Part 27

“You mean Morris. She won’t have him, my dear. He’s not the sort of man for her--he’s too young, for one thing. No, no--Ludovic Argent and the Wye Valley, for Rosamund, is what _I_ think. I don’t mind telling you that I’ve thought so all along, Minnie. I like Morris--he and I are huge chums, as you know--but ever since that boy and girl affair at home, ages ago, I’ve always said they weren’t suited to one another.”

“Well, we shall see what we shall see, I suppose,” was the timorous reply of Miss Blandflower, which she hazarded as though voicing the most startling of suggestions.

“It would please Sybil very much, I fancy. Of course I know perfectly well that she wanted it to be Francie--but I suppose Rosamund is next best, even though she isn’t an R.C.”

“But then neither is he.”

“Exactly. But poor dear Sybil has the subject on the brain, and always fancies that her prayers will ‘convert’ him, as she calls it, one of these days. I never saw any woman so utterly gone to pieces as Sybil--sometimes I almost think she’s in her second childhood to hear her babble as she does--there’s no other word for it--simply babble.”

“Babble, babble, little brook,” idiotically murmured Minnie, with a pair of garden scissors between her teeth, and both hands full of tangled string.

“Here, I’ll hold that for you. No, no, not the string--the scissors. Give them to me, Minnie, you’ll break your teeth if you do that. Very well--but you’re only getting it into a muddle. What was I saying?--oh, about Sybil. Poor dear! One of the reasons that made me come here was the thought of having her for a neighbour. We were the greatest of friends, as girls, though there’s nearly ten years between us. There might be twenty, now. Minnie, whatever happens, I do pray and trust that I shall never die at the top first, as they say. If you see any tendency to garrulous old age, you must tell me so in good time. It’s much the truest kindness in the long run. One would so much rather spend one’s last few years silently.”

“A few more years shall roll,” was the thoughtful response of Miss Blandflower, as she gave a final pull to the string and scissors entanglement, which succeeded in blending them all inextricably together for the rest of the afternoon.

Bertie, in spite of her strictures on the wanderings of Lady Argent’s mind, was not deterred from frequently crossing the valley in search of her. She always told Rosamund vigorously that she liked the walk.

“So kind of you, Bertie dear,” her hostess murmured gratefully, “because you know how much I love seeing you, and the pony is so very old one can’t take him out often--especially with the bridge at the very furthest end of the village, as it is--so exceedingly inconvenient. It used to make poor dear Fergus so angry, but, of course, one knows perfectly well that this is only one house, whereas a whole village is a whole village--and was here first, besides.”

“You ought to have a ferry.”

“My dear, I never go down to the edge of the river without thinking of St. Christopher--you know what I mean. It wasn’t a ferry, of course, but it was all the same thing in the end--only of course so much better than a regular ferry. Not that I mean it would do nowadays, or for everybody---- My dear, what _are_ you laughing at? Have I said something dreadfully profane? I am so terribly apt to, quite without meaning it, and Ludovic always laughs at me.”

Mrs. Tregaskis laughed too, with kindly superiority.

“I don’t think you’re in any imminent danger of serious profanity, Sybil, and I’m sure Ludovic doesn’t. Great cheek of me to call him Ludovic, isn’t it? and I certainly shouldn’t dare do it to his face--but I always think of you both as sort of relations, you know.”

The observation was more in the nature of a small feeler than an accurate statement of fact, and Bertha watched for its effect narrowly.

“So nice of you, dear,” said Lady Argent absently, without a trace of meaning in her voice or manner; “and you know I never had any sisters or brothers, so Ludovic has never had an aunt. At least, dear Fergus had one sister, but she was older than he was, a good deal, and so very Scotch. Not that I mean for a moment that her being Scotch would prevent her from being an aunt as well--in fact, I believe the Scotch think more about relationships than we do. Blood is thicker than water and all that, you know, dear, and kith and kin, whatever that may mean, which I always think sounds so very Scotch--but she really wasn’t at all like an aunt to Ludovic. Just called him ‘my brother’s child,’ you know, and sent him a little book from time to time. Very Calvinistic,” and Lady Argent, shaking her head, “and I always burnt them, even in those days, though he was far too young to read, poor darling. In fact she died before he was five years old.”

“Well, I’m only too delighted to do aunt by proxy,” said Bertha good-humouredly. “I’ve been ‘auntie’ to a good many young people in my time, though the rising generation generally prefers ‘Cousin Bertie.’ I remember ages ago asking those two poor mites, Rosamund and Francie, what they’d like to call me. D’you remember my bringing them over here to say good-bye to you, Sybil?”

“Yes, indeed, so good and pathetic, poor little dears,” said Lady Argent tenderly; “and both so pretty, weren’t they?”

“Rosamund has rather lost her looks, I’m sorry to say.”

Bertha was looking keenly at her friend, who remained serenely unconscious of her scrutiny.

“Don’t you think so, Sybil?”

“She’s rather too thin, and I don’t like those great shadows under her eyes, but I’m sure she’ll always be a very pretty creature. So like her mother, you know, though I always thought that Mrs. Grantham spoilt herself with those enormous earrings, especially in the country, somehow. I don’t quite know,” Lady Argent thoughtfully pursued, with an air of far greater interest than any she had bestowed on the subject of Rosamund’s looks, “why it is that I have always disliked earrings. I do so hope it isn’t prejudice, which I always think so very narrow-minded and shocking. But I never could bear the picture of St. Cecilia that everyone likes so much because of those great things hanging from her ears. Sitting at the organ, dear, you know. Though I’ve no doubt it was the fashion, and quite proper and everything in those days, and in that country.”

“My dear Sybil! Surely Cecilia was a Roman virgin? You talk as though she’d lived in some unheard of region.”

“Well, I never can remember quite where Tyre and Sidon and Syracuse and all those places are,” was Lady Argent’s rather surprising reply. “I know St. Paul was always going there, but then he really did travel a great deal, Bertie, even for nowadays. I never can bear to think how dreadfully inconvenient their travelling arrangements must have been then--though, of course, it made it all the more meritorious.”

Bertha made a decided effort to turn the conversation from channels which appeared to her unnecessarily Scriptural.

“It’s such a comfort to see Rosamund looking better every day. There’s nothing like youth, my dear, when all’s said and done. After all, in spite of the grief and trouble which seem so bitter to them, they have everything to look forward to--all life before them. It’s a wonderful thing to be young, Sybil.”

She sighed.

“I always think that it _depends_ so much,” said Lady Argent cryptically, and with the diffidence which she always brought to any opinion that differed from her friend’s. “But, of course, when I think of Frances, poor little darling, though I can’t think why I call her poor, for she’s far better off than we are, and must have a much higher place in Heaven than one can ever hope for oneself--but there it is, Bertie, I am quite sure that she was a very privileged soul in every possible way.”

“Now I’m going to shock you,” declared Bertha with a kind of deliberate enjoyment in her tone, “but I should have had a much higher opinion of Frances if she’d given up her own way and stayed quietly at home until she was of an age to judge for herself. Oh yes, my dear, I know it’s a dreadful thing to say now, but I’m nothing if not outspoken, as you know, and I can’t pretend--it isn’t in me. One looks upon Francie as a little victim, and so she was, poor child, but it was all owing to her own self-will.”

Lady Argent flushed, looked doubtful, and then said gently and very characteristically:

“So brave of you, Bertie dear, to be so unconventional and say it all out, because of course I know you loved her just as if she’d been your very own. Only you know it really was a vocation, if ever there was one, and Father Anselm was very much impressed with her, and told me so himself long before there was any question of her entering. Such a very holy man, Bertie, and extremely clever. Plain chant, you know, and all that kind of thing--so wonderful, I always think, though of course I’m no judge at all, since I never really like good music--only tunes I’ve known all my life, which are not plain chant at all, as you may imagine, since they’ve only revived it quite within the last few years. The Holy Father wishes it so much, for the Church, which of course makes one like it, though I always think otherwise, it might strike one as the least little bit dreary. So very little tune, you know.”

“Yes, I know what you mean. Sybil, do you know you’re getting very discursive?”

“I dare say, dear,” said Lady Argent placidly, “a train of thought is such a very difficult thing to follow, I always think--I mean another person’s, of course. One’s own is naturally easy enough.”

Bertha did not look as though she shared this conviction--nor did she where the tangled skein of Lady Argent’s meditations was concerned.

“I’ve got a little train of thought in my own head at the present moment,” she said tentatively. “I wonder if you can guess what I’m at, Sybil.”

“No, dear, I’m sure I can’t. I never was the least bit of good at guessing anything at all. Don’t you remember when riddles were so much the fashion, and people were always asking one why did Rider Haggard, and ridiculous questions of that sort? I never could get the answers right, even then, and there was one dreadful thing that dear Fergus was so fond of--about a ton of lead and a ton of feathers. I’m sure you must have heard it, Bertie.”

“I don’t think so--a ton of lead? Are you sure you don’t mean a herring and a half?” laughed Bertha.

“Oh, yes, though I know that one too. The question, I mean--not the answer, of course. But this was something about a ton of lead and a ton of feathers being upset out of a boat or somewhere, into the sea, and which would sink fastest. And, of course, I always answered ‘Lead.’ Because one knows perfectly well that feathers float and lead sinks. But it always turned out to be the wrong answer.”

“My dear Sybil!” Bertie laughed helplessly.

“Yes, indeed,” said Lady Argent, still in melancholy retrospect, “I once thought I would be very clever and surprise Fergus--so silly, my dear, because nothing ever surprised dear Fergus, not even when one of the mares had twin foals--he said he’d always expected it all along, which one knows was quite impossible, but so very Scotch of him, wasn’t it? Anyhow, one day I thought I’d get that dreadful riddle answered once and for all, so instead of saying as one naturally would, and as I’m bound to say I’d said quite a dozen times before, that of course the lead would sink soonest, I suddenly said: The feathers. And I dare say it served me quite right, because I certainly didn’t in the least see how it could be the right answer, and was only pretending, which I suppose was rather hypocritical of me--but Fergus simply roared with laughter, and told everybody what I’d said for weeks and weeks afterwards.”

“Sybil, Sybil, you’ll be the death of me.” Bertha was absolutely mopping her eyes, streaming from her unaffected merriment.

Lady Argent looked at her affectionately.

“Dear Bertie, I do like to hear your laugh again.”

“It _is_ an infectious chuckle, I believe,” returned Mrs. Tregaskis; “but I’ve always had a huge appreciation for the funny side of things. It’s helped me all through life, Sybil. I’m not an irreligious woman, though my religion is perhaps not a conventional one, but I really believe the whole of my creed could be embodied in one word: ‘Smile!’ I _do_ believe in smiling! It cheers others, helps oneself, and does good all round. I don’t mind owning to you that a good many people, one way and another, have told me they blessed my knack of smiling. I’m sure one laugh is worth ten sermons, very often!”

“Sermons are so often a little difficult to understand,” said Lady Argent apologetically. “I sometimes find myself quite hazy in church--though I dare say that’s mostly from the long drive, which makes me so dreadfully sleepy.”

“You have to go all the way to Chepstow, haven’t you?”

“Yes, and dear Ludovic is so angelic about driving me in. Not that he often allows me to go early, but then that’s because he thinks it tires me, not because he minds the distance.”

“Your relationship is a very beautiful one,” said Bertha thoughtfully.

“Oh, my dear, it is!” cried Lady Argent very simply. “I often wonder what I’ve done to deserve a son like Ludovic, when I see how dreadfully other people are worried by their children.”

She coloured suddenly at the allusion, and then hurried on. “It’s not because I’ve brought him up beautifully or anything of that sort, either. I never _could_ have theories, though I bought hundreds of little books--from the very first day that I knew I was going to have a baby. But I always forgot, and then dear Fergus, who was nothing if not determined--so very Scotch, you know, dear--used to say that little books were all rubbish, and if I wanted to know how to bring up a child, Solomon had said all there was to be said upon the subject. Not that he would ever have laid a finger upon Ludovic himself, you know. The only time the poor darling was ever punished, when he was about six years old, I had to do it myself, with a bedroom slipper. And I cried so dreadfully that Ludovic said in the middle of it: ‘It’s all right, mummy, don’t cry, you’re hardly hurting me at all.’ So touching, I always thought.”

“I sometimes think that bringing up hasn’t anything at all to do with it,” said Bertha dryly. “I brought up my own child as well as I knew how, and practically brought up the other two girls as well. And look at my Hazel, Sybil. She hasn’t one thought for me. She came home when her father died and stayed a week--and her husband came for one night. She was sweet enough and affectionate enough--Hazel’s always been that--but do you suppose that I didn’t know that the whole of her thoughts were at Marleswood, with Guy and the babies, after the first day or two were over? Perhaps it’s natural--but it’s very bitter, Sybil. I don’t ask for impossibilities--I couldn’t have lived with them, and I should never wish to--but they never even suggested it.”

Lady Argent said nothing at all, and took Bertha’s hand into hers.

“It’s the fuss over her marriage that she’s never forgotten,” said Bertha bitterly, “and yet God knows she can afford to. She’s taken her own way, and is happy in it--and her father and I forgave her long ago, if she wanted forgiveness, for her self-will and disobedience.”

There was a long silence.

“Well,” said Bertha at last, “Rosamund is the only one who has come back to the old nest after all. Hazel’s gone right away from me--I know that well enough, in spite of all her loving letters--and won’t ever come back. Little Francie took her own way and followed a will-o’-the-wisp that she thought was the Star in the East, and I tell you, Sybil, that before she’d been in that place six months she was just as remote and far away from us as though she’d been in another world. Why, her very language wasn’t ours any longer--her whole scale of values had shifted.... Someone who saw her once after she had entered told me it was like talking to someone with a thick wall of impenetrable glass all round. You could see her--but you could never get near ... never be in touch again....”

“You are nearer now, perhaps,” softly said Lady Argent.

“Who knows? But the child that’s come back to me is Rosamund. And I shan’t fail her, Sybil.”

“No, Bertie,” said Lady Argent lovingly. “You would never fail her.”

“Never,” repeated Bertha with curiously intense conviction. “You see, apart from everything else, she’s the one of the three that has sought me when other things failed her. It’s an appeal that one doesn’t forget. I have to _give_, you know, Sybil. I’m made that way--and Rosamund has every claim on me.”

There was silence again, and Bertha only broke it to take her departure with a brisk matter-of-factness that seemed to draw a swift curtain across some intimate threshold to a sanctuary where even her own footsteps seldom penetrated.

XXX

“Hazel and the babies are coming for a week,” announced Bertha triumphantly.

“How delightful! But oh! dear Mrs. Tregaskis, _have_ you considered where you’re going to put them?” urgently demanded Miss Blandflower, wearing an expression of anxiety.

“Ask my landlady, Minnie.”

Miss Blandflower’s expression, now complicated by the addition of a puzzled smile, was turned towards Rosamund.

“The little balcony room for Hazel, of course, and the spare room is quite large enough for nurse and the baby--but Dickie----”

“He can have a cot in my room,” said Dickie’s grandmother quickly, “unless Hazel wants him with her. What about a nursery? They’ll be out most of the day, in this glorious weather, but it gets dark early; and then for meals----”

“There’s the attic,” said Rosamund rather slowly. “It’s very big and light, and can easily be cleared. It used to be a sort of nursery.”

She remained a moment reflective, and Mrs. Tregaskis eyed her kindly and observantly.

“Fancy!” ejaculated Minnie in the silence.

“Yes,” said Rosamund. “It makes a very nice room, and there are two windows.” She thought to herself that she would rather like the attic, where she and Francie had played together, to be a nursery again.

“You’d rather like it to be a nursery again, wouldn’t you?” said Bertha gently.

The attic was made ready, and two days later the engaging Dickie was trotting round it and gazing through the big dormer windows on to the garden below.

Hazel, radiantly pretty and good-humoured, showed the caressing appreciation and gratitude for the welcome prepared that Rosamund had never known her fail to bestow. She played with the babies, gardened with Minnie, and answered all Bertha’s half-tentative questions with the same joyous unreserve of manner. If, in that very unreserve, there was a withholding, Rosamund thought it a most unconscious one. To Rosamund, Hazel gave of her loving way and impulses freely. Above all, she gave her, by a sort of tender instinct, what Rosamund needed most--the care of Dickie.

It was Dickie who, unknowing enough, completed what Mrs. Mulholland, with her kind, inadequate goodness, had begun after Frances’ death.

Rosamund came to realize that, on the day that she received news of Mrs. Mulholland’s death. She was in the garden with Ludovic Argent, as so often now, under the big Spanish chestnut from which still hung, stained and creaking, the frayed ropes and wide seat of the swing that had belonged to her and to Frances.

“Mrs. Mulholland is dead,” she said, with wet eyes. “She just died in her sleep, on Sunday night. They’ve written from the convent to tell me.”

She handed him the letter quite simply.

Ludovic read the rather set, conventional phrases in which a French nun asked Rosamund’s prayers for the repose of the soul of her old friend.

She had been “ready to go” for a long while.

“Yes,” said Ludovic, “I remember you told me about that.”

“She wondered what the meeting with her husband would be like--after all those years. She talked of dying just as though it was like going on a journey, to some place where people one knew were waiting. She was very matter-of-fact about it. I think Catholics are like that. She said she would take messages from me to Frances--in a sort of way it comforted me very much. It made it seem--not so very far away, after all. I wonder.”

She was silent for a moment, and then said almost timidly:

“Do you think perhaps she’s given the messages now?”

“Who knows, my dear?” said Ludovic Argent gently.

Watching Rosamund, whose gaze was turned to the dim outline of the Welsh hills, he knew that he loved her, and told himself that he had always known it.

Presently he told her.

“I think I am not capable of any very strong feeling any more,” said Rosamund almost childishly, and half apologetically. “I had to tell Morris that.”

“You don’t care for him?” he asked quickly.

“Oh no,” said Rosamund.

“Then may I try to make you care for me?”

“Ludovic, I’ll try and explain,” said Rosamund, speaking with difficulty, and using his name for the first time. “It has seemed to me that there is only one way for anyone to learn anything--and that is through caring. Francie’s love for God, whether one thinks it a mistaken sort or not, made her give up everything and go to the convent--as you know. And it nearly broke my heart, because it took her away from me, and I wanted her to be happy in my way and with me. When I went to see her after she’d actually entered I knew that in some way she’d grown up, while I hadn’t--I was still muddling about in chaos, while she’d found a definite anchor. I couldn’t understand, and I felt further away from her than ever before. Then, when I went to the convent when she was ill, and they wouldn’t let me go to her, I understood all she’d given up. You see, for _Francie_ to do or say anything that would hurt _me_ was the greatest sacrifice that she could ever have offered. When I was in the chapel then, I prayed that she might die....

“It was all such pain and despair as I can’t describe--but afterwards, very slowly, I think I’ve understood a little. There is only one thing which counts, and that’s loving--and loving is giving.

“Frances gave one way--her way--and taught me a very little of what it meant.

“But my way is not the same as hers.”

“You are giving the things of the spirit,” said Ludovic.