The Closed Harbour by James Hanley

miserable Captain and on top of that something—oh well," and she tittered and showed her teeth and leaned against Lucien.
    "D'you think I'm a very wicked person, Lucien?"
    "You're lovely," he said.
    "Call Henri," she said.
    It was turned seven o'clock. Marius had not come in. Madame Marius and her daughter were seated in the kitchen. The old woman stared with some disgust at the table, the laid out meal.
    "One evening he will not come back at all," she thought. She looked at her daughter. "Madeleine?"
    "Yes mother?"
    "I think I'll go to the Benediction to-night." They so rarely went out in the evenings that it came as a surprise to Madeleine when she said this. She did not wish to go, but felt she must.
    "Very well," she said.
    So they had got ready and left the house. Madame Marius walked beside her daughter, very erect. Sometimes she would glance down at the woman beside her. And sometimes she hated her:
    "She has the calmness—oh, she's like a cow."
    Such docility, such resignation, such terrible calm. It seemed too much to bear.
    It was only a few hundred yards to St Sulpice's, but Madame Marius walked to it as with closed eyes, she seemed neither to see nor sense the things about her, there was only this daughter at her side, following meekly, silently, devotedly.
    "Perhaps I am indeed lucky with such a daughter," she thought. She looked at her, gripping her arm.
    "If it wasn't for where one had to walk, the things through which one had to pass, I would dearly love to go to the High Mass to-morrow for the celebration—but no, it doesn't matter," and Madeleine detected a sudden sad note in her mother's voice.
    "Let's think about it," she said, and smiled up to her mother.
    There were some people just ahead of them, making for the evening service, already they had turned into the gravel path leading up to the church. And then they themselves had reached its door, pausing only for a moment to bless themselves at the font, then as they usually did, to seek the darkest corner of St Sulpice's, the last bench but one. They knelt for a moment or two, then sat down.
    Madame Marius had already fixed her rosary upon her wrist, the small silver crucifix gripped tight between finger and thumb. She did not pray. The mouth was shut tight, she stared steadily ahead, she seemed to be watching God.
    Each morning they came for the Mass, for the Sacrament, and they sat in the same place. Now they were like mice, drawn into the deep silence of the church.
    In contrast to her mother's tenseness, this folding in on herself as it were, Madeleine appeared always relaxed, at ease, prayed as was her heart's wont, never took her eyes from the altar. Her mother sat stiffly, knelt stiffly, as though she were on some kind of sentry duty.
    "Oh God! I have forgiven him. I am now content. Please make mother charitable, pardon the cruelty of her years, through Christ our Lord."
    She was kneeling, but the mother had not noticed her movement. She still sat still, as stone is, she felt the beads cool within her hand, she looked towards the Tabernacle.
    The soft organ strains stole into the air almost like that of water, and Madame Marius listened to the music.
    Everywhere there were flowers, tall proud lilies, piled velvety roses, and at the feet of the Virgin the green herbage whose scent rose high, climbing beyond the tall pillars, it seemed to be locked about the Virgin's feet. Saint Francis held the child, whose pink cheek brushed the bright nosegay reaching upwards. St John, tall and lean seemed shadowed by nothing but his own bone. Madeleine had noticed the absence of flowers here, but she remembered his life, and she understood.
    People came in, walked slowly and quietly up the aisles, she watched them genuflect, and they seemed to carry about their persons the last remaining warmth of the sun, and the dying light. The organ strains grew louder, she knew it would soon be time. The music leaped like fountains, the air vibrated under the mass of