Thunder On The Right (5 page)

A smile touched the corners of the thin mouth, and was gone. When she answered, her voice had lost it coldness and was gentle enough. "I understand, senorita: believe me, I understand. This has not been easy for you. Perhaps I told you too directly; here, you see, we grow to accept the fact of death, and we do not regard it as a tragedy. It's hard for us to remember that, to you, death is only grief."

"You're perfectly right, of course," said Jennifer, "and I would have understood that if the news hadn't come so suddenly. But you see, I've come a long way, with all the excitement of expecting to see my cousin at the end of the journey. We've been so many years apart, and there's— there was so much to say. That's partly why it was—well, so shattering. If only we'd been told about it before------"

"But that was impossible. I told you she was ill, delirious. She could tell us nothing about herself or her people. If we had known there were relations we should of course have let you know, but she mentioned no one."

"Yes, of course. You said so. It was only," said Jennifer, half-apologetically, "that I thought there ought to have been some mention among her papers, my own letter, perhaps------"

"There was nothing."

The Spaniard's voice was smooth and her face had showed no change of expression, but the finality of the little sentence was as palpable as a blow.

"Nothing,"
she repeated, in that flat voice that still gave the impression of overemphasis. Almost of warning, thought Jennifer.
Keep off: keep out
. And again behind the veiled eyes came the gleam of what, this time, was discernibly calculation.

The certainty that her instinct had been right—that here was something, if not wrong, at least not fully explained—assailed Jennifer with a rush. She said nothing more, but watched the shuttered face, waiting for the explanation that would wipe away the uneasiness that the interview had awaked in her. But the Spaniard made no attempt to explain anything. She smiled again, and Jennifer wondered how she could ever have seen any warmth in that arid twisting of the lips.

She turned away with cool decision toward the tall wrought-iron gate in the wall.

"And now, if you would like to see your cousin's grave . . ."

Without another word, Jennifer followed her out of the garden.

The graveyard was small, bounded on three sides by the same high walls, and on the fourth by the chapel, whose transept door gave directly on to the smooth turf. In the wall opposite to this another door led apparently straight out on to the mountainside, but this, unlike the entrance to the chapel, was shut, and half-hidden under a cascade of crimson rambling roses. This green close was in its own way as lovely as the garden: here, at any rate, the austere monastic hand had been withheld. Somebody had shorn the grass, it is true, and the few graves were neat and orderly, but where the wind had blown the seeds of mountain flowers across the wall, they had been allowed to lie in their drifts upon the turf—crocuses, starred saxifrage, and strange tiny bells of white and yellow and germander-blue.

The silk robe swished across the grass as the Spanish woman led Jennifer toward a grave by the far wall, where morning-glories, showering their trumpets almost to the grounds, served half to conceal the newly cut turf that gaped its sharp reminder of recent burial. Beside this mound, a crouched black shape was kneeling; a nun, trowel in hand. To Jennifer's raw nerves, it appeared as though she was engaged in the macabre pursuit of digging little holes in the new grave—and such was her state of mind that she would have found such an occupation hardly surprising. But even as the now familiar little worm of horror wriggled in her vitals, she saw that the nun was setting plants, pressing the roots firmly down, with thick capable fingers, into the holes she had made. As she heard the steps approaching her across the grass, she looked up and smiled, and the sight of her pleasant old face, with its healthy red cheeks, and the blue eyes rayed around with laughter lines, did much to restore Jennifer's balance.

Her guide said in her precise, Spanish-accented French, "This is Sister Maria Louisa.

She looks after our garden for us."

The gardener sat back on her heels, shaking back the long sleeves from her sturdy forearms, and wiping her brow with the back of her hand in a frankly peasant gesture. Beside the Spaniard she looked like a stocky farm woman, and her voice, like her gestures, pointed the contrast between them. She nodded—a gesture curiously lacking in respect—toward the speaker, grinned widely at Jennifer, and spoke with a thick Midi twang. "Bless you, child," was all she said, but it occurred to Jennifer that she meant it literally.

"Sister Maria Louisa," went on the Spaniard—and this time the patrician note in her voice sounded unmistakably— "looks after the things of the earth."

If there was a sting in this remark, Sister Louisa did not appear to notice it. She chuckled richly, and spread out her strong, grubby hands as if in evidence,

"Aye, I'm the gardener. It's me that feeds their vile bodies." She twinkled at Jennifer, and added comfortably, "It's a full belly makes a blessed soul, as often as not, and there's overmuch room for the devil to rattle around in when you're empty. So I till the good Lord's garden for Him, and tend His living souls—and the dead as well. . .

." Her hand patted the turfed mound.

The cool Spanish voice was quite expressionless. "Our Sister Lamartine was the cousin of mademoiselle here. Mademoiselle has come to see her grave."

The old nun looked up sharply, her eyes puckered against the sun, and for the first time appeared to notice Jennifer's face. The smile abruptly faded from her eyes, and, reaching up an earth-stained hand, she softly touched the girl's wrist.

"My poor child." At the warm compassion in her voice Jennifer suddenly felt her eyes fill with tears, and she could only stand dumbly, while the green and gold and blue of the graveyard close swam together in a haze. She saw, dimly through tears, that the Spanish woman had moved away, going silently toward the chapel entrance.

Jennifer was surprised at the intensity of the relief she felt as the tall black figure vanished into the interior of the chapel.

Sister Louisa, still kneeling by the grave, put out a hand again. "Sit here by me, child," she said gently. Jennifer obeyed without a word, and for a short time there was silence, while the nun went placidly back to her work of setting plants.

"You didn't know of her death till now?" asked the old nun at length.

Jennifer shook her head.

"I suppose you wouldn't, at that. We none of us knew she had relations; she never spoke of them. I don't know why, but we never thought she had any people." The short strong fingers touched the turf again like a caress. "This is her grave, you know."

Jennifer nodded again without speaking. The feeling of the warm springy grass beneath her was comforting, and before her eyes the small starry flowers were swimming now into focus. She put up a hand and brushed away her tears.

"You cry if you want to," said Sister Louisa. "I'm old and more than a bit silly myself, and I get a bit confused when I think about things that aren't what her ladyship calls 'of the earth,' but I know what's a comfort at such times and what isn't, and it's not the least use telling you just yet that your cousin's better off where she's gone to, because you're just not going to listen, and very natural, too." She pushed a small plant into place with a decisive gesture. "So you go ahead and cry.

When you've finished being unhappy for yourself, then's the time you can begin to think about how lucky
she
is."

"Lucky?"

The old nun's eyes lifted for a moment. "Yes," she said. Then she picked up another plant, and began lovingly to straighten out its roots.

"They told you how it happened, child?" She jerked her head, peasantlike, toward the silent buildings.

"Yes." Jennifer found that her voice was steady enough. "She—the Sister who brought me out here—she told me."

Sister Louisa sat back on her heels. "
She
told you? Where was the Reverend Mother when you came?"

"I understood she was busy. The Sister saw me instead."

"Sister nothing," said the old nun roundly, and in tones that could be called worldly in the extreme. "She's not a member of our Order—no, nor won't be either, as long as the Reverend Mother's got any say in the matter, and that's flat."

She met Jennifer's surprised look, and grinned like a slightly shamefaced elderly gnome. "Maybe I do set overmuch store by the things of the earth, at that. I'll do penance for this, but I'm naught but human, and her ladyship tries the patience, that she does. 'Sister Maria Louisa'"—the mimicry, in the sturdy Midi accent, was irresistible, and in spite of herself Jennifer began to smile—" 'looks after the things of the earth. . . 'Holy Virgin, what does
she
do, with her silk gowns and mantillas and rings on her fingers?" She seized a plant and clapped it smartly into place. "She'd no business to see you and upset you like that. There's ways and ways of telling people bad news, and it's easy to see she's not the one to do it. I'll not deny she runs the place well—second to none—but she shouldn't try and do the Reverend Mother's job for her as well as everything else! I've said it before and I'll say it again!" She gave the plant a sharp monitory prod and then slanted a blue eye at Jennifer. "Ah, I've made you smile, child. Much'll be forgiven me for that."

It was obvious now that it had been pointed out: the Spaniard's richly solemn black had been given the conventual air only by its setting, and by the accessories of cross and rosary. It had in fact been, not a nun's habit, but a copy—no doubt deliberate—of the dress of some pious and medieval lady. No wonder it had looked wrong, thought Jennifer, looking now at Sister Louisa's rough serge habit and cotton veil and at the wimple framing the cheerful old face with its lovely white. The cross on Sister Louisa's breast was of silver, and on her earth-grimed hand was the plain silver ring of her spiritual marriage. Her habit, as she knelt, was rucked up to reveal thick black stockings and rather appalling old shoes.

She was rattling happily on. "Yes, Dona Francisca's our bursar, and a very good one she is, with a head on her shoulders and a way with her. She teaches, too—Oh, yes, whatever she lays her hand to she does well, I'll grant you that, if only she'd mind her own business and------" But here

Sister Louisa rather belatedly recollected herself. She went on, with the cheery malice now expunged from her voice. "She came over here in the Spanish troubles—many years ago now. Her family were something big, old as the hills and very rich, sort of near-royalty, I always understood. . . . She has a name as long as your arm,
de
something
el
something y something else—you know the kind of rigmarole? Well, they ran into trouble and lost everything. ... I never heard the rights of it because she's not the one to talk to such as me, but anyway she got out of Spain in some sort of after-dark way, and came to us. The Reverend Mother had known her folks, years before, and I think I heard tell that Dona Francisca's family had endowed our Order heavily a long time ago. Maybe that's why the Mother let her stay, though she'd never let her take her vows, and I heard tell she's been mad keen to do that ever since she came."

Jennifer, interested in spite of herself, asked, "And in all that time she's not—what's the phrase?—taken Orders?"

"Professed." Sister Louisa gave her singularly unmonastic chortle. "No, she hasn't.

It's a queer thing, that, and of course I don't know the rights of it, but everybody says"— again that twinkling gossip's glance sideways—"everybody says the Reverend Mother won't hear of it, for all she lets her run our business affairs, and for all she's such a good teacher. No vocation. At least
that
," added Sister Louisa, punching another plant into place, "is what they say."

Jennifer, recalling the impression of smoldering personality that she had glimpsed behind that still patrician mask and hooded eyes, thought she could understand the obviously deliberate usurping of the Reverend Mother's position in such matters as her own interview this afternoon. And the contrived effect of the Spanish woman's costume—that was surely deliberate too? What was perhaps surprising was that such a woman should be content to stay in such a tiny and isolated place, but possibly her family connections explained that. . . . Jennifer found herself remembering suddenly that she had several times called Dona Francisca "Sister,"

and had not been corrected.

Sister Louisa was watching her with a shrewd blue eye. "You'll be thinking I'm a wicked old gossip, and perhaps I am. But if my chatter takes your mind off your troubles it'll do more good than harm. Are you feeling better, child?"

"Yes, thank you, Sister. I—I honestly don't think I've really taken it in yet. I don't find it awfully easy to believe that Gillian ... I mean," said Jennifer not very coherently, "it's different when you see it happen yourself, isn't it?"

"I know. Dona Francisca did tell you all about it, though, didn't she?"

"As a matter of fact she told me very little—or perhaps I wasn't in a fit state to grasp everything. I know that there was an accident, and that my cousin came here in a bad storm, and fell ill and died here."

"Eh, dear, yes." The grubby hand made a quick gesture toward the silver cross. "It was a terrible storm we had that Monday night. It's not for nothing that we call this the Valley of the Storms." She cocked an inquiring eye at Jennifer. "You're English?"

"Yes."

"With a French cousin?**

"She was English, too."

The nun turned a surprised face to her. "English? But she spoke------"

"Oh, yes." Jennifer made the explanation again. "She spoke like a Frenchwoman.

Her mother was French, you see, and she herself married a Frenchman. But her father was English, and she came from the north of England."

"I see." The old nun nodded. "But it's still strange that she didn't speak of these things—not even of her husband."