Teresa entered the quiet house, cast a look at the drawing-room door,
and realised with relief that her mother had retired to bed. Probably
she would be awake, and would expect the returning daughter to enter her
room in passing, and give a history of the evening's adventures, but
Teresa had no intention of doing anything of the sort. Pausing for a
moment in the hall, she took off her slippers and crept noiselessly past
the dreaded portals up to the third floor. To-morrow morning there
would be reprisals, but she had news to tell which would speedily turn
the tide. The flood of questions and curiosities which were bound to
flow from the maternal lips would be intolerable to-night, nevertheless
Teresa felt the need of speech. The relief, the joy, the triumph of the
moment seemed more than she could endure alone. She needed someone to
listen, not to talk, and Mary had been trained by long years of
self-abnegation to fill that post.
Teresa entered her sister's room and turned on the electric switch.
Mary lay asleep, her face showing yellow against the whiteness of the
pillow, her hair screwed together in a walnut-like knob at the top of
her head. She stirred, opened listless eyes to stare at her sister, and
automatically struggled to a sitting position.
"Got back?--Do you--is there anything you want?"
Teresa sat down on the side of the bed and threw back her cloak. In the
plainly furnished bedroom her blue dress became at once a rich and
gorgeous garment, the trifling ornament on her neck gleamed with a new
splendour; to Mary's dazzled eyes she appeared a vision of beauty and
happiness.
"What should I want? Cocoa? Coffee? You funny old Martha! your
thoughts never get away from housekeeping. I don't want anything; not
one single thing in the whole wide world. I've got so much already that
I can hardly bear it... Mary! I'm engaged. He _does_ care. He asked
me to-night."
"Who?" asked Mary blankly, and Teresa, staring at her in indignation,
realised that, incredible as it appeared, this ignorance was real, not
feigned. A pricking of curiosity made itself felt; since this most
obtuse of sisters had noticed nothing between herself and Dane, it would
be interesting to see whom she would select as a possible _fiance_. She
smiled, and said, "Guess!"
"Mr Hunter," said Mary promptly.
"Gerald Hunter!" Teresa was transfixed with surprise at the
unexpectedness of the reply, for Gerald Hunter, the young partner of the
local doctor, had come to the neighbourhood some months later than Dane
himself, by which time she had no attention to bestow upon another man.
Hunter was a member of the tennis club, he made a welcome addition to
local dances and bridge teas; occasionally on Sunday afternoons he had
called and stayed to tea. Teresa was aware that he had a dark
complexion, a strong, overhand serve, and a dancing step which went well
with her own, but beyond these preliminaries her mind had not troubled
to go.
"What on earth made you think it was Gerald Hunter?"
"He admires you."
"Oh, well!" Teresa glanced complacently into the tilted mirror which
showed a reflection of flaxen hair, pink cheeks, and rounded shoulders,
sufficiently attractive to merit any man's admiration. The same law of
contrast which made the dress appear rich and elaborate came into
operation as regards its wearer. The mirror reflected the faces of both
sisters, and it was not unnatural that Teresa should feel a thrill of
pleasure at her own fair looks. "Oh, well! But that's different. Lots
of people may _admire_. Guess again, Mary! Somebody far, far more
exciting than Mr Hunter."
But Mary shook her head.
"If it's not Mr Hunter, I don't know. Tell me yourself."
"Dane Peignton! Oh, Mary, why didn't you guess? I've cared always--
from the very first hour I saw him, and I knew he cared too, I was sure
of it--and yet, one _can't_ be sure! When one cares so much, it seems
too good to be true. He is so different from anyone else in this stupid
little place. He belongs to the world, and to people like... like the
people I met to-night, not to our poor, prosy little set. He was the
most popular man there. He talked, and they listened; he made things
go. They all liked him, and admired him. He has been here only a few
months, and they all treat him as a friend, and oh, Mary! you know what
they are like to _us_? If it hadn't been for him I should have felt
like a fish out of water. They gushed, of course, they always gush, but
one felt so apart. Old Sir Henry sat on my other side, and persisted in
mistaking me for Miss Pell, and talked of things I knew nothing about.
I am sure they were all wondering what on earth I was doing up there.
What will they think to-morrow when they hear! I'm going to announce it
at once. I want everyone to know. I'd like to shout it from the church
tower... Oh, Mary, isn't it splendid? Don't you think I am the
luckiest girl... Don't you think it is wonderful that he should care
for me?"
"Yes... Does he?"
There was an incredulity in the voice in which the words were put which
arrested Teresa in her flow of eloquence. She stared with lips agape,
her blue eyes darkening in amaze.
"_Does he_? Does he care?... You ask me that! What are you dreaming
about? If he didn't care, why in the world should he ask me to be his
wife? We are not rich; we are not grand. Ours is not exactly a
_lively_ family for a man to marry into. He might have chosen a girl in
such a different position. Why should he choose me?"
Mary pulled the blankets over her thin chest, and appeared to consider
the matter, her eyes resting on her sister's face with a coolly critical
scrutiny.
"Perhaps because--you wanted him to! You generally do manage to get
what you want, don't you, Teresa?"
Teresa straightened herself with an air of offence.
"There was no _management_ about this, anyhow! Whatever I wanted, I
didn't give myself away. I never ran after him and made myself cheap,
as some girls do. It's horrid of you to suggest such a thing. Did I
ever show that I cared for him when he was here? I can't have done, or
you would not have been so surprised when you heard of our engagement."
"I knew you cared for him. You had a perfectly different face when he
was in the room. We all knew. We were sorry for you, because we
thought he didn't return it. Mother was thinking of sending you to Aunt
Emma's."
"Oh, she was, was she!" Teresa tossed her head once more, but the inner
happiness was too great to allow of more than a passing irritation. She
stretched out her hand, and gripped her sister by the arm.
"Mary! you are horrid. Not one single nice word yet, not one
congratulation, when I came in at once to tell you before anyone in the
world! If it had been mother, she'd have been hanging round my neck in
hysterics of excitement, but you do nothing but lie there and croak, and
throw cold water. I'm your own sister--does it seem so extraordinary
that a man should want to marry me? Mary, be _nice_! Congratulate me!
Won't you be glad to have a married sister, and all the fun and
excitement of a wedding in the house?"
"Fun!" echoed Mary, and shuddered eloquently. In imagination she saw
her mother collecting store catalogues, comparing prices to the fraction
of a penny, and dictating innumerable notes. In imagination she saw
herself spending week after week eternally sewing for Teresa, marking
for Teresa, running ribbons through Teresa's _lingerie_, unpacking
Teresa's presents, packing Teresa's boxes, tidying, arranging, slaving
for Teresa, while Teresa herself paid calls, and sat with her lover in
the drawing-room. All these things she would do when the time came, and
do them meekly and well, but in the doing there would be no "fun."
There was no lightsomeness of spirit in the Mallison household to ease
the strain of small duties, or turn a _contretemps_ into a joke. Mrs
Mallison's heart would swell with pride at the prospect of providing an
outfit for the future Mrs Dane Peignton; she would say and believe that
the whole responsibility was borne on her shoulders; nevertheless, the
preparation of that outfit would add years to the lives of every human
creature beneath her roof.
"I can't say that I look forward to the wedding itself, but I hope you
will be happy. It would be nice for one of us to be happy. Captain
Peignton is a good man; I hope he will be happy too." Mary hesitated,
and a pathetic curiosity showed itself in her face. "I suppose you
couldn't tell me what he said?"
Teresa shook her head.
"Of _course not_! ... Very little really. It was in the car. The man
ran us into the ditch. I was frightened, and... and then, of course--he
comforted me! We got home so quickly that there was not much time.--He
is coming to-morrow morning."
Mary nodded, a light of comprehension brightening her eyes.
"You are quite sure he meant it? You are always so sure that you are
right, and that everything ought to go as you wish. Don't be too sure
of him, Teresa! Even if you are properly engaged, don't be too sure.
He has only met you now and again for an hour at a time, and seen that
you were young and pretty, and good at games. Now he will see you
often. He may be disappointed and change his mind!"
"Am I so much worse than I appear?"
"I didn't mean worse."
"Then what _did_ you mean? Not better, evidently. What do you expect
him to find out when he knows me better?"
"Nothing. There's nothing to find."
Teresa rose with an elaborate flutter of garments, and stood tall and
straight by the bedside.
"I'd better go. It is evidently not the slightest use talking to you
to-night. I think you have been very unsisterly and disagreeable. I
wish I had never come in. I was so happy, and you have done nothing but
throw cold water. Are you jealous, Mary, that you are so unkind?"
Mary gave her back look for look. A dull flush showed itself on her
cheek-bones.
"Would it be such a wonderful thing if I were? I _am_ jealous; of
course I am jealous. I have every reason to be jealous. You get
everything, Teresa; and I get nothing. It has always been like that,
and it always will be. You are strong, and I am weak; you are pretty,
and I am plain; you are popular, and I am dull. You are masterful, and
get your own way, and I am cowardly, and am beaten; but because one is
dull, and cowardly, and plain, it doesn't follow that one can't feel--it
doesn't follow that one can't _ache_! I have ached for this all my
life, and it has come to you. No one ever cared for me, but I should
have made a good wife. I should have loved him more than you will ever
love. You have wasted so much love on yourself, but I had it all to
give. I loved a man once, as you love Captain Peignton, but he never
thought of me. He married a girl with a pretty face, and lived close to
us for nearly two years. Mother used to invite them here, and send me
with messages to the house. I could not look out of the window without
seeing them together, walking down the street, sitting in the garden.
My bedroom window overlooked their summer-house. I used to see him come
in and kiss her."
Teresa shuddered.
"I should have gone mad! Poor old Mary! But why did you stand it? I
should have gone away, and done something."
"What?" Mary asked, and Teresa was silent. Mary had a way of asking
questions which were impossible to answer. What _could_ Mary do? She
was one of the vast army of middle-class daughters brought up to do
nothing, and thereby as hopelessly imprisoned as any slave of old. She
possessed no natural gifts nor accomplishments, she lacked the training
which would have ensured excellence in any one department of domestic
work, she was devoid of a personality which would make her mere
companionship of marketable value. What could Mary do, and who would
care to engage Mary to do it? Teresa was silent, finding no reply. She
stood hesitating by the bedside, sympathetic but impatient. She was
sorry; of course she was sorry, but to-night she wanted to be glad. It
would have been better to have gone straight to her room.
"I couldn't go away," Mary continued slowly, "but they went--after two
years! I fought so hard to deaden myself that I might not feel, that I
seem to have been half dead ever since. It's eight years since they
left. I don't love him now. I don't think of him for months at a time;
but that was my love affair, Teresa. There was never anyone else.
There never will be now, and life goes on just the same year after year.
It's wicked, I suppose, but I wonder sometimes why women like me were
ever born."
"Mary, you are very useful. You work so hard--you are always working."
"Little things!" said Mary, sighing. "Little things! Things with my
hands. But a woman is not _all_ hands." She hitched the blankets once
more, and lay back on the pillow. "You'd better go to bed. It's
getting late."
"Good night, Mary; good old Mary! You shall come and stay with me in my
house, and I'll give you a real good time."
Teresa turned away, eager to make her escape. She did not kiss her
sister, for kisses were not frequent in the Mallison family, and the
sudden unlocking of Mary's sealed lips left an effect of strangeness, as
if some stranger had taken her place. It was disturbing and
disagreeable to realise that Mary could _feel_! She opened the door
softly and was stepping over the threshold when Mary's voice called in
an urgent note. "More confidences!" sighed Teresa to herself, and stood
still to listen.
"Did you remember to turn out the hall light?" asked Mary.