Adrienne Toner. Anne Douglas Sedgwick
it raged, simply. Oh, dear, I thought; this means a day and night of misery. They go on like that once they begin. Mamma used to have them in precisely the same way. Absolutely incapacitating. I can never see how anybody can deny heredity. That’s another point, Roger. I’ve always accepted evolution. I gave up Adam and Eve long ago; gave them up as white and good-looking, I mean; because we must have begun somewhere, mustn’t we? And Darwin was such a good man; though you remember he came not to care anything at all about music. That may mean a great deal, if one could think it all out; it’s the most religious of the arts, isn’t it? But there’s no end to thinking things out!” Mrs. Chadwick pressed her hand against her forehead, closing her eyes for a moment. “And Adrienne is very musical.”
“You were at your headache,” Oldmeadow reminded her. It was customary in the family circle thus to shepherd Mrs. Chadwick’s straying thoughts.
“Yes, I know. But it all hangs together. Heredity and Mamma and my headaches; and Adrienne’s mother, who was musical, too, and played on a harp. Well, it was raging and I was lying there, when there came a little rap at the door. I knew at once who it was and she asked in such a gentle voice if she might come in. It’s a very soothing voice, isn’t it? But do you know I felt for a moment quite frightened, as if I simply couldn’t see her. But I had to say yes, and she came in so softly and sat down beside me and said: ‘I used to help Mother, sometimes, with her headaches. May I help you?’ She didn’t want to talk about things, as I’d feared. Such a relief it was. So I said: ‘Oh, do my dear,’ and she laid her hand on my forehead and said: ‘You will soon feel better. It will soon quite pass away.’ And then not another word. Only sitting there in the dark, with her hand on my forehead. And do you know, Roger, almost at once the pain began to melt away. You know how a dish of junket melts after you cut into it. It was like that. ‘Junket, junket,’ I seemed to hear myself saying; and such a feeling of peace and contentment. And before I knew anything more I fell into the most delicious sleep and slept till now, just before tea. She was sitting there still, in the dark beside me and I said: ‘Oh, my dear, to think of your having stayed in on this lovely afternoon!’ But she went to pull up the blinds and said that she loved sitting quietly in the dark with some one she cared for, sleeping. ‘I think souls come very close together, then,’ she said. Wasn’t it beautiful of her, Roger? Like astral bodies, you know, and auras and things of that sort. She is beautiful. I made up my mind to that, then. She gives me such a feeling of trust. How can one help it? It’s like what one reads of Roman Catholic saints and people in the Bible. The gift of healing. The laying on of hands. We don’t seem to have any of them and we can’t count her, since she doesn’t believe in the church. But if only they’d give up the Pope, I don’t see why we shouldn’t accept their saints; such dear, good people, most of them. And the Pope is quite an excellent man just now, I believe. But isn’t it very strange, Roger? For a person who can do that to one can’t be irreligious, can they?”
Mrs. Chadwick’s eye was now fixed upon him, less wistfully and more intently, and he knew that something was expected of him.
“Hypnotic doctors can do it, you know. You needn’t be a saint to do it,” he said. “Though I suppose you must have some power of concentration that implies faith. However,” he had to say all his thought, though most of it would be wasted upon poor Eleanor Chadwick, “Miss Toner is anything but irreligious. You may be sure of that.”
“You feel it, too, Roger. I’m so, so glad.”
“But her religion is not as your religion,” he had to warn her, “nor her ways your ways. You must be prepared to have the children unsettled; everyone of them; because she has great power and is far more religious than most people. She believes in her creed and acts on it. You must give the children their heads. It’s no good trying to circumvent or oppose them.”
“But they mustn’t do wrong things, Roger. How can I give them their heads if it’s to do wrong things? I don’t know what Mamma would have said to their not going to church—especially in the country. She would have thought it very wrong, simply. Sinful and dangerous.”
“Hardly that,” Oldmeadow smiled. “Even in the country. You don’t think Miss Toner does wrong things. If they take up Miss Toner’s creed instead of going to church, they won’t come to much harm. The principal thing is that there should be something to take up. After all,” he was reassuring himself as well as Mrs. Chadwick, “it hasn’t hurt her. It’s made her a little foolish; but it hasn’t hurt her. And your children will never be foolish. They’ll get all the good of it and, perhaps, be able to combine it with going to church.
“Foolish, Roger?” Mrs. Chadwick, relieved of her headache, but not of her perplexity, gazed wanly at him. “You think Adrienne foolish?”
“A little. Now and then. You mustn’t accept anything she says to you just because she can cure you of a headache.”
“But how can you say foolish, Roger? She’s had a most wonderful education?”
“Everything that makes her surer of herself and makes other people surer of her puts her in more danger of being foolish. One can be too sure of oneself. Unless one is a saint—and even then. And though I don’t think she’s irreligious I don’t think she’s a saint. Not by any means.”
“I don’t see how anyone can be more of one, nowadays, Roger. She heals people and she says prayers, and she is always good and gentle and never thinks of herself. I’m sure I can’t think what you want more.”
A touch of plaintiveness and even of protest had come into Mrs. Chadwick’s voice.
“Perhaps what I want is less,” he laughed. “Perhaps she’s too much of a saint for my taste. I think she’s a little too much of one for your taste, really—if you were to be quite candid with yourself. Has she spoken to you at all about Barney? Are you quite sure you’ll have to reckon with her for yourself and the children?”
At this Mrs. Chadwick showed a frank alarm. “Oh, quite, quite sure!” she said. “She couldn’t be so lovely to us all if she didn’t mean to take him! Why do you ask, Roger? You haven’t any reason for thinking she won’t?”
“None whatever. Quite the contrary.” He didn’t want to put poor Mrs. Chadwick to the cruel test of declaring whether she would rather have the children go to church and lose Miss Toner and all her money or have them stay away and keep Miss Toner. After all such a test was not to be asked of her. Miss Toner wanted people to follow their own light. “I only wondered if she talked to you about him. Asked any girlish leading questions.”
“None, none whatever,” said Mrs. Chadwick. “But I feel that’s because she thinks she knows him far better than I do and that he’s told her everything already. It’s rather hard to be a mother, Roger. For of course, though she is so much better and cleverer than I am, I feel sure that no one understands Barney as I do.”
“She’d be a little cleverer still if she could see that, wouldn’t she?”
“Well, I don’t know. Girls never do. I was just the same when I was engaged to Francis. Even now I can’t think that old Mrs. Chadwick really understood him as I did. It’s very puzzling, isn’t it? Very difficult to see things from other people’s point of view. When she pulled up the blind this afternoon, she told me that Nancy and Barney were down in the copse and she seemed pleased.”
“Oh, did she?”
“I told her that they’d always been like brother and sister, for I was just a little afraid, you know, that she might imagine Barney had ever cared about Nancy.”
“I see. You think she wouldn’t like that?”
“What woman would, Roger?” And he imagined that Mrs. Chadwick, for all her folly, was cleverer than Miss Toner guessed, as she added: “And then she told me that she’d made Barney go without her. She wanted me to see, you know, that it depended on her. That’s another reason why I feel sure she is going to take him.”
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