haven’t I been longing and praying for your return day and night?—but why couldn’t you let me know? What is to become of you if you are always to act on impulse like this, never considering anyone or anything but yourself?”
The advantage now distinctly lay with Nina, who thus skilfully shifted the responsibility for her obvious discomposure into anxiety for her son’s moral welfare.
She rapidly blinked away the drops on her long eyelashes and regained her self-command, as a glance at Morris’s lowering face informed her that the shot had told.
“Well, darling, as youhavecome, there’s nothing for it but to see what is convenient to these poor nuns. I don’t suppose for a moment they can take you in—it’s probably against all rules: and I don’t know what you would do here.”
“Good heavens, no!” ejaculated Morris. “I thought you’d like me to run you back in the little car, mother. You haven’t seen her yet—she’s a beauty.”
“I don’t know whether I ought to leave Frances, but”—Nina pressed her hand to her brow for a moment—“if you want me to come home, darling, I would leave it all in a moment, though as a matter of fact the Retreat is hardly begun.”
“The Retreat!” ejaculated her son in tones of contempt. “No wonder you were so bored, mother.”
“Yes, dear,” coldly said Nina, considerably exasperatedby these continual references to the plaints which now served merely to discount any lustre of sacrifice which might have surrounded her departure from the convent. “You see the Retreat had not begun when I wrote, and naturally the sort of society here is not likely to prove particularly congenial to me. But I have to think about you now, and what is best.”
Morris contrived to insert a sound of amused incredulity into the low whistle with which he received this announcement of parental solicitude. Nina, with an air of being too deeply absorbed in her considerations to spare attention elsewhere, gazed thoughtfully and with compressed lips at the small, empty fireplace in front of her, and Morris strolled to the window with a markedlyinsouciantdemeanour.
Into this atmosphere of mental unrest Mère Pauline entered rapidly and noiselessly, as was her wont.
“Ah, madame!” she cried in tones of congratulation that verged upon the emotional, “quelle joie—what an answer to our poor prayers!”
Nina almost mechanically returned the pressure of Mère Pauline’s hand, and murmured in accents that confusion of mind rendered almost shamefaced:
“My son, Mère Pauline. Let me present him.”
“Ah!” said the nun gravely, and inclined her head in chastened recognition of the prodigal. “Votre maman a beaucoup souffert,” was the slightly unconventional greeting which she bestowed upon him.
Nina, avoiding glancing at her son, exclaimed with feverish presence of mind: “One cannot talkà troisvery well, can one? My plans are rather altered by this sudden arrival—you must let me discuss them with you.”
“But certainly. Would Monsieur care to inspect the garden?”
“May I see to my car? She’s just outside,” said Morris, with the boyish smile that added an extraordinary charm to his good looks and direct blue gaze.
“Yes, by all means,” said Mère Pauline, an answeringsmile almost involuntarily modifying the compassionate severity of her expression.
Morris made his exit.
The agitated Nina immediately burst into tears again, partly from a distinct feeling of relief, which unnerved her, and partly from a desire to gain time.
Mère Pauline said, “Ah! je comprends,” nodded her head slowly once or twice, and considerately turned her back upon the weeping Nina.
The extent of this comprehension of Mère Pauline’s soon became almost overwhelmingly apparent to Mrs. Severing. The nun held her hand gently and discoursed in rapid and feeling accents on thechangement de cœurwhich had evidently been operated on the returned wanderer, and of the difficult but salutary way of penance and atonement upon which he would now embark. Her references to St. Augustine and St. Monica were plentiful.
Nina, bewildered, but soothed, responded in suitably broken accents, and led the conversation round to the point of her own immediate departure.
To this Mère Pauline at once acceded. The duties of a mother came before other things, however good in themselves, and no doubt for monsieur the quiet of the country—— Mère Pauline left it to be inferred that a career of debauchery such as that of Nina’s son, was best expiated in as remote a corner of the earth as possible.
“I will myself explain to Father Anselm the situation,” said Mère Pauline gravely, and added an inquiry as to any possible desire for an interview with the good Prior on the part of Nina or her son. She did not, however, make the suggestion in any hopeful accents, and appeared in no way surprised when it was gracefully declined on the grounds that the Prior’s time must be much occupied with the Retreat.
“Then I will leave you, madame, to make your preparations of departure. Shall you require a cab?”
“My son wishes to take me back part of the way bymotor—it is not such a long journey then,” said Nina.
“Ah! les autos—les autos!” said Mère Pauline, gravely shaking her head as she went from the parlour.
Morris’s recently acquired two-seater was evidently, in the eyes of Mère Pauline, responsible for much.
“Did Frances mind your going, mother?” inquired Morris an hour later, as he drove his mother rapidly away from the convent.
An almost imperceptible start from the slight veiled figure beside him confirmed his shrewd suspicion that his mother, thankfully hastening away from her cloistered solitude, had forgotten any formality of farewell.
But it was never Mrs. Severing’s way to place herself at a disadvantage in the eyes of others, and she replied with great presence of mind:
“I couldn’t make up my mind to disturb her, Morris. I know howonejarring note vibrates in that kind of atmosphere.” An expressive turn of Nina’s head left small room for doubt as to the striker of the jarring note in her own case, and Morris immediately fixed his eyes upon space.
“Look what you’re doing, darling—you’re not drivingat allwell,” said Nina suavely, as the little car swerved across the road.
But although victory might lie with Nina on this occasion, she remained a victim to some mental uneasiness.
Thankfully regaining the luxurious shelter of her own house, with blazing fires and carpeted spaces in consoling contrast to the scenes of her late experiment, Mrs. Severing yet lay back in her capacious armchair that evening, and murmured disconsolately:
“I suppose Bertie will understand that in all the circumstances I couldn’t very well stay on with Frances at the convent. Besides, she’s perfectly happy and absorbed in it all, and it’s ridiculous to suppose they can’t take care of her there. I spoke about her myself to Mère Pauline.”
“They’ll make a nun of her, I suppose,” remarked Morris.
“Well,” said Nina thoughtfully, “it’s a beautiful, sheltered, peaceful life—no trials, no temptations, no responsibilities. I’ve often wondered——” She broke off with a little sigh.
Morris poked the fire briskly, and carefully abstained from any inquiry into the subject of his mother’s wonder.
“If things had been otherwise,” Nina pursued with determination, “perhaps I might have sought that quiet, contemplative way myself. I have a great deal of the cloister element in me.”
Morris, not in the least amused, but distinctly irritated, by his parent’s pretensions to a temperament which he did not believe her to possess, assumed the appearance of one refraining from all but irrepressible mirth.
Nina compressed her lips, skilfully became several shades paler, and bade her son good-night in the low, self-controlled tones of one wounded to the quick.
The next day Mrs. Severing’s considerable dramatic abilities were again called into play by the necessity of explaining to Bertha Tregaskis her desertion of Frances.
“I knew you’d want news of your child, dearest,” she began fondly, “so I felt I had to come over and tell you all about everything at once.”
Mrs. Tregaskis did not appear to be in the least impressed by the smoothness of this address.
“What Idon’tunderstand, darling,” she returned with great directness, “is whyyouare back here and Francie alone at this convent place. You distinctly said that you were staying for the whole week and making the Retreat too—otherwise, as you know, I should have sent Miss Blandflower with her.”
“Bertie dear,” said her friend with great earnestness, “let me speak quite frankly and openly to you—of course I know I may. Don’t you think it’s a pity you don’ttrustyour girls rather more? Take Francie now—she’s perfectly well looked after where she is, and perfectly discreet and sensible. Why insist on sending someone to watch everymovement and report on it? Oh, I know you don’t mean it for watching—or anything of that sort—but that’s probably what it looks like to the child, and it galls her. I’ve felt it every moment of the time that I’ve been with her.”
“Do you mean to tell me, Nina...?”
“Trust begets trust,” cried Nina, in impassioned tones that affected to ignore her friend’s interruption. “I’ve found it so with my own Morris. There’s always been perfect sympathy between us, and he’s never had a thought or wish that I haven’t shared. I know Morris as I do myself, I may say—simply because I’ve always trusted—blindly, implicitly, if you will, but——”
The trenchant accents of Mrs. Tregaskis, in tones very much deeper and louder than any at Nina’s command, broke definitely into this eloquent monologue.
“Now look here, my dear. You know that I’m nothing if not direct—sledge-hammer, if you like. I can’t stand shilly-shally.” She planted both hands on her hips, in her favourite attitude of determination.
“Out with it, Nina. Did you ever mean to make that Retreat affair at all?”
“Bertie! I don’t know what you mean by speaking to me in that magisterial tone. I am in the habit of meaning what I say. I don’t suppose any woman on this earth is morechildishlyopen and sincere than I am, as you very well know. Of course I meant to make the Retreat—it has been a most bitter blow to me that I was unable to finish it—but my boy’s need comes before anything.”
“His need of what?”
“Of me,” said Nina majestically.
“How can his need of you have sprung up like a mushroom in the night?” demanded her friend in highly unbelieving accents. “A week ago you were miserable because he was wasting time and money in Paris amongst all that wretched musical crowd”—Nina felt it due to her art to draw herself up tensely at the description—“and now youexpect me to believe that he can’t wait quietly at Pensevern for four days till you come home.”
“If Morris has suddenly realized that he has only one true friend in all the world—his mother—and turned to her again—how could she fail him?” pathetically inquired Mrs. Severing, with a distinct recollection of Mère Pauline’s flights of fancy.
“Of course, my dear, if Morris has got himself into some silly scrape and come to you to be helped out, it’s another thing,” said Bertha unconvincedly. “I’m only too glad, for your sake, if he has turned to you at last. I know what a grief and mortification it’s always been to you that you hadn’t his confidence more—foolish boy!”
“Foolish indeed!” sighed Nina. “But the young like to fancy that the elder generation does not understand—little knowing that one has been through all, all, everything, that can come within their ken a hundred times over. And so my poor Morris has preferred to bestow his confidence elsewhere—and oh! how he will regret it some day.”
“As to that,” said Bertha negligently, “it’s really only a little natural kicking against the pricks of parental authority, you know. Morris used to talk tomefreely enough—we had some huge pow-wows together over that silly affair about Rosamund. Boys have a knack of confiding in me. I always say that I have more young men in my train than any girl I know!”
“Not more than Hazel,” cried Nina delicately. “I hear that everyone absolutely raves about her, and she’s looking too lovely for words. Do tell me, dearest, how,howis the adorable grandson?”
If Mrs. Severing sought to repay her friend for various previous thrusts by thus alluding to the latest scion of the house of Marleswood, whose grandparents had not yet been privileged to behold him, disappointment was in store for her. Bertha did indeed reply briefly enough, “Oh, the infant flourishes magnificently, I believe,” but she added immediately,in tones that strove to be casual and not triumphant:
“Hazel is bringing him down to us next month. Her husband has to go to Holland about some property or other, and she’s coming to us while he’s away.”
“Dearest,howglad I am!”
“It will be a great joy to my old man,” said Bertha rather wistfully. “The other two girls don’t fill Hazel’s place in any way. Of course, they’re not one’s own, either, but I do sometimes wish they had a little more of Hazel’s sunshine. Shewaslike a ray of sunshine in the house—it describes her exactly, somehow. Never out of spirits, and never had a day’s illness in her life.”
“Oh, how I envy her!” sighed Nina.
Bertie disregarded this gentle attempt to conduct the conversation into channels more interesting to Mrs. Severing.
“The house hasn’t been the same place without her laughter and fun. Poor old Minnie is always more or less in the doleful dumps, and the two girls can’t see a joke to save their lives—never could. Frances will be worse than ever now, I suppose. Tell me about this convent of hers, Nina, and what she’s doing there? You were hardly there long enough to find out, I suppose?”
“My dear Bertie,” said Mrs. Severing with dignity. “I really can’t discuss the matter with you if you will adopt this extraordinaryposeof thinking that I have failed you in some mysterious manner. I never undertook to do more than take Frances to the convent and settle her in, andifcircumstances allowed, make the Retreat with her. As it is, they—they haven’t allowed,” concluded Nina rather lamely.
“So I perceive, and I really can’t blame you, Nina dear. I never thought you in the least suited to that sort of place—one can’t fancy you happy in such silent, austere surroundings,” Bertha said affectionately. “But the question is, whether I’m to let my little girl stay on alone, or send Minnie down to join her—or I might even go myself.”
“I’m sure you’d be like a fish out of water, darling!Don’t dream of it. The whole thing issuchan atmosphere of ‘Plain living and high thinking,’” cried Nina.
Bertha laughed good-humouredly.
“The very doctrine I’m always preaching myself! so I don’t know why you should think it wouldn’t suit me. But, as a matter of fact, I don’t quite see how I could get away just now—I’ve a committee meeting to-morrow, and the Mothers’ Union coming here on Saturday—and I want to keep an eye on that child of Farmer Trigg’s. I’m pretty sure the parents are letting it go to chapel with some of the Dissenters’ children.”
Nina looked profoundly bored.
“Surely that’s a matter for the parson, my dear.”
“If I didn’t tell the parson whose children are Church and whose Chapel,” cried Bertha warmly, “I don’t believe he’d ever find out. He’s over seventy, and as blind as a bat. It’s a perfect shame he doesn’t resign—as I said to the Bishop——”
Nina had heard her friend discourse before upon the deficiencies of that friend’s spiritual pastor and master and felt no slightest interest in the subject. So she exclaimed with an air of sudden inspiration:
“Bertie! Forgive me for interrupting you, darling—it doesn’t mean that I’m not interested, for I am, and Ientirelythink with you—but I’ve just had an idea. There’s quite a nice woman at the convent, to whom I should have recommended Frances most particularly, if only I hadn’t been in such a hurry, with simply no time to think of anything. But if I sent her one line——”
Nina’s pause implied boundless devotion on the part of the quite nice woman.
“Is she a Sister?” asked Bertie, not unsuspiciously.
“Dear me, no, nothing of that sort. Just making the Retreat, like myself,” said Nina vaguely. “A Mrs. Mulholland—rather a talker, butquiteto be depended on, I should think.”
“Well,” said Bertha doubtfully. “It would be very inconvenientto let Minnie go just now, and she’d hate it, poor thing. And I suppose the child is all right really—it’s only that one’s old-fashioned notions don’t like the idea of her being there under nobody’s charge but her own.”
“I’ll write to-night,” said Nina effusively, “and put her under Mrs. Mulholland’s charge. I quite meant to do it when I found myself obliged to rush away, but something prevented it at the last moment. Don’t dream of worrying for an instant, dearest.”
“I don’t worry, as you know. I’m a practical woman, Nina,” said Bertha bluntly. “Just write a line to this friend of yours, then, will you? and it can go to the post with the letters at once.”
Mrs. Severing had hardly contemplated so prompt an action, but she was relieved at shifting the onus of her responsibility so lightly, and sat down willingly enough to transfer it on to the substantial shoulders of Mrs. Mulholland.
Two days later she triumphantly confronted Mrs. Tregaskis with the reply.
“Why four pages?” curtly demanded Bertha, elevating her eyebrows.
“She gives me many little convent details which would hardly, of course, interest an outsider, but which mean something to me,” said Mrs. Severing, with the air of a lady-abbess.
“May I read it?”
“I can read you the bit which refers to Frances.”
“Dear me, is it private? After two days’ acquaintance! I always say, Nina, that you dash into intimacies quicker than any woman I’ve ever known.”
“How preposterous you are, Bertie. Of course there’s nothing private in Mrs. Mulholland’s letter. I merely thought it might bore you. Please do read it, if you are so insatiably curious. It always amuses me to see the delightful way in which you poke and ferret about into everything, like a beloved bloodhound.”
“Bloodhounds don’t ferret,” remarked Mrs. Tregaskis, taking Mrs. Mulholland’s voluminous epistle from her friend’s hand with an air of great annoyance.
The air of annoyance was merged into astonishment, not unmixed with amusement, as she perused the four large pages covered with thick, black writing:
“The Convent,“Friday.“My dear Mrs. Severing,“You must forgive me not answering your little note at once, but we only came out of Retreat this morning. I was sorry to hear of your sudden departure, and also not to have said good-bye, but perhaps we shall see you down here again one of these days. Your little friend has been very happy, and has edified us all during the Retreat. I am sure she must be very pleasing to our dear Lord. I hear that the Prior is very much pleased with her indeed, and hopes to receive her very soon now. What a joy that must be to you! since I could not help feeling, dear Mrs. Severing, that you were very much with usin spirit.“Mère Pauline has told me of the great joy which has come to you in your dear son’s return, and you must please accept my very warmest congratulations. There may still be dark days ahead of you, butwhile there’s life there’s hope.“Miss Grantham will no doubt write to you of the Retreat. It was quite beautiful, and the discourse this morning which came before the bestowal of the Papal Blessing was most moving. I feel that we have all derived great benefit and many graces, and you may be sure that I remembered my promise to say many a little prayer for youand yours.“Mère Pauline sends many kind thoughts, and will not forget you in her good prayers. And now, with most earnest wishes for the future, dear Mrs. Severing, I must close.“Most cordially yours,“Mary-Th- Mulholland,“E. de M.”
“The Convent,“Friday.
“My dear Mrs. Severing,
“You must forgive me not answering your little note at once, but we only came out of Retreat this morning. I was sorry to hear of your sudden departure, and also not to have said good-bye, but perhaps we shall see you down here again one of these days. Your little friend has been very happy, and has edified us all during the Retreat. I am sure she must be very pleasing to our dear Lord. I hear that the Prior is very much pleased with her indeed, and hopes to receive her very soon now. What a joy that must be to you! since I could not help feeling, dear Mrs. Severing, that you were very much with usin spirit.
“Mère Pauline has told me of the great joy which has come to you in your dear son’s return, and you must please accept my very warmest congratulations. There may still be dark days ahead of you, butwhile there’s life there’s hope.
“Miss Grantham will no doubt write to you of the Retreat. It was quite beautiful, and the discourse this morning which came before the bestowal of the Papal Blessing was most moving. I feel that we have all derived great benefit and many graces, and you may be sure that I remembered my promise to say many a little prayer for youand yours.
“Mère Pauline sends many kind thoughts, and will not forget you in her good prayers. And now, with most earnest wishes for the future, dear Mrs. Severing, I must close.
“Most cordially yours,“Mary-Th- Mulholland,“E. de M.”
Bertha returned the letter without a word to its owner.
But the goaded Mrs. Severing was not yet free to take her departure from Porthlew.
She was waylaid in the very hall by Rosamund.
“Wretched child!” thought Nina, who had by this time educated herself into thinking of Miss Grantham solely as the destroyer of Morris’s peace of mind. “However, I suppose she’s miserable by this time, and wants to know if there’s any chance of patching up a meeting or something with him.”
With this in mind, Mrs. Severing advanced with an air of guilelessness, and a sense of diplomacy.
“I’mjustoff, dear,” she said sweetly to Rosamund. “Your beloved guardian has really tempted me to stay on longer than I ought—itissuch a joy to spend an hour with her.”
“I won’t keep you one minute,” said Rosamund, “but I had to ask you—I do so want to hear....”
Nina’s expressive eyebrows mounted.
“About Frances,” said Rosamund eagerly, quite unaware that she was disconcerting the diplomatic Mrs. Severing considerably. The shock of finding her discernment at fault, almost equally with her annoyance at being once more asked to render an account of her shifted responsibilities, caused Mrs. Severing to reply with considerably less than her usual suavity:
“Frances! What about her? I’ve left her in charge of a most delightful woman, and she’s perfectly happy. Just as the young,” said Nina viciously, “always are.”