“Even your awareness can fail sometimes,” said Hilary. “I may be wrong, of course, but if I’m right Ben and Zelle are both the type that knows how to wait. And I’m glad of it. Sally, as well as the children, needs Zelle.”
“I can’t look at those marigolds without thinking of Sally’s hair,” said Lucilla. “I’ve never known her so ill before a baby. I’m sure she’s going to die.”
Hilary smoothed out the crumpled pages of his sermon, folded it and put it deep in his pocket. He sometimes thought what a merciful thing it was that his rheumatism so often kept him awake at night. In the small hours he could accomplish so many things which somehow or other could never find time to do during the day. Lucilla’s hands had now not only fallen apart, but were pulling restlessly at the fringe of the one shawl that still remained over her knees.
“And as for not going to hospital,” she went on, “I never heard such madness. I can’t imagine what Dr. Barnes can be thinking of to allow it. Nor David. I’ve told them what I think. Both of them. Several times. Sally, too. I can’t imagine what’s come over her to be so obstinate. She’s changed lately, has my dear Sally. She used to be such a sweet and biddable child.”
“Now look here, Mother,” said Hilary. “I have always understood that you came to Lavender Cottage for the purpose of laying down the reins of family government.”
“So I did, dear,” said Lucilla. “So I have. I never interfere unless it’s absolutely necessary. I never ask questions now, not even of David. And I don’t give advice any more, even when Ben asks for it. But when it’s a question of Sally losing her precious life—”
“Which she won’t do if allowed to have her own way,” interrupted Hilary. “Getting her own way relaxes a woman’s mind, I’ve noticed. Of course I’m not knowledgeable in these things, but surely relaxation of the mind must influence the abdominal muscles.”
“Hilary!” ejaculated Lucilla.
“Sally is, as you say, a sweet and biddable child,” Hilary went on, unabashed, “but even a worm will turn, and I give Barnes credit for recognizing the moment. Don’t worry, Mother. I understood you to say, when you came to Lavender Cottage, that you were abandoning worry so as to live in peace and make your soul.”
“Yes, I did say that,” acknowledged Lucilla. “To make my soul. What did I mean by it?”
“I’ve no idea,” said Hilary.
“But it’s a phrase people often use, dear,” said Lucilla. “You must have heard it a hundred times.”
“I have,” said Hilary. “And a hundred times I have wondered what they meant by it. I’ve heard of people making bootlaces, rock buns and atom bombs, but I’ve never heard of anyone yet making a soul. Just like their darned cheek to think they can.”
“It seems to me I might just as well have stayed at Damerosehay,” said Lucilla.
“Worrying being the breath of life to you, just as well,” said Hilary. “Indeed, better. There’s more to worry about there. I mean, apart from the family, which can be worried about anywhere, there are more feet of pipe to burst and acreage of roof to leak and so on. You’d much more scope there.”
“Hilary, you are most unkind,” said Lucilla pathetically. “I don’t like worrying. Instead of being the breath of life to me, it’s the thing in life that I find hardest to bear. The Thing. Now what did Mr. Weber say about the Thing?”
“I’ve no idea,” said Hilary.
“Hilary, you must try as you get old not to run certain phrases to death. One does. Mr. Weber said anxiety for my children was my Thing and I was to ask you what he meant.”
“Now why put it on me?” complained Hilary.
“Why not?” retorted Lucilla. “Your salary is paid to you, Hilary, for the sole purpose of consoling troublesome old ladies. And, of course, attending the village whist drives.”
“Leaving you out of it, Mother, there’s always some Thing to prevent me doing my real work,” grumbled Hilary. “There always has been, ever since I became a priest. I’ve never been a priest yet.”
“You surprise me,” said Lucilla. “I was present at your ordination. I could even tell you what hat I wore.”
“I’m sure you could,” said Hilary. “What I couldn’t tell you is when I have ever had one consecutive hour of uninterrupted mental prayer since that day; barring the last thing at night, the middle of the night, or the first thing in the morning, when my physical infirmities and the devil see to it that I’m never at my best. And I vowed myself to prayer upon that day.”
“Why didn’t you go into a monastery?” inquired Lucilla.
“I was thinking of it when the first war broke out,” said Hilary. “And then it seemed right to be a chaplain. And afterwards, if you remember, I was enjoying delicate health, and they wouldn’t have me.”
“Who wouldn’t have you?” asked Lucilla sharply.
“The Order with whom I endeavoured to seek refuge from a life-sentence to whist-drives, bazaars, socials, outings, and all the rest of the hydra-headed monster.”
“You never told me,” said Lucilla slowly, trying to keep the hurt chill out of her voice. She had always thought that her children had no secrets from her. Sometimes, it seemed, they had. And why hadn’t he tried again later? If it had been for her sake, then the blow to her pride would be intolerable. She had always imagined that it was she who sacrificed herself for her children, not they for her. “But later, when you were better, and sea air wasn’t so necessary, couldn’t you have tried again?” she asked.
“I could,” said Hilary. “But somehow I didn’t.”
“I think I know why you didn’t,” said Lucilla, putting it to the test. “I’d lost two sons in the war, George was in India, and I relied upon you at every turn. I did not know it at the time. I believe I have always leaned my entire weight upon you, Hilary, though I have not realized it until now. I expect the rest of the family do, too, and don’t know it either.”
“We are not talking about what I wanted to talk about,” said Hilary.
“What did you want to talk about?” she asked, and she managed to speak evenly and calmly, even though she felt exactly like a bombed building when the dust begins to settle. She had not realized until now that her pride was such an integral part of her.
“I wanted to have a good grouse about my Thing,” said Hilary.
“Do grouse, dear,” said Lucilla. “I’d love it. I haven’t heard you grouse since you were a small boy. It will be like the old nursery days. You told me everything then.”
“No, Mother,” said Hilary. “I never told you about the hyena with several heads who lived in the night-nursery cupboard behind the cistern. It came out at night and sat on the foot of my bed and made the most distracting noises when I was trying to say my prayers.”
“No wonder you said them so badly!” ejaculated Lucilla. “I used to hear you say them, and I was always scolding you for the way you stumbled and stuttered. How ridiculous children are! Why didn’t you tell me about the hyena?”
“Because I thought to draw your attention to it would be to draw its attention to you. You might have turned round and spoken to it, and then it would have bitten your head off. I was very fond of you as a small boy.”
“Really, Hilary,” said Lucilla, “I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry. And now the Thing still interrupts your prayers. My poor Hilary!”
“Not that I really mind now,” said Hilary. “I’m only grousing for the pleasure of it, like Mr. Enticknapp. My monster is as valued a possession as a pedigree dog. I take it about on a lead, so to speak. Mother, I am talking the most ridiculous nonsense.”
“I’m used to it, dear,” said Lucilla, and there was now a resilient note in her voice that Hilary noted with relief and delight. The dust of her shattered pride had settled and she was rising above it.
“In the war I disliked the after-effects of wounds and gas intensely,”
said Hilary. “When you are burned, and can’t get your breath, and are afraid you are going blind, it is impossible to pray. And then one day, with great difficulty, I suddenly put into practice and knew as truth what of course I had always known theoretically, that if pain is offered to God as prayer, then pain and prayer are synonymous. A sort of substitution takes place that is like the old story of Beauty and the Beast. The utterly abominable Thing that prevents your prayer becomes your prayer. And you know what prayer is, Mother. It’s all of a piece, the prayer of a mystic or of a child, adoration or intercession, it’s all the same thing; whether you feel it or not, it is union with God in the deep places where the fountains are. Once you have managed the wrenching effort of substitution, the abominable Thing, while remaining utterly detestable for yourself, becomes the channel of grace for others, and so the dearest treasure that you have. And if it happens to be a secret treasure—something that you need not speak about to another—then that’s all the better. Somehow the secrecy of it increases its value.”
“You put it better than I could do,” said Lucilla gently. “I did feel after that way of prayer in the war; but I did not try hard enough, and when the war was over I fell away. But I recognize what you say as a truth that I know.”
“Of course,” said Hilary. “I do not think that anyone who has experienced disaster is not in some way aware of one of the fundamental paradoxes of our existence. Only we don’t live in a perpetual state of disaster, and it doesn’t occur to us to apply the paradox to the worries and frustrations and irritations among which we do perpetually live. We lack the humility.”
“Well, really,” said Lucilla, “if I couldn’t put up with my everyday worries and aches and pains without having to regard them as prayer I should feel myself a poor sort of coward.”
“As I said,” remarked Hilary dryly, “we lack the humility. One feels ridiculous, as you don’t feel ridiculous when it is some disaster. But it’s not just the way you look at it, it’s a deliberate and costly action of the will. It can be a real wrenching of the soul. Yet the more you practice it, the fresher and greener grows your life. And it’s the same with joy as with disaster and Things; lifted up with that same hard effort, even the earthly joys are points of contact, and have the freshness of eternity in them.”
Lucilla suddenly remembered something that David had said of his lack of joy in the joys of family and home. He felt that he had them in the earthly sense only because he could not find his way to the roots. She had known then that he had said something that was of importance to her.
“It’s like plants,” she said. “The thrust upwards means a corresponding growth of root down. Sun and water. I believe I am beginning to learn to accept, Hilary, but I see now that acceptance is only the first step. If I can’t stop worrying (and anguish for the children is part of motherhood, Hilary—one can’t get rid of it), at least I’ll worry in a different way.”
“You know how peace comes after effort,” said Hilary. “Well, after that particular effort there comes a particular sort of peace. Sometimes you’re conscious of it, sometimes not. More often not. But it’s there just the same, and is the peace in which God makes your soul.”
Lucilla pondered and then laughed. “Touché,” she said.
“Should I go on with my other sermon now?” inquired Hilary tentatively, his hand moving towards his pocket.
“Certainly, dear,” said Lucilla. “I’ve enjoyed my private sermon very much. You’ve an excellent pulpit manner. Now I’ll digest it. The sermon, I mean.”
They were quiet, and Lucilla tried very hard to deal in the correct manner with a nagging worry about George. It was true, as she had said, that Sally and Sebastian were very much in her mind, but she did not feel that her concern with them was necessarily a concern with disaster, and they were only in her mind. But George was in her soul, and had been since six o’clock in the morning. Of course it was a very suitable place for him to be, for he was her child, and she had no premonition of anything being wrong, only she had never before felt like this about him. There was nothing in it, of course, and she had been able to forget about it by remembering other worries. But she always came back to it again. And with George so near, Maurice felt almost at a distance, and that was worrying, too. She must lift the whole thing up and then her roots would go down and life be green and fresh. She tried, but nothing happened at all. She didn’t feel any wrenching of her soul and she didn’t feel any freshness; merely worry. She looked almost with irritation at Hilary. The humility of the saints tended to make them forget that sinners could not do what they could do; not without years of practice and ninety-one was a bit late to start.
“It’s no good, Hilary,” she said. “I can’t concentrate. I’m worried about George.”
“What’s the matter with George?” asked Hilary, putting down his sermon.
“Nothing, so far as I know,” said Lucilla.
“Shall I ring up?” asked Hilary.
“No, dear. Nadine usually answers the phone, and it annoys her when I ring up for nothing. She doesn’t say so, but I can tell it by the sweetness of her voice.”
“I’ll ring up tonight if we don’t hear or see anything of them,” said Hilary. “You mustn’t go to bed worrying.”
“I shall be worrying anyhow,” said Lucilla, smiling at him. “Worrying because at my age it is too late to learn to worry right.”
“You don’t imagine we stop learning when we die, do you?” asked Hilary.
“No, dear, but I did hope we stopped worrying.”
“You’re not going to worry any more,” said Hilary decidedly. “Either in this world or the next. It’s very wrong, and you should be ashamed of yourself for giving way to such wickedness at your age.”
“Now if you’d said that at the beginning we needn’t have had this conversation at all,” said Lucilla. “If worry is a sin, it can’t be my Thing.”
“Oh, yes, it can,” said Hilary. “Your besetting sin can very well be your Thing.”
“But sin can’t be offered as prayer,” objected Lucilla.
“Wrestling with it can,” said Hilary, “Do you know, Mother, I think I really must get this sermon by heart. This afternoon it’s the Sunday-school outing to the Fun Fair at Radford. And after tea there’s an expert on the beetle coming—”
“Beetle?” interrupted Lucilla. “What beetle?”
“The one that’s destroying the church roof.”
“Nobody told me!” ejaculated Lucilla. “Why wasn’t I told? You children never tell me anything. I suppose you think I’ll worry. But my poor Hilary! That will mean hundreds of pounds. Where’s it coming from?”
“I’ve no idea,” said Hilary. “And after supper there’s a whist drive. So I think, Mother, if you don’t mind—”
“I won’t say another word,” said Lucilla. “What a nuisance I’ve been, and what a comfort it is to think you’ve been offering up the nuisance I am as prayer for me . . . Have you?” she asked with sudden suspicion.
“Yes,” said Hilary. “But not in the crude way that you imagine. What I offered up was joy that this morning’s interruption took the form of a woman I adore. After tea it will be the beetle.”
“So nice to be preferred to a beetle,” murmured Lucilla, and did not speak again.
CHAPTER
16
— 1 —
Sebastian was stretched luxuriously and happily in a long chair under the ilex tree. A fortnight ago he had been taken ill with an unusually bad heart attack, and could not move from the chair in his room where the pain had flung him to find his tablets, but what he could reach was the bell, and being at the moment in a state of mental confusion as to which part of his life he was in, he rang it imperiously for Anna, who had been Christiana’s Austrian maid in the house in the mountains. Mrs. Wilkes appeared, and darkness came down upon the expression of unholy joy that spread slowly over he
r countenance. She had suspected this, as a mother suspects her little boy of stealing jam, but try as she might she had never been able to catch him in the act. Now she had. A sense of having given great pleasure sustained Sebastian through the worst attack he had ever had, and through the humiliation of being kept in bed when it was over, and beneath the irritable reproaches of Dr. Barnes.
“Why have I not been attending you for months past?” demanded Dr. Barnes, cooling the irascibility that was a part of his temperament at the open window in Sebastian’s room, where the air from the marshes was sweet and fresh. “Heaven knows I am in the house often enough being fussed to death by Eliot over this dratted baby. The commotion that’s made over babies these days. My mother had ten and never turned a hair until she died of the tenth. Why have you not consulted me before?”
“The intricacies of the National Health Service,” said Sebastian weakly. “I felt I could not struggle with it. In America there is no such monster.”
“Perfectly simple once you understand it,” said Dr. Barnes. “Why didn’t Eliot insist?”
“He wished it,” said Sebastian. “Mrs. Eliot also, and Lady Eliot and the Vicar, they all asked me to see you. But I said I was better, which I was, that I had my tablets and that there was nothing you could do for me. Nor is there.”
“That’s true,” conceded Dr. Barnes. “But you are an interesting case. The various afflictions of the last ten years have left after effects which are unusual. When you are up again we’ll have a few X-rays.”
“What for?” demanded Sebastian, and Dr. Barnes noticed a sudden and remarkable addition of strength to his voice. Where the man got his strength from he could not imagine. How he carried on with a normal life at all he had no idea. If he had been able to reach his tablets this last time, probably no one would have known a thing about it. Men became inured to affliction, of course, but even so it was incomprehensible and slightly mysterious. Now and then one met these people whose source of strength seemed unknown even to themselves.