Chapter VII

ONCE more there was a little excitement in the village, as at the arrival of the nuns, when it became known that Lady Sarah and her husband were to stay at the Hall for a fortnight. The events of the last few months were perfectly known, even to an elaboration of detail, in that strange manner in which secrets do get out.

First there had been the letting of Lady Carberry's house — or rather Sarah's — for a term of two years, and the going abroad of the mistress. Then, like a thunderbolt, the news of the marriage in October, scarcely six months after the old lady's death. Mr. Fakenham was only known as a well-dressed figure who occasionally walked through the village with his trout-rod; but it was known that he was an old friend, and had stayed with her ladyship in several consecutive years. On the whole the affair was approved of, particularly when it was considered that Lady Sarah's sole remaining aunt with whom she had gone abroad had also died in August, and that the girl had no other relations in the world. A husband was the best thing for her under the circumstances.

Once more, therefore, at the close ot an afternoon in late November, there was gathered a little group at the lodge gate to see the brougham drive through; and it was thought that it would be a pleasant distraction for Mrs. Weston, all alone now, through the absence of her husband in South Africa.

Sarah herself was very content as she drove up to the house. She had had a delightful month, very quietly, with her husband in Wales — that husband in whom she still felt a very considerable pride. He was really a very clever man; he was entirely presentable, and now that he had resigned his position in the Home Office, he was free to come and go with her as he liked. He had not been very well; the routine of the office was very trying to his nerves; and the fact that now he had no earthly reason for continuing with work that was distasteful to him had finished the affair finally. He had told her, in a burst of confidence, that there was any amount of occupation in the world generally for a man of his tastes; and he had begun once more his collection of first editions. It was a very pleasant life that these two were to lead in future. They had let the Manningham house for the present, but they were already negotiating for another; they were to divide their time between town and country;

they were going to enjoy themselves very much indeed in doing nothing in particular.

" My dearest," said Sarah, and threw herself into Mary's arms in the hall.

Sarah's first preoccupation, when the two were alone after tea in the morning-room, was to say a word or two about the difficulties of dressing suitably in her double character of bride and mourner.

I forget how the matter had been solved by Madame Valerie, but Mary assured her that it had been solved satisfactorily; and told her, in other words, that her appearance was heartless neither to the dead nor the living.

That was all right then; and Sarah began to attend to her friend.

" And you, dearest — how are you? You're looking rather pale."

Mary said she was very well indeed.

" And Mr. Jack? Has he reached Capetown? Aren't you fearfully lonely? "

" I had a wire yesterday," said Mary. " He begins to play next week."

There fell a little pause.

Sarah had written demanding explanations of the very short sentence in which Mary had informed her of Jack's change of plans, but had had no answer. She was determined to have one now; but did not quite know how to begin. She threw back her boa a little further and leaned forwards to the fire, stretching out her hands. The wedding-ring was there.

" Tell me some time, dearest, won't you, all about Mr. Jack; I didn't quite understand "

" There is really nothing to tell," said Mary quietly, "except what I told you. Jack changed his mind about cricket, and has gone out to South Africa to play."

" That's what you wanted him to do, isn't it? "

" Yes."

" And— and it's all right/3

" Yes, it's all right," said Mary.

"Really and truly?"

Mary nodded.

Well, that was the end of that, for the present. Even Sarah saw that it was no good going on just then. But as they talked of all the things that they would talk about — of Jim, of the wedding, of Switzer-land, and the rest — Sarah was observing with all her might. The impression she received could not be put into words; she could not even formulate it in thought, beyond telling herself that "something" had happened. Mary looked really perfectly well; she was charmingly dressed; she talked naturally and easily; she asked the proper questions; she made the proper answers; and yet something hung down like an obscuring veil, through which glimmered formless things whose nature could not be detected. There was a gravity about her, yet not a gravity different either in kind or degree from gravities that Sarah had observed before; there was an air of reticence, yet of a reticence that she had seen before, and that had broken suddenly and abruptly into whirling confidence. Only, this evening, this did not break.

At dinner it was the same. The three talked genially, pleasantly; Jim made the kind of remarks that he did make in congenial and admirative company; Mary appreciated them beautifully, as Sarah, glancing up quickly, observed with pleasure; and everything went very well indeed. Yet there was this kind of note sounding in the background; Mary presented only one superficies of herself, the rest was somewhere else.

The husband and wife talked it thoroughly well over that night — Sarah in bed, Jim smoking a cigarette on the hearthrug after half an hour alone in the smoking-room.

" It's all a matter of temperament," said Jim.

"Yes, I know, but it isn't Mary's temperament. That's the point. Mary's not a bit like that really. Why, six months ago she'd have told me the whole thing in ten minutes. Something's happened, and I don't know what. I believe she's been alone here ever since her husband went."

" It's temperament for all that. You must make allowances for temperament. It's only a part that you haven't yet seen. But it's a part."

Sarah was not attending.

" Tel: me again what Algy Lennox told you."

Jim sighed and flicked away his ash.

" Oh, nothing much. They were ragging Weston in the smoking-room, and he lost his temper. Bad form that."

"Which?"

" Both. Why can't people mind their own business? Well, he lost his temper. And two days later Algy heard from him that he'd accepted this invitation."

"That's all?"

Jim nodded. Sarah sighed and drew the bedclothes close under her chin.

"But I don't understand why Mary isn't pleased. It's what she was always wanting him to do. Why, she burst into tears when she found him burning his bats."

Jim said nothing.

" And now Jim dear, what do you think? "

" Perhaps she's turned religious too."

Sarah was silent a moment.

11 No," she said, " not like that. You're wrong there. Mary's thoroughly sensible. Of course she s more religious than she was; but "

" She goes to Mass every day," observed Jim; " she said so at dinner."

" Yes, I know; but that's not "

Sarah stopped again.

She felt extraordinarily piqued by the situation, and rather resentful too. She was in a particularly expansive mood just now. Her mother's death had relieved her from a real moral incubus, her new-found liberty, her hotel life in the summer, her marriage— all those things had combined to make her so; and it was really annoying to meet with reticence from one whom she considered she knew through and through.

" Go and ask the nuns," said Jim suddenly, throwing the stump of his cigarette into the fire behind him. Sarah started.

"Jim, that's perfectly brilliant. I will. The Mother's sure to know, and I'll get it out of her. Now, please don't dawdle any more. I want to go to sleep."

There was an excellent opportunity for this next morning. Mary told her, with quite the right amount of regret, that she had a hundred things to do, and wouldn't be free till eleven. So about a quarter-past ten, after a large breakfast, up went Sarah.

The little parlour appeared to her more repulsive than ever. Not content with Sainte Thtrese, someone had hung up yet another appalling effigy, of a shaven man in brown and white, clasping a book, beside the other picture. This time Mary was not there, and there was no need, therefore, for any kind of pose; she could study during the few minutes of waiting, honestly and sincerely, not the details only, but the entire effect of this little room. Yet its message was as illegible to her as hieroglyphics. It must mean something — she saw that; it must stand for some aspect of life, yet it was one she could not interpret. It could not be a sheer love of ugliness, not even simple carelessness, that was the ideal; for the boards were spotlessly clean, the table exactly in the middle, and even a bunch of flowers upon that. Well, she accepted the fact that it meant something she did not understand, and concluded by the same act of thought that it was not worth understanding: it was plainly medieval and foreign and second-rate. Probably, too, all the nuns were rather middle-class.

When the curtain was back at last, and the proper things had been said, and mutual enquiries made, Sarah started for her goal with superb assurance. She knew perfectly well that she, with all her experience and tact, would get out of this guileless old creature all that she wanted without difficulty.

" Reverend Mother," she said, " I want to ask you about Madame Weston. Can you tell me what is the matter with her?"

"Eh? Is she ill?" asked the veiled enigma. " Madam was at Mass, I think "

" Oh, yes: I don't mean in that way. But about

Mr. Weston and all that. Mary seems unhappy — well, not perhaps unhappy, but strange."

" I regret it infinitely," said the old lady. " Monsieur her husband is away; and the loneliness perhaps "

" No, no, my mother. I do not mean with regard to that. But Mr. Weston has changed his manner of life again; and it seems to me that Mary is not very happy about it. Six months ago "

" But, madam, explain yourself, if you please. Monsieur Weston is an excellent Catholic "

" Oh, yes, yes. I don't mean that," explained Sarah, a little irritated at the very slow comprehension of this old lady; " I meant with regard to other things. Monsieur Weston was so strict a few months ago; and now all is changed again. I don't understand Mary in the least. Six months ago she was urging him to be — be ordinary" (Sarah wondered for one wild instant whether " ordinaire " exactly expressed the thought) — "to be like other people, and now that he has commenced again she — she seems not pleased."

" Eh well," remarked the old lady, in a conclusive kind of voice.

This was not illuminating; and Sarah began all over again. It was annoying to have so small a vocabulary; it was annoying to have to discharge this slender weapon through two banks of grating; but it was simply maddening to find on the other side a stupidity even greater than she had supposed. It appeared as if no combination of French words could convey even a hint of the subtle question she attempted to put. She was aware, of course, that every woman who could deliberately (and even more, if acquiescently) confine herself " between four walls " must have been exceptionally dull, even before she had become a nun; but this dullness seemed to her remarkable. Once only did she suspect for a moment that the dullness was assumed; and that interpretation vanished a moment later as the old lady began to discourse on health in general, with a particular application to Mrs. Weston of so sensitive a constitution. Sarah put it all as patiently as she could, over and over again; and each time, before she could drive the point home, some smooth surface was interposed, and the conversation slid off at an angle. She gave it up at last, trembling a little with indignation.

" Eh well, Reverend Mother," she said (she was very much pleased with the naturalness of her Eh bien\ " I see Mary has not confided in you."

"Eh," came back the murmur; "but to you, her friend, madam, no doubt "

" And, of course," went on Sarah rather hastily, entirely unable to resist a little dig, " living as you do in the convent, it is impossible for you to understand what goes on outside."

" Yes, yes, madam; we are but poor nuns who know nothing. You will pray for us the more, is it not so? "

The answer was perfectly courteous, almost deprecating. Yet for a moment Sarah again wondered whether the mind behind were quite as flat as appeared. But no; it was impossible that this nun should know anything. The stupidity was too well marked. Besides, was it not to be expected?... and so on.

" Well, good-bye, Reverend Mother. We are to be here a fortnight "

" And you will come again to see us, will you not? " said the tranquil voice, " and give us the news? Come as often as you please, madam."

And Sarah went away with her suspicions lulled.

Ill

Her direct assault upon Mary — for, of course, she made one, and that no later than that very evening — was, at any rate, decisive for the time, though not in the way she intended.

The two were sitting together as they had sat last night. Jim, who had got thoroughly wet through in the afternoon, and had half dressed on coming in, had wandered away to the smoking-room in dress trousers and a Norfolk jacket; and an excellent opportunity displayed itself.

She began with a stratagem.

" I went up to see the Reverend Mother this morning," she said, "as I told you. We had a delightful conversation about you, my dear."

Mary lifted her eyes and let them fall again.

" Really, darling? How extraordinarily interesting it must have been. What did you say?"

" Oh, we talked about you," said Sarah vaguely, trying to get a world of suggestiveness into her voice. " Mary dear, do you know you've become quite different since I saw you last?"

" How do you mean, my dear? Deterioration? "

Sarah looked up from the low stool which she had drawn quite close to the fire. But Mary's face was quite impassive, with a flicker of only the very faintest humour upon it. She was sewing gently at something or other on her lap.

" You're different," said Sarah emphatically. "Tell me. Have you had a row with Jack? "

Mary fumbled in her workbox, drew out a letter and tossed it to her friend.

" Read that," she said. " Yes, I mean it."

Sarah read it: it was a very friendly and cheerful note from Jack, quite in his old manner, dated from Madeira or Gibraltar or somewhere.

" I don't understand," said Sarah.

" Well, my dear," said Mary sedately, " you asked me whether we have had a row. I ask you, Does that note look like it?"

" You're trying to fence," said Sarah, struck by a brilliant inspiration; " you don't answer."

Mary laid down her work and looked straight at her friend. (It must be remembered that these two really did know one another quite well.)

" Do you mean you want to know whether Jack and I have had a breach, and that my air of mystery means that I am a broken-hearted and deserted wife?"

(It was a good sentence. It had been carefully prepared by Mary two days before.)

" Well, yes, more or less," said Sarah.

" Then I'll tell you, No. Jack and I are excellent friends. Quite excellent. Can I do anything more for you, my dear? "

" And you've had no rows? "

" Oh, my dearest, of course we've had rows. And so will you and Jim, before long. But we've always apologised and made it up, quite beautifully; as I hope you and Jim will."

" And there's no row on now? "

" Absolutely none. We're on as excellent terms as ever."

Sarah stared at the fire without speaking; she heard only the lap of the flames and the gentle rip of the thread through the silk beside her. Then she sighed loudly.

" Oh well, if you won't tell me, you won't."

The rip of the thread ceased.

" Sarah," came a stern voice, " will you kindly tell me exactly what's in your mind? "

" It's this," burst out Sarah indignantly. " There's something up. There's this thing of Jack's — I mean his suddenly changing round again and becoming just what you wanted him. And there are you, as grave as a cat, telling me nothing, and trying to pretend that there's nothing the matter. You didn't write anything to me. You won't tell me anything. All right, then don't. And there's that stupid old woman up there "

" What old woman? "

" Why, the Reverend Mother, of course! I could have — could have slapped her face; only there were the bars between."

" Then you went up to find out all about me, did you?"

" Of course I did! "

" What! After your experience with Father Banting too — that old sheep, as you once called him? "

Sarah looked slightly offended.

" And she didn't understand what you wanted? " pursued Mary relentlessly.

"No; she was too stupid. I never met such a "

Mary's face rippled all over with laughter.

" You really thought that? "

" Why, of course — what else could I think? "

" Do you know who the Reverend Mother once was? "

" Once was! Why, I suppose she was always a nun, wasn't she? At least "

" Have you ever heard of Pauline, the writer?"

" I've read her books, of course," said Sarah sulkily.

" Well, she is Pauline. Or she was, forty years ago."

" Pauline! Do you mean? "

" I mean what I say. Only you mustn't tell her you know, please. I only found it out by chance."

This was so bewildering that Sarah ran clean off the scent. But she was whipped on to it again.

" Whether she knows or not, is not to the point," went on Mary severely. " Only perhaps you'll remember next time that we aren't all abject fools. I should have thought your time with Father Banting would have taught you that. Dear Sarah, I love you, you know; but really you're rather stupid about Catholic things. I know you only think it a matter of temperament and all that, but I assure you there's more in it than you think. We do know our job, you know." (Mary broke off.) " And do you really think that if she did know anything she'd let it out to you? "

" I — I thought, perhaps " began Sarah feebly.

" Just so. Well, we can leave that. Now you come to me. Well, I'll tell you this much and no more. Something has happened; but nothing more is going to happen. It's all done with. (I think you're the most inquisitive person I've ever met in all my life, or I wouldn't tell you even this.) But it's all done with. Jack's going to play cricket in South Africa, and is going to play very well too, and make a great many runs. And then he's going to come back here and play all the summer. And then he'll shoot in the winter. And I shall go on doing what I've always done; and you and Jim will come and stay here every year. And we're all going to live happily for ever afterwards. There; that's enough, my dear."

Mary patted the silk on her knee contentedly and observed Sarah with a large smile.

Sarah thought very hard indeed for about ten seconds. Then she threw herself back on the stool, clasping a knee.

" I see," she said, really trying to keep resentment out of her voice. " Now let's talk about something else."