Poor Caroline

by Winifred Holtby

  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 preferred 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 consideration. 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! Fortunately Eleanor had seen to most of the arrangements; but he had little use for that young woman, a hard, difficult unwomanly 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 tonight?'

  '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 gibberish 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 going. 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-yes —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 suspect 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?'

  'I believe so, though — er - as a
member of the Society of Friends I have not a very clear idea of the Anglican distinctions.'

  'Are you a Quaker? How thrilling. We have some neighbours who are Quakers and awfully nice really. The girls are quite sporting, and one of them plays tennis for our club's first six.'

  'I am glad that the Society of Friends meets with your

  approval,' Mr. Guerdon observed dryly.

  * * * *

  A shower fell as the three vehicles wound their way among the traffic into Richmond Road and through the gates of the cemetery, but suddenly the sky brightened as at the foot pace they crawled down the long drive between the graves. The slanting sun lit the daffodils like golden flames in the green grass, and sparkled on the wet grass bubbles covering white china doves and posies.

  A shaft of light came through the window, illuminating Eleanor's face, as she sat, stiff and silent beside the sullen bulk of the Reverend Ernest Smith.

  Both she and the clergyman were staring out of different windows into the cemetery. Roger Mortimer, who faced them from the smaller seat, could look as long as he liked at her face, learning by heart the clear delicate line of her chin, her level brows, and the severe curve of her young mouth. He had need to look long and steadfastly at her, for perhaps after to-day their ways might never meet again. She was right, of course. He could not ask her to share, or even to understand his self-imposed obligations. She could go her own way, and he prayed that she would win success. For if she desired wealth and power, her ambition was not ignoble. She believed that society needed rich and powerful women, who had worked their way from obscurity to eminence, and she believed quite impersonally and firmly in her own ability to accomplish such a destiny. At least she had the courage to attempt it. No obstacle of personal or domestic complication must hinder her advancement. Her socialism would temper her ambition and her sense of responsibility would balance her egotism. He could regard her now with impartial detachment, he could see that there was a generosity and nobility about her which experience would develop. It had been fine of her to throw away her chance of going to America in order to look after poor Miss Denton-Smyth and to disentangle the finances of the Christian Cinema Company. It had been fine, though foolish, to throw away her security with such apparent indifference, especially when she had so keen a sense of financial values. She believed in holding tightly on to power and money. She believed in the necessity for taking risks.

  There was none like her, none. He could thank his God always on every remembrance of her. His work would be more tolerable because of his knowledge that humanity could achieve such grave and honest generosity. He would dislike futility and confusion less because at least he had known one woman whose mind was cool and clear.

  He could thank Caroline too. Had she not brought them together? She always said that she wanted to enrich him. She had enriched him. She had given him something that he valued more than any other earthly experience.

  These last few days had been very sweet to him. Ever since Eleanor rang him up to tell him of Caroline's death, he had seen her continually. She had let him help her with the arrangements for the funeral. She had let him go with her when she identified the body and gave evidence at the inquest. They had lunched together after the inquest in a little restaurant in Church Street.

  This funeral service was the ceremony of his farewell, not only to Caroline, but to Eleanor. He believed that she too had been glad to know him better. She was not wholly indifferent to him, but he could be glad now that she had not loved him. There must be no pain for her in this farewell.

  Afterwards he knew that he would have bad times, wanting her. He knew that he might grow jealous of her work and her preoccupations, and complain against the fate that severed them. But now he felt only pride and thankfulness for love.

  'But oh, my dear, my dear, my dear,' his heart cried, as the car at last drew up beside the raw gaping cavern of an open grave, 'how shall I live without you?'

  He climbed out of the car, and held the door open for her. As she sprang down, a blackbird in the wet thorn bush beside her broke into jubilant song.

  * * * *

  Eleanor stood beside the grave staring down at the dark hole in the earth. So this was the end of Caroline. This, she believed, was the complete and final end of one small individual adventure. Caroline was dead, and all her dreams died with her. The school which she had tried to found had failed. Her poems and Path of Valour lay unread and un-remembered. The Christian Cinema Company had apparently existed in order to provide Mr. Johnson with a means of escaping his debts. Her many other plans had progressed no further than their conception in her fertile brain. This vivid unreliable April sunlight was the final comment upon her precarious and perishing activity.

  On the tarpaulin covering the cast-up loam from the grave, lay wreaths and crosses, the conventional white wreath from the Marshington Smiths, and Mr. Guerdon's chaplet, a handsome cross bore a card 'From the Christian Cinema Company with gratitude and remembrance.' There lay Roger's scarlet carnations with an inscription in Greek. She must tease him about that. It was so typical of him to spend his money on red carnations, and then to decorate them with an inscription that nobody could read. Or did he think that Caroline's immortal mind, inhabiting her celestial body, was enfranchised into the vast liberties of classical learning? Did he picture her ghost peering down through her lorgnettes and taking pleasure in this tribute to her culture? Eleanor's own daffodils looked naive and countrified beside his rich, defiant garland. But then Roger loved hot-house flowers, and heavy draperies, and purple, and incense and processions. He was not, like Eleanor, a stranger to this English spring, enraptured by its chill, dewy freshness and the surprising candour and bravery of its flowers. In this, as in so many other things, he seemed to provide the complement to her tastes and nature. Oh, they were made for one another. What folly, what folly to let a catchword part them. It was not a question of a future company director and Socialist member of parliament marrying a curate. It was a question of Eleanor marrying Roger Mortimer, the one person whom, since her father died, she could ever love.

  After all, if one intended to conduct social experiments, was it not safer to share them with the most honourable and unselfish person whom one knew? Roger had that queer indefinable quality of goodness. She trusted him. Why, after all, should she remain celibate just because she intended to have a public career? She would not become an unpaid curate-housekeeper in Bermondsey. She would marry him and go off, just as she had intended, to Perrin's works in Manchester. She would go to America as soon as she persuaded Brooks to take her. Roger would understand. He was the one person in the world who ever would understand, the one man she had ever met who wanted his marriage to be an adventure not a refuge. Why should she be so squeamish about his future when she knew perfectly well his odd ambition to remain a poor and overworked parish priest? Why should she be so timid about her own capacity? Surely strength to shoulder burdens developed with their weight?

  'The present generation of feminists must marry,' thought Eleanor, listening to Roger's voice reading the funeral service. 'And if we fail, we can always separate. There's nothing final in this world but death. And after death . . .'

  She looked down into the black cavern of the grave. Supposing it were Roger who lay there in the bright coffin? And supposing, from cowardice, she had kept away from him?

  After all, marriage was not the only cause of failure. She thought of Caroline, and of her great desires. She thought of the tragic comedy of her will, remembering her wish to become a general benefactor.

  And yet, was not Caroline's wish fulfilled? She had wanted to leave legacies to her relatives at Marshington, and here were Betty and Dorothy, very pleased with themselves, enjoying a shopping and theatre holiday in London. She had wanted the Christian Cinema Company to benefit mankind, and had it not done so? Mr. St. Denis had had his diversion from it, Hugh his advertisement, Johnson his romance, Guerdon the gratification of his conscience, and Isenbaum - well, Isenba
um was rather a mystery, but Mr. St. Denis had once said something about getting his son to Eton. It seemed probable, considering everything else, that he had done so. Caroline had wanted to leave a legacy to Mrs. Hales, and though she had quarrelled later with the landlady, Eleanor was sure that her sense of Christian forgiveness would have been gratified by the thought that the arrears of her rent had been paid at last, and that Mrs. Hales was browsing happily among the brilliant fragments of her wardrobe. She had wished for Roger his heart's desire. She had wanted so eagerly to enrich him, to make him happy. Why not? Why not?

  Eleanor knew then that she could not let him go off alone to Bermondsey without knowing that she loved him. Life was so short, and justice so uncertain. Must one not take risks, living under the shadow of annihilation?

  She looked up at Roger as though she had never really seen him before, and knew what she would do.

  The ceremony was over. She followed Betty and Dorothy past the grave, throwing into it a bunch of primroses. As though she heard it now, she remembered Caroline's quick excited voice from the infirmary bed, crying, 'When you come to think of it, Eleanor, I've had a very remarkable life.' That was it. That was the way to live, acknowledging no limitations, afraid of nothing.