X
A MESSAGE FROM MOTHER ELISE
The Authors' Dinner had reached that peak of success which risesserenely between the serving of the dessert and the opening words ofthe first postprandial speech. Relaxed, content, at peace withthemselves and their publisher-host, the great assemblage of men andwomen writers sipped their coffee and liqueurs, and beamed benignlyupon one another as they waited for the further entertainment thespeeches were expected to afford. Here and there, at the numeroussmall tables which flowered in the great dining-room, a distinguishedauthor, strangely modest for the moment, stealthily consulted somepenciled notes tucked under his napkin, or with absent eyes on spacementally rehearsed the opening sentences of his address. Even theleast of these men was accustomed to public speaking; but what theyhad said to Chautauqua gatherings or tossed off casually at schoolcommencements in their home towns was not quite what they would careto offer to an audience which included three hundred men and womenrepresenting every stage of literary success, and gifted, beyonddoubt, with a highly developed sense of humor. A close observer coulddiscover the speakers of the evening by running an eye over thebrilliantly decorated tables and selecting those faces which alone inthat care-free assemblage wore expressions of nervous apprehension.
At my table, well toward the center of the room, I felt again a thrillof delight at being a part of this unique composite picture. My firstbook, still an infant in the literary cradle, had won me myinvitation; and nothing except the actual handling of the volume, hotfrom the press, had given me so strong a sense of having at last madea beginning in the work I loved. Save myself, every man and woman ofthe eight at our table stood on the brow of the long hill each hadclimbed. Three of them--a woman playwright, a man novelist, and afamous diplomat--were among my close friends. The others I had metto-night for the first time. The Playwright sat opposite me, and overthe tall vase of Spanish iris which stood between us I caught theexpression of her brown eyes, thoughtful and introspective. For themoment at least she was very far away from the little group aroundher. Beside her sat the Author, his white locks caressing a suddenlytroubled brow. He was one of the speakers of the evening, and he hadjust confided to his companions that he had already forgotten hiscarefully prepared extemporaneous address. At my right the grand oldman of American diplomacy smiled in calm content. He rarely gracedsuch festive scenes as this; he was over ninety, and, he admittedcheerfully, "growing a little tired." But his Reminiscences, recentlypublished, was among the most widely read literature of the day, andthe mind which had won him distinction fifty years ago was still asbrilliant as during his days at foreign courts.
Over our group a sudden stillness had fallen, and with an obviouseffort to break this, one of my new acquaintances addressed me, hercold blue eyes reflecting none of the sudden warmth of her manner.
"Do you know, Miss Iverson," she began, "I envy you. You have had fiveyears of New York newspaper experience--the best of all possibletraining. Besides, you must have accumulated more material in thosefive years than the average writer finds in twenty."
I had no opportunity to reply. As if the remark had been a gauntlettossed on the table in challenge, my companions fell upon it. Everyone talked at once, the Best Seller and the Author upholding theopinion of the woman with the blue eyes, the rest disputing it, untilthe Playwright checked the discussion with a remark that caught theattention of all.
"There's nothing new in this world," she said, "and therefore there'snothing interesting. We all know too much. The only interesting thingsare those we can't understand, because they happen--elsewhere."
The Author looked at her and smiled, his white eyebrows moving upwardever so slightly. "For example?" he murmured.
Almost imperceptibly the Playwright shrugged her shoulders.
"For example?" she repeated, lightly. "Oh, I wasn't contemplating anexample. Not that I couldn't give one if I chose." She stopped. Then,stirred by the skeptical look in the Author's eyes, her face took on asudden look of decision. "And I might," she added, quietly, "ifurged."
The Best Seller leaned across the table and laid a small coin on herplate. "I'll urge you," he said. "I'll take a story. We want the thingin fiction form."
The Playwright smiled at him. "Very well," she said, indifferently;"call it what you please--an instance, a story."
"And mind," interrupted the Best Seller, "it's something that didn'thappen on this earth."
The Playwright sat silent an instant, intent and thoughtful, as ifmentally marshaling her characters before her. "Part of it happened onthis earth," she said. "It began two years ago, when a friend of mine,a woman editor, received a letter from a stranger, who was also awoman. The stranger asked for a personal interview. She wished, shesaid, for the editor's advice. The need had suddenly come to her tomake her living. She had had no special training; would the editortalk to her and give her any suggestions she could? The editorconsented, naming a day and an hour for the interview, and at the timeappointed the stranger called at the other's office.
"She proved to be a beautiful woman, a little over forty, dressedquietly but exquisitely in black, and with the walk and manner of anempress. The editor was immensely impressed by her, but she soondiscovered that the stranger was wrapped in mystery. She could learnnothing about her past, her friends, or herself. She was merely ahuman package dropped from space and labeled 'Miss Driscoll'--the nameengraved on her card. Who 'Miss Driscoll' was, where she had comefrom, what she had done, remained as much of a problem after half anhour of conversation as at the moment she had entered the editor'sroom. She wanted work; how could she get it? That was her question,but she had no answers for any questions asked by the editor. Whenthey were put to her she hedged and fenced with exquisite skill. Shehad a charming air of intimacy, of confidence in the editor'sjudgment, yet nothing came from her that threw any light on herexperience or her qualifications.
"All the time they talked the editor studied her. Then suddenly,without warning, she leaned forward and shot out the question that hadbeen slowly forming in her mind.
"'When did you leave your Order?' she asked.
"The stranger stiffened like one who had received an electric shock.The next moment she sagged forward in her chair as if something in herhad given way. 'How did you know?' she breathed, at last.
"The editor shook her head. 'I did not know,' she admitted. 'I merelysuspected. You have one or two habits which suggest a nun, especiallythe trick of crossing your hands as if you expected to slip them intoflowing sleeves. They look like a nun's hands, too; and yourcomplexion has the convent pallor. Now tell me all you can. I cannothelp you until I know more about you.'"
Around us there was the scrape of chairs on the polished floor. Someof the dinner-guests were rising and crossing the room to chat withfriends at other tables. But the little group at our table sat inmotionless attention, every eye on the Playwright's charming face.
"Good beginning," remarked the Best Seller, helpfully. "And, by Jove,the orchestra is giving you the 'Rosary' as an obbligato. There's acoincidence for you."
"Then the story came out," resumed the Playwright, ignoring theinterruption. "At least part of it came out. The stranger had been theMother General of a large conventual Order, which she herself hadfounded twenty years ago. She had built it up from one convent tothirty. She had established schools and hospitals all over America, aswell as in Cuba, Porto Rico, and the Philippines. She was a brilliantorganizer, a human dynamo. Whatever she touched succeeded. She didnot need to explain this; the extraordinary growth of her Communityspoke for her. But a few months before she came to the editor, shesaid, a cabal had been established against her in her Mother House.She had returned from a visit to one of her Philippine convents tofind that an election had been held in her absence, that she had beensuperseded, that the local superior of the Mother House had beenelected Mother General in her place; in short, that she herself wasdeposed by her Community.
"She said that she never knew why. There was much talk ofext
ravagance, of too rapid growth; her broadening plans, and the bigfinancial risks she took, alarmed the more conservative nuns. She tooktheir breath away. Possibly they were tired of the pace she set, andready to rest on the Community's achievements. All that is notimportant. Mother General Elise was deposed. She could not remain as asubordinate in the Community she had ruled so long. Neither could she,she said, risk destroying the work of her life by making a fight forher rights and causing a newspaper sensation. So she left the Order,taking with her her only living relative, her old mother, eighty-oneyears of age, to whom for the previous year or two she had given ahome in her Mother House."
"I am afraid," murmured the Best Seller, sadly, "that this story isgoing to depress me."
The Playwright nodded. "At first," she admitted. "But it ends withwhat we will call 'an uplift.'"
The Best Seller emptied his glass. "Oh, all right," he murmured."Here's to the uplift!"
"The editor listened to the story," continued the Playwright. "Thenshe advised Miss Driscoll to go to Rome and have her case taken up atthe Vatican. Surely what seemed such injustice would be righted there,and without undesirable notoriety for the Community. She introducedthe former Mother General to several prominent New York men and womenwho could help her and give her letters she needed. There were variousmeetings at the houses of these people, who were all impressed by theforce, the magnetism, and the charm of the convent queen who had beenexiled from her kingdom. Then Miss Driscoll and her mother sailed forItaly."
The Diplomat leaned forward, his faded eyes as eager as a boy's. "Letme tell some of it!" he begged. "Let me tell what happened in Rome!"
The blue-eyed woman who had started the discussion clapped her hands."Let each of us tell some of it," she cried. The Playwright smiledacross at the Diplomat. "By all means," she urged, "tell the Roman endof it."
The Diplomat laid down his half-finished cigar, and put his elbows onthe table, joining his finger-tips in the pose characteristic of hismost thoughtful moments. He, too, took a moment for preparation, andthe faces of the others at the table showed that they were alreadyconsidering the twist they would give to the story when theiropportunity came.
"The mother and daughter reached Rome in May," began the Diplomat."They rented a few rooms and bought a few pieces of furniture, and,because they were very poor, they lived very frugally. While thedaughter sought recognition at the Vatican the old mother spent herdays pottering around their little garden and trying to learn a fewwords of Italian from her neighbors. It was hard to be transplanted ateighty-one, but she was happy, for she was with the daughter she hadalways adored. She would rather have been alone with her in a strangeland than in the highest heaven without her.
"One of the Cardinals at the Vatican finally took up the case of MissDriscoll. It interested him. He knew of the splendid work she had doneas Mother General Elise. He began an investigation of the wholeinvolved affair, and he had accumulated a great mass of documents, andwas almost ready to submit a formal report to the Holy Father, when hefell ill with pneumonia and died a few days later.
"That was a crushing blow for Mother Elise. Under the shock of thedisappointment she, too, fell ill, and was taken to what we will callthe Hospital of the White Sisters. Her mother went with her, becausean old lady of eighty-two could not be left alone."
The old Diplomat paused and looked unseeingly before him, as if hewere calling up a picture.
"The convent hospital had a beautiful garden," the Diplomat resumed,at last. "There the mother spent the next few days working among theflowers and following the lay Sisters along the garden walks as acontented child follows its nurse. Once a day she was allowed to seeher daughter for a few moments. It was her custom to reach thesick-room long before the hour appointed and to wait in the hall untilshe was admitted. She said the time of waiting seemed shorter there,where she was so near. So one day, when a pale Sister told her thather daughter was not quite ready to be seen, the old lady was notsurprised. This was her usual experience.
"Nothing warned her, no intuition told her, that her daughter had diedexactly five minutes before and that the Sisters back of that closeddoor were huddled together, trying to find words to tell her what hadhappened. They could not find them; words scamper away like frightenedbeings in moments like that. So they sent for their Mother Superior,and she came and put an arm around the bent shoulders of the old womanand told her that her daughter's pain and trouble were over for alltime. Later they took her into the room where her daughter lay in apeace which remained triumphant even while the mother's heart broke asshe looked upon it. When they found that they could not persuade herto leave the room they allowed her to remain; and there she sat at thefoot of the bed day and night, while the Sisters came and went andknelt and prayed, and the long wax tapers at the head and feet of thedead nun burned slowly down to their sockets."
The Diplomat stopped. Then, as no one spoke, he turned to the Author.
"Will you go on?" he asked.
The Author took up the tale. "Mother Elise was buried in Rome," hesaid, "and in the chapel of the White Sisters tapers still burn forher. Her mother remained there, and was given a home in the convent,because she had no other place to go. It was kind of the Sisters, for,unlike her daughter, she was not a Catholic. But her old heart wasbroken, and as months passed and she began to realize what hadhappened she was filled with a great longing for her native land. Thebells of Rome got on her shattered nerves. They seemed eternallyringing for her dead. From the garden she could see her daughter'sgrave on the hill just beyond the convent walls. She longed for theonly thing she had left--her own country. She longed to hear hernative tongue. She said so to all who would listen. One day shereceived an anonymous letter, inclosing bank-notes for five thousandlira. The letter read:
"I hear that you are homesick. Take this money and return to your native land. It will pay your passage and secure your admission to a home for aged gentlewomen. Do not try to discover the source of the gift.
"FROM ONE WHO LOVED YOUR DAUGHTER.
"A little blossom of comfort bloomed in the old woman's heart, like anedelweiss on a glacier. She packed her few possessions and sailed forAmerica. There was no one to meet her, but she had kept the name andaddress of the woman editor; she was sure the editor would advise herabout getting into the right home. In the mean time she went from thesteamer to a cheap New York lodging-house, of which some fellowpassenger had told her, and from there she sent a hurried summons tothe editor. She was already panic-stricken in this big country, whichheld the graves of all she loved but one. It suddenly seemed to her asstrange, as terrible as Italy. She was afraid of everything--afraid ofthe people she met, of the sounds she heard, of the pryinglodging-house keeper and her red-eyed husband. Most of all, she wasafraid of these two, and she had reason to be.
"The editor had not even known the old lady was coming to thiscountry, but she responded to the call the night she received it, forshe could tell that the writer was frantic with fear. She climbedthree flights of rickety stairs and found the old woman in a state ofunreasoning terror, like a lost child in the dark. Already the keepersof the lodging-house had tried to get her money from her; she washungry, for they did not furnish meals, and she had been afraid to goout for food. The editor took her away from the place that night andhome to her own apartment. There she had a long talk with her.
"'Now, Mrs. Driscoll,' she said, 'I want you to forget your troublesif you can and settle down here and be at peace. Leave the matter ofthe home to me. I will find the right place, and when I have found itI will tell you about it and take you to see it. Then, if you approve,in you go. We will put your money in the bank to-morrow and leave itthere until the matter of the home is settled. In the mean time don'tthink or talk about the future. It may take some time to find theright home. I'm not going to run to you with every hope ordisappointment that my investigation brings. Forget about it yourself,but don't think I have forgotten because I am not keeping you stirredup with dail
y or weekly reports.'
"The old lady settled down like a contented child in its mother's lap.As the weeks passed her eyes lost their look of panic and took on theserenity of age. Her thin figure filled out. She transferred to heronly friend something of the devotion she had given her daughter. Shewas almost happy.
"In the mean time the editor began her investigations, and she at oncediscovered that it is not easy to find a home for an aged and indigentgentlewoman. All the institutions to which she applied were filled,and each had waiting-lists that looked, she said, 'yards long.' Thesecretaries were courteous. They almost invariably sent her lists ofother institutions, and she wrote to these, or visited them if theywere within reach; and the weeks and months crawled by, and the citygrew hot and stifling. She was worn out by the quest to which she wasgiving every hour of her spare time, but she was no nearer successthan she had been the first day. She had arranged to go to Europe fora rest which she sadly needed, and the date of her sailing was verynear. But she could not go and leave her protegee unprovided for, norcould she leave her alone with a servant. Her search became a veryserious thing; it kept her awake nights; it got on her nerves; itbecame an obsession which, waking or sleeping, she could not forget.She began to go down under it, but no one knew that, for she kept itto herself; and the least suspicious person of all her friends was theold lady, who each evening listened for her footstep as one listensfor that of the best beloved, coming home."
The Author stopped.
"By Jove!" said the Best Seller, "it _is_ a depressing yarn. Let mesee if I can't brighten it up a bit."
But the Author glanced at me. "Forgive me, old man," he said to theBest Seller, who was a friend of his. "I know what you would do. Youwould certainly brighten it up. You would discover a long-lost son,throw in Thanksgiving at the old home, and wind up with the tango. Ithink Miss Iverson ought to go on with the story."
He and the Playwright smiled at me. I felt neither nervous norself-conscious as I took up the story, but the Best Seller openlygrumbled.
"I could put some snap in that," he exclaimed. "But go on, MissIverson. Only I call this a close corporation."
"There came," I began, "a very hot day. The editor had heard of a homebeyond the city limits, where the view was beautiful and the air waspure. She went to see it. The date was the twenty-second of July, andthe day was the hottest of the season. At the end of the trolley-linethere was a broiling walk in the sun. The editor dragged her wearyfeet along the dusty road, her eyes on the great brick building shewas approaching. Before it a cool lawn sloped down to a protectinghedge. She could see old ladies sitting on benches under trees, and abig lump came into her throat as she thought of her protegee andwondered if at last she had found her a permanent resting-place, ifthis haven was for her. In the dim reception-room she waitedhopefully, but almost the first words of the Sister who finallyappeared showed that nothing could be expected from her.
"She was merely repeating all the phrases the editor knew by heart.The place was 'full to overflowing.' There were 'almost two hundred onthe waiting-list.' But, of course, there were other places. Sherattled off an impressive list. Every home on it was one the editorhad already visited or heard from; there was no room, she knew, in anyof them. At her side the Sister uttered sympathetic murmurs. It was,she said, very sad. Then briskly she arose. She was a busy woman, andshe had already given this caller more time than she could well spare.Perhaps the look on the editor's face checked her steps. Uncertainlyfor a second she hesitated at the threshold. She could do nothing,but--yes, there was still the impulse of hospitality.
"'Would you like to see our new chapel?' she asked, kindly. 'It isjust finished, and we are very proud of it.'
"The editor did not really care to see the new chapel. In herdepression she would not have cared to see anything. But she was verywarm, very tired, utterly discouraged. She wanted a few quiet momentsin which to pull herself together, to rest, to think, and to plan. Thenew chapel would give her these. She followed the Sister to its dimshelter, and, crossing its threshold, knelt in a pew near the door.Sister Italia, kneeling beside her, suddenly leaned toward her andwhispered in her ear.
"'Remember,' she smiled, 'when you pray in a new chapel three prayersare surely answered.'
"The editor returned her smile. Already she was feeling better. Thechapel was really beautiful, and its atmosphere was infinitelysoothing. Before the altar gleamed one soft light, like a distantstar, and like larger stars the rose windows at the right and leftseemed to pulse with color. Here and there a black-veiled nun kneltmotionless with bowed head. The editor offered two of her prayers:that she might soon find a home for Mrs. Driscoll; that Mrs. Driscollmight be happy and content in the home when she had found it. Then,her eyes still on the distant altar light, her thoughts turned toMother Elise--at rest in her Roman grave. Here, surely, was a fitsetting for thought of her--a convent chapel such as those in whichshe had spent years of her life. How many vigils she must have had insuch a place, how many lonely hours of fasting and of prayer!
"'I wish,' the editor reflected, dreamily, 'I wish I could feel thatshe is with me in this search for the home. Of course she is--if sheknows. I'm sure of that. But _does_ she know? Or is she in some placeso inconceivably remote that even the tears and prayers of herhelpless old mother have never reached her? I wish I could know thatshe is watching--that she won't let me make a mistake.'
"She sighed. Close to her Sister Italia stirred, then rose from herknees and led the way from the chapel. The editor followed. At theouter door of the main building Sister Italia asked a question.
"'Did you offer your three prayers?' she wanted to know.
"The editor reflected. 'I offered two,' she said, slowly. Then asudden memory came to her, and she smiled. 'Why, yes,' she said, 'Ioffered all three, without realizing it.'"
The Best Seller interrupted. He was an irrepressible person. "It'sstill too somber," he said. "But I see now how it can be lightened abit. Take your cue from the musicians. They're playing the Maxixe."
"Hush!" begged the woman with the blue eyes. She turned them on me.There was an odd mist over their cold brilliance. "Please go on, MissIverson," she said, gently.
I glanced at the Best Seller. "I'll lighten it a bit," I promised.
The face of the Best Seller brightened. "Good for you!" he exclaimed,elegantly.
"The editor went home," I resumed. "She was very tired and still verymuch discouraged. The long, hot ride had dispelled the memory of hermoments of peace. As she put her key in the lock of her door the oldmother heard the sound and came trotting down the hall to meet her.She always did that, and usually she had a dozen questions to ask. Wasthe editor tired? Had she had a hard day? Had it been very hot in heroffice? But to-night she asked none of these. She came straight to theeditor and laid her hands on the other's shoulders; her face held anodd look, apologetic, almost frightened.
"'Oh, my dear,' she quavered. 'I have a confession to make to you. Ihave been false to a sacred trust.'
"The editor laughed and led her back into the living-room, where sheseated her in a big chair by an open window. She did not believe theold lady had ever been false to any trust, and she was very anxiousto get out of her working-clothes and into cool garments.
"'I suppose it's something simply appalling,' she said. 'Let mefortify myself for it with a bath and a glass of lemonade. Then I'lllisten to it.'
"But the old lady shook her head. 'No, no,' she gulped. 'I've waitedtoo long already. I _must_ do it now. Oh, listen; _please_ listen!'
"The editor humored her. The old lady was not often unreasonable, andit was clear that she was desperately in earnest. The editor sat downand rested her tired head against the back of her chair while she drewoff her gloves.
"'Very well,' she said, 'I'm listening.'
"The old lady began at once. Her words came out with an indescribableeffect of breathlessness, as if she could not make her explanationsoon enough. She leaned forward, her faded eyes, with their oldfright
ened look, fastened on the editor's face.
"'The day before my daughter died,' she began, almost in a whisper,'she and I had our last talk. She seemed better. Neither of us thoughtshe was very ill. But she said it was wise when she felt well todiscuss a few things. She told me how little money we had and where itwas, and she said the Mother Superior had promised to let me stay inthe convent if ever I needed a home. Then she took off her ring, theCommunity ring she had always worn as the symbol of her office, andhanded it to me. 'If I go before you,' she ended, 'I want you to sendthis ring to our friend in New York--our friend the editor.'
"The old woman stopped. In her hand she held something with which herfingers fumbled. Her head drooped.
"'I forgot it,' she confessed, in a whisper the editor strained herears to catch. 'When she died so suddenly the next day I forgoteverything except her going. When I remembered a few months later Idid not know how to send the ring to you, so I waited. And when I cameto New York those first horrible days in the lodging-house senteverything else out of my mind.' Her head drooped lower. 'You'llforgive me,' she ended.
"She rose and came toward the editor, and the editor rose to face her.
"'Why, my dear,' she began, 'you mustn't give it a second thought. Whyshould you worry about it?'
"But the old lady interrupted her and went on, as if she had beenchecked in a recital which she must finish without a break. 'Wait,'she said. 'To-day, this afternoon, I remembered it! The memory came tome with a kind of shock. I thought, "I have never given her the ring."It brought me out of my chair. I started to get the ring at once, butI could not remember where it was. I stood still, trying to think.Then suddenly that came to me, too. It was down in the corner of mybiggest trunk, the one I had not unpacked, the one that holds all mywinter things. So I unpacked it--and here is the ring.'
"She held it out. It was a heavy gold band with a raised Latininscription on its outer surface. The editor took it in her hand, buther mind held only one idea.
"'You unpacked that great trunk,' she gasped, 'this frightfully hotday? With all those furs and flannels? Why, Mrs. Driscoll, how _could_you do such a thing?'
"The old woman drew a deep breath. 'I had to,' she muttered. Hereyebrows puckered. Plainly, she was puzzled and a little afraid. 'Ifelt I had to,' she repeated. 'It seemed,' she added, slowly, 'almostlike a message from my daughter!'
"The editor turned the ring in her hand and looked at the Latininscription, and as she did so she saw again, not the face of thebeautiful woman who had come to her after her downfall, but the quietconvent chapel in which she herself had knelt that afternoon. A littlechill ran the length of her spine. For there were three words on thering."
The Diplomat leaned forward. "That's interesting," he said. "I didn'tknow about the inscription. The three words were--"
"'_Adveniat Regnum Tuum_,'" said the editor.
"'Thy Kingdom Come,'" translated the Best Seller, swiftly, proud ofhis Latin. "By Jove, the editor got her message, didn't she? I likeyour ending, Miss Iverson. But it doesn't prove the original point."
The Playwright leaned across the table. "Doesn't it?" she asked,gently. "Then show them the ring, May."
I drew the heavy circle from my finger. In silence it was passed frompalm to palm. The glance of the blue-eyed woman touched the face ofthe Playwright, the Diplomat, and the Author and rested on me. Thenshe drew a deep breath.
"So it's true!" she said. "You four saw it work out! Where is Mrs.Driscoll now?"
"In the Emerson Home for Gentlewomen," the Diplomat told her. "Thebest, I think, in this country. You ran out to see her last week,didn't you, Bassinger?"
The Author admitted the charge. "She's very happy there," he said.
At his table at the head of the room our host was on his feet. "Ladiesand gentlemen," he began--
But the Best Seller was whispering to me. "It wasn't exactlytelepathy," he said, "for no one but the old lady knew anything aboutthat ring. It was just an odd coincidence that sent her burrowing intofurs and moth-balls that hot day. But you can make a story of it, MissIverson--a good one, too, if you'll work in a lot of drama andpathos."