thomas traherne: A Serious and Pathetical Contemplation of the Mercies of God.
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The funeral was over. Had been over, done with, and, from its ceremonial aspect, almost forgotten, and Mrs. Maslin, who had brought the child’s body from the convent, and looked, a fox-faced, quick-eyed, wiry little woman, her very worst in black, sat behind the tray and handed tea to her husband.
“But I don’t see why you want to go back there,” he said. “You can send for Mary if you want her. Personally I can’t see why she shouldn’t stay.”
“It must be morbid for her,” his wife, Mary’s stepmother, replied. “It makes an unhealthy atmosphere, a thing like that happening at a school. Mary was fond of Ursula.”
“It won’t make her any happier to bring her away from school, and so insist on what happened. Much better to let her stay there. The sisters are perfectly sensible women. The excitement will soon die down.”
“I see no reason for referring to the sudden death of your own relation as something exciting, Percival.”
“Isn’t it exciting? Don’t be a humbug, Nessa.”
At this plain speaking Mrs. Maslin cast a sharp glance behind her, and, lowering her voice, hissed at her husband to silence him. Mr. Maslin, however, refused to be advised, and continued, in his ordinary tone of voice.
“Well, face the facts, Nessa. Isn’t it?”
“
“But, Nessa, face the facts. We’ve always said that with Ursula out of the way—she was never a very good life, poor child—delicate, and with the family tendency, as we know—and Ulrica (according to Mary) bent on taking her vows as soon as she’s old enough —it would—it would be a very fine thing for us! Why try to pretend that you’re thinking of anything else?”
“Because I
“Oh? What?”
Mrs. Maslin lowered her voice still further and replied, while her harsh-skinned, brown little hands picked restlessly at a fringe on the cushion beside her:
“I told you, didn’t I, that the Reverend Mother Superior had been trying to get hold of some private investigator or other, to try to prove that the death was not suicide, but simply an accident?”
“Well? What’s the matter with that?”
“Nothing… except that I don’t want Mary mixed up in it all, and questioned. It isn’t good for her. It’s morbid.”
“Well, I don’t see what you can do.”
“I want Mary home, that’s all. I don’t want her there, being got at.”
“Got at?”
“You never know what these unprincipled people will say. They ask the most innocent children dreadful questions.”
“A thing I’ve wondered,” said Mr. Maslin, suddenly lowering the paper, and again enunciating with the clearness which his wife was finding so embarrassing, “is…”
“Don’t,” said Mrs. Maslin, snapping him off. “I shall go down again to St. Peter’s as soon as I’ve had another talk with Grogan and Grogan. I want to know how we stand before I see the Mother Superior again.”
“I suppose you’ve cabled your father-in-law?”
“No, not yet. It can make no difference to him.”
“I thought he was fond of the child.”
“The Mother Superior cabled him, of course.”
“Oh, I see. He does
Mrs. Maslin made no reply. Then she said:
“Of course it means that, if Ulrica enters, the money comes straight to Mary.”
“I don’t see that at all.”
“Timothy Doyle would never let all that money go to the Church!”
“We can’t tell what he will do. Do you mean you think he’ll disinherit Ulrica?”
“You must see to it that he does. In any case, I shall see that Grogan and Grogan fight the girl to a finish if she dares to claim the money on Timothy’s death! You will have to stand up for your own child’s rights in this! Her mother was Timothy’s daughter.
“We had better go over and see the old boy, I fancy. Word of mouth is the best way of communicating some
