Poor Caroline (48 page)

'What is the Cause? Oh Lord, I do not ask.

'Tis Thou appointeth, only Thou that guides,

I only pray for courage for my task,

And strength to shoulder it, whate'er betides.'

That had been one of her poems published in the Parish
Magazine. It had been a great success.

'I do not crave that I should always see

The winding road before my straining eyes,

But only that Thy hand should beckon me,

Beyond the waning margin of the skies.
⁵

A poem was company. If you had written poems, you
would never go in want of a familiar voice of comfort.

'I do not ask that I may win the crown,
Only that I may still the Right defend,

I do not ask to lay my weapon down,
Only to Fight unconquered till the end.

'I am Thy soldier, arm me with Thy might!

I am Thy pioneer; show me the way!
I do not ask to triumph, but to fight,
To travel upward till the perfect Day.'

This world's imperfect day was coming now. The dawn
slid slowly past the narrow windows. The night staff was
beginning to stir at the other end of the ward. In another minute or two, the pert probationer would hurry along
wheeling a tray of mugs of morning tea. Surely there had
been one other verse, the best of all? One that explained
everything, that answered all her questions?

She must ask Eleanor to see about the office rent - and
the printing of the new circulars. She did hope the girl
would come early. There was so much to do. One must be
faithful over little things before one could become a ruler over many things. One must never give way, never relax
one's standards when pioneering. Faithful.

Ah, that was the verse! she remembered it now.

'So when at last I reach the golden wall,

Footsore and weary, stained with grief and sin,

Thy voice shall bid my heavy burdens fall.

Well done, thou good and faithful Friend! Pass In!'

Friend, Friend, that was what she had been. And she had
found a friend. A faithful Friend. She must make another
verse for him, to show that she did not come lonely to the
Golden City. Another verse.

'No nurse - not yet - not yet -just a minute - Can't you see - I'm busy?'

Why did the girl look so stupidly at her? Why was that
water pouring in, in, in to the tank? They were drowning
together, all drowning; someone must open the window and
let the water out or they would drown.

She dragged herself up on one arm.

'Open!'she cried. 'Open! The Golden - Golden - '

And the gates opened.

Final Chorus

the reverend ernest smith
shifted his lace-trimmed
surplice awkwardly. If he had known what mummery and
nonsense he was going to be inveigled into, he'd never have
come near the place. Good heavens! Couldn't they even
bury her decently? There he was bobbing about in a dark
stuffy church that smelt intolerably of incense, and incense
always made him a little sick, watching a tall affected young
curate with an Oxford accent patting Caroline's large
purple-covered coffin with a ladle, while a small snuffling
boy jerked a jangling censer. Not even the words of the
service were familiar. He couldn't find his way about at all; he felt like a fool, and loathed the whole performance. He was not even given the orthodox verses to read. He'd write
to the bishop. He'd complain to Robert. He'd . . . Good
heavens, no wonder the country could not stomach these
Anglo-Catholics. He had not taken any very active part in
the controversy until now. He was a man of peace who pre
ferred to let well alone; but really after this, it was time to
put his foot down.

Naturally he had wanted to take some part in his cousin's
funeral service; but if he had known, if he had had the
slightest idea, of the discomfort and embarrassment to which
he would be subjected, he would not have come near the
place. What would Lady Bowsill think of all this tomfoolery,
she, admirable Evangelical patroness of Flynders, who objected even to candles on the altar, and thought that fasting
communion savoured of popery? What would his sidesmen think? What did he think himself? And after his hideous
cross-country journey, and that absurd misunderstanding about the time of the funeral, he really deserved a little con
sideration. How typical of Caroline to cause as much
trouble as possible, by dying, of a clot of blood at the heart
after a street accident, so that she occasioned a post-mortem,
an inquest, and an Anglo-Catholic funeral service! Fortu
nately Eleanor had seen to most of the arrangements; but
he had little use for that young woman, a hard, difficult un
womanly young person who had not even had the decency
to wear mourning. And what it was all going to cost,
Heaven alone knew. The only thing to be said for the whole
business was that this was the last time on which Caroline could trouble them. After this, they need never think of her
again.

* * * *

Betty and Dorothy Smith nudged each other. 'That's her
precious Father Mortimer,' Betty whispered. 'I say, doesn't
Ernest look a scream in his little lace jumper?'

'It's rather impressive - the purple pall, I mean. I wish we had incense at Marshington,' murmured Dorothy.

'He's really quite nice looking, but too thin. I wonder
what he thought of her
really.'

'Hush! I say, I
do
think Eleanor might have worn at least
a black
coat,
don't you?'

'Shall we go to a revue or to
The Lady with a Lamp
to
night?'

'I must get my hair waved - and we'll go to Marshall and
Snelgrove's to-morrow morning.'

'Oh well, she's done us one good turn. I
had
to buy a new
coat, and I do loathe shopping in Kingsport.'

* * * *

Hugh Macafee clutched the bookshelf in front of him and climbed awkwardly to his feet. This service was all gibber
ish to him, and he would never have dreamed of coming if
Eleanor had not insisted. He did not like these mixed
funerals. It was more decent in Scotland where only the
menfolk attended; but really, if we came to think about it,
all funeral services were offensive to the scientific mind. All
this barbaric pother about a perfectly natural process disgusted him.

Well, to-morrow he would get away from it all. He was
sailing for the States. It was an opportunity, but of course,
he was not going to stand any nonsense from Brooks.
Brooks was a clever fellow, and if he had the sense to give
his men a free hand, Hugh would not object to his terms.
The important thing was to perfect his own colour process.

Eleanor had been a fool to throw away her chance of go
ing. Women were like that though, always running off to
look after sick relatives or something. Well, she might still
do something. She had ability and Brooks had taken to her.
Probably Perrin would give her a job.

He'd write another letter. Perrin respected his judgment.
If he said that she had brains and grit, and a few ideas of her
own, they might find a use for her. Once in a place, she
knew how to make herself useful. She was the one person in
England whom he would be sorry to leave.

But not too sorry. His thoughts drifted away from her to Caroline, lying under the elaborate purple pall in the raised
coffin. What a queer old thing she had been, odder than
anyone he had ever met. Did she really believe that she was going to run a great organization that could rival the Brooks
Combines and National Products? Ah, well, imagination
played queer tricks with some of us. Engineering was safer
than psychology. One knew where one was with it. This
was the end, praise be. He'd slip away now. He was not going right down to Fulham cemetery. He had a lot to do
to-day, and it was wonderful with all his many important
engagements, that he had found time at all to pay his last respects to poor old Caroline.

* * * *

Mr. Charles Fry Fox Guerdon stared out of the window at
the passing traffic. Miss de la Roux had
engaged only one car to follow the hearse to the cemetery, but the Reverend Ernest Smith, gazing with dismay at its congested interior,
had whistled up a taxi, commanded Father Mortimer to
share it with him, and at the last moment whipped Miss de la
Roux inside with him to make sure that they, as the people principally responsible for the final ceremony, at least all kept together. Mr. Guerdon was left with the two
other
mourners, his legs screwed under the back seat of the car,
endeavouring to prevent his knees from knocking against
the shapely, but indelicately exposed lower limbs of the two Misses Smith. They, as the representatives of their parents, were seeing the ceremony through to its conclusion, and he,
as the representative of the Christian Cinema Company,
believed it right that he also should attend. But he disliked
the whole business very much indeed. He wished that he
was comfortably back at Golder's Green, and he shrank
from the unabashed interrogation to which Miss Betty Smith
subjected him.

'This Christian Cinema Company's all off now, isn't it?'

'Er-ye
s —er—I believe so. Most of the directors have
resigned owing to various circumstances, and I believe that
the company is - er - in the process of- er - being wound
up.'

'Didn't someone go off with all the cash?'

'Well, er — I understand that the accountant has found
some irregularity. But Miss de la Roux is the chief shareholder and she has decided not to prosecute. The money is probably already dissipated, and the person whom we sus
pect has gone abroad.'

'Well, I know Mummy'll want to know all about it. Was
this Mr. St. Denis really a genuine person?'

'Oh yes. Quite genuine, I believe, though really rather a
dilettante.
Of course Miss Denton-Smyth's enthusiasm was
wonderful.'

'A bit too wonderful I think you'd say if you'd been one
of her relations. Mum and Dad were always having to come
in and wipe up the mess after one of her wonderful schemes
had gone phut. I say - where have the others got to? Do
you think we shall ever catch up with Eleanor and Father Mortimer? Isn't it silly to call him "Father" when he's such
a boy? He's only a curate, isn't he?'