The Closed Harbour (28 page)

And when it had closed, Sister Veronica began to replace the dead flowers in the vases. As she came by Mademoiselle Gilliat's bed, she noticed the letter, picked it up, but did not read it, and placed it on the locker.

Madame Marius stood in the corridor. This was deserted. At the far end, through the great oaken door she could hear voices. This was the laundry. Madeleine was there, she would have to tell her.

As she stood there, her head a little inclined to her breast she seemed to be thinking, to be making a decision, then suddenly she started off up the corridor. Reaching the door to the laundry she did not hesitate, and she did not knock, but walked straight in and saw her, right across this large room, whose air gave off the hard, clean smell of soaps and soda, and somewhere there was a tap running, and the sound of steam.

Her daughter was alone in this room, was actually crossing its floor, bearing in her outstretched arms a great pile of snowy linen freshly drawn from the press. She had not seen her mother enter, who now went quickly to her, and catching her hand, exclaimed, "Madeleine, Madeleine," and something in her voice so frightening that this whole towering pile of linen fell about them, and Madeleine felt her hand grasped, and as her mother knelt she was pulled down with her. So they both knelt, their hands clutching, the daughter's free arm around her mother's shoulder. It would not matter if Madame Traumer came in, if anybody came in, they would not see, who together saw this single vision before their eyes, for Madeleine knew before the old woman had spoken.

"Overthrown," Madame Marius said.

Making a slow sign of the cross, the old woman said, "In the name of Jesus Christ and of his Holy Mother, and of his angels—it is not gone, it was never gone, not lost, I knew it, there is justice."

"What has happened to him?" asked Madeleine.

"I have said he is overthrown."

And after a long pause, "come Madeleine you had better see the letter," and Madame Marius rose to her feet, and still holding her daughter's hand, pulled her after her, and the door opened and closed after them. Madame Traumer had suddenly appeared, thrown it wide, had whispered to Madeleine as she went out," your mother, dear. Is she ill?" and received only a shake of the head in reply. In silence they went down the corridor, and in the room the air was filled with many scents of newly-cut-flowers.

"Wait there," her mother said, who crossed to the locker and picked up the letter. "Outside," she said, "and somewhere away from those other women, they will soon be returning."

They walked down the drive, turned to the right, and coming behind a greenhouse suddenly stopped. Behind this there stood a rough wooden bench.

"Sit here," Madame Marius said.

They sat down.

"At first I thought you had lied to me, but it is true enough," said the old woman, and fixed a steady, searching eye upon her daughter's.

"Sometimes, child, I am angry with God, and I mean that. After all if one is not angry, the love one has for him is shallow and false. But I am not angry now. You will read the letter I have received. Do you remember one day I opened my door to a curious dwarf-like creature, whose name I could not catch, and whom I really thought was something from the circus down the road? Well he was no dwarf and he was no clown as you may see."

From time to time she waved off the flies, and she tried to remember. Madeleine handed her back the letter. She did not speak.

"You will come with me. You see it is necessary that we go…"

"I will not come with you," Madeleine said.

"You will not come?"

"I said I will not come," replied Madeleine.

"You mean that, truly?"

"I mean that."

"Then I must go myself. I must drag myself out of here, I, who thought she had finished travelling, and I will only say that I do not understand—"

"You have never understood."

Madame Marius got up. She stood there looking down at her daughter.

"You are angry with me?"

"I am not angry with anybody. I only wish to be left alone."

"Then as God is my judge, you will be left alone."

And the old woman turned away and walked slowly back to the house.

Already she could hear the chatter of that returning quartette, she had a sudden horror of meeting them in the drive, now, in this very moment when something was tugging at her, when she was empty, and could not speak, the word she would have spoken to her daughter frozen upon the tongue.

At the window of the little office, she stood, patiently waiting until the Mother Superior had finished something she was writing, then, she asked quietly, out of the turmoil within her, for the key to the luggage room, there were one or two things she would like to get from her black trunk. And the key had been taken off its hook and handed to her.

"Thank-you, Mother Superior," Madame Marius said, and she went off to the luggage house.

"Cruel is the word I had not the right to use. It was no use. I could not speak to her again. It shall be as she says. She will be left alone."

She opened the door of the luggage room and entered.

She could see packed in with other luggage her large black trunk. It was heavy, it would be awkward to get down, but she would ask no help. After a little struggle she was able to pull it clear from between two other trunks, and let it slide easily to the floor. She knelt down and inserting her key in the lock, threw back the heavy lid.

There was everything as tidily as she had laid them out in the Rue des Fleurs. She began to remove the top layer. What she required lay at its very bottom. She removed dress after dress, an overall, scarves, a silk shawl, a woollen pullover, shoes wrapped carefully in tissue paper, a writing compendium, a small brown brief-case, that, against the crush of letters, papers and photographs would not close. She leaned away from the trunk, looked round suddenly as though she thought somebody was watching her, then bent to her task again.

"There is nothing else but that," she thought, removing more and more of the things from the trunk. Coming upon a long parcel tied with string she rose to her feet and carried it across to the window. She did not know why, but something made her open it.

"The years I have treasured that," she exclaimed, as, unwrapping the parcel she removed from it a small wooden model of a cruiser, exquisitely carved in mahogany. Holding it up she beheld the name shining on her bow. CROILUS.

"Holding this little boat in my hand, it makes everything seem like a dream. It was the first model he ever carved for his little son," and the day was back, the hours, full and fresh and happy; she could see her son being presented with this boat by his father.

"It's still as beautiful as ever. Poor Alois," she said under her breath, "poor Alois. Drowned like a man this thirty years."

For a long time she held this model up against the light, staring at the bold bright name upon its bow. Carefully she re-wrapped it, and went back to her trunk. Around her were piled the things she had taken from it. She laid the model carefully on the floor, and resumed the emptying. Carefully re-wrapping the model she put it back in the trunk.

"Here they are."

And she withdrew the shirts, the socks, the suit that Madeleine had taken to the cleaners in the city.

She put everything back in its right order, fastened and locked the trunk, then, again struggling with its weight, she managed to get it back to its place on the shelf. She picked up the things and went out.

She again stopped at the office, asking for a large sheet of brown paper and some string. She thanked the sister and returned to her room.

It was near to lunch hour, and as usual she saw them sitting on their beds, awaiting the ring of the bell, the door to open. She passed them by and did not look at them. Then she folded up the things from the trunk, tied the parcel, and taking pen and ink from the window shelf she sat down on her bed and began to address it.

Captain E.
Marius,
c/o Dr. Parette,

Hospital of the Good Shepherd,
...

The watching women sat on, all were looking at her, surprised, not by her silence, but by their own, as though the very air above them were charged with some forewarning, as though this tense and stooped woman, sat tight at the foot of her bed, scratching laboriously with her pen was holding with all her will some charged secret, and when, having finished writing she dropped the pen, Mademoiselle Gilliat cried, "Oh!" as though she had been struck.

The pen rolled towards her, she bent and picked it up.

"Your pen, Madame Marius," she said, who did not answer, but took the pen pressed into her hand.

Madame Marius got up and walked straight to the door, opened it and left them.

"Perhaps she is ill," said Madame Bazin.

"Perhaps bad news," cried Madame Berriot," these days there is always bad news."

"It is probably the daughter who is not so well," remarked Madame Lescaux.

The bell rang, the nun came in with the tray, lunch was served, one after another the women took their places, and as the nun looked round the table, she asked?" Where is Madame Marius?"

"She has just gone out, she had a parcel for the post," Madame Bazin said.

"It is two hours yet to the collection," replied the novice, "no matter, if she is hungry she will soon return," and she left them.

"I often wonder what she carries in that black bag," Madame Berriot said.

"I never see her take it out, perhaps it is full of precious stones—"

"The soup's too thick for this weather."

"Father Aloysius is going to preach on Sunday morning after the nine mass."

"Is he?"

And on and on throughout the meal, as they drank noisily of their soup, and tore at their bread, and filled their glasses with water.

"I've seen her drinking. She tipples in secret," said Madame Lescaux.

The novice, searching in the garden for the old woman found her seated alone on the bench behind the greenhouse.

"You are not having your lunch, Madame Marius?"

"I am not very hungry. I felt I must come out and sit in the air for a while."

"You look somewhat exhausted, perhaps you have walked too far this morning."

"I have not walked this morning."

"Come now," the novice said, pressing, she helped Madame Marius rise from the bench.

"Maybe you felt a little faint," she said.

"Maybe," the old woman said, a thousand miles away.

"Francois will drive you to the station, Madame Marius," the Mother Superior said," you will be away for the day?"

"Yes, I shall be away for the day," the old woman replied. The two women were standing in the small, red-tiled hall and they were waiting for Francois.

"It is not very far to the station," the Mother Superior said, studying Madame Marius who looked straight out through the door, feeling morning air upon her face.

It had rained in the night, and here and there a puddle reflected the morning light, and there came to her nostrils the deep, heavy earth smells, and she saw the untidiness of flower-beds.

"Heavy rain during the night, Mother," she said.

"A storm. But it will be better towards mid-day."

"The station is not far," she added, "it won't rain again, I'm sure."

"The station," thought Madame Marius, already it was growing in her mind, the noise, the people, the jog of the train, the grind of wheels—into the world again.

"It's like stepping into the sea."

"What was that?" asked the Mother Superior.

"Nothing. I hope this man won't be long."

"Your daughter is not accompanying you?"

"No, she is not coming."

"I would have Sister Veronica or Sister Angela travel with you, Madame Marius, if you wish. Would you like that?"

"There is a change in her," she thought, "this morning she looks fragile, it is so unlike her."

"There is nothing worrying you?"

The old woman shook her head.

"Not now," she said.

She felt the nun's hand on her arm. "Nobody ill, I hope?"

"Nobody ill," Madame Marius said.

"You are happy here, Madame?"

"I am well content."

"Your daughter?"

"I think she is happy, too."

"It is a long journey by yourself," said the Mother Superior.

The old woman drew herself erect, she turned and smiled at the nun. "It is all right, Mother. Thank you. You are very kind."

And she longed and hoped for the sound of the car, wanting to be off, away, on the noisy train, towards that place from which she had been glad to fly to sit in the corner of the carriage and hold to her silence and to her dread.

"Here is Francois."

The Mother Superior stepped out into the path.

"Lovely and fresh," she said, and as the car came to the door, she smiled at its old driver.

"Good morning, Francois. You will drive this lady to the station."

She stood waiting for the old woman to come out, she opened the door of the car, and as Madame Marius bent down to enter she clutched her arm, saying, "Francois would like to know the train on which you're returning. He will drive you back from the station."

The old woman sat down. But now she was unable to speak. She could only look out at the nun, whose large gracious smile seemed to be filling the car. The old woman gripped the handle,

"I don't know, Mother, it is all right. I will return safely," and she closed the door.

"In any case," said the Mother Superior, above the sudden roar of the engine, "in any case there is always a taxi at the station."

She watched the car go slowly down the drive.

"A very independent old woman indeed," thought the Mother Superior as she went inside.

Francois helped Madame Marius from the car, he bought her ticket, he picked up her tiny bag, he led her to the train, found her a seat, asked if she were comfortable, and when she said "yes," he still stood there, talking about the weather, the state of the country, the new wing for the house, all the time leaning in over the window. He had closed the door, and from time to time looked towards the engine.