Mrs Mallison possessed an insatiable curiosity. Its area, it is true,
covered but a few square miles of country, for everything that happened
outside Chumley was powerless to stir her to interest. Kingdoms might
rise, kingdoms might fall, science might evolve the most marvellous of
inventions, beneath a cataclysm of nature, whole provinces might be
wrecked--Mrs Mallison listened to the announcement as she sipped her
morning coffee, and murmured an automatic: "Dear! Dear! Tut! Tut!"
the while she continued to ponder why Mrs Gainsby was hurrying to the
early train wearing her best hat! Nothing that affected her neighbours
was too trifling to engage her attention, and her mind, empty of so
much, was a veritable storehouse for inconvenient numbers and dates.
When the doctor's chimney went on fire, she was able to declare that to
her certain knowledge the sweep had not been on duty in that house since
the third of March, the day of the blizzard, when Mrs Jones wanted him
at the same time, because the weight of snow made her soot fall. The
doctor's wife had plainly been guilty of the folly of trying to save
two-and-six. She knew to an hour the age of every one of the younger
generations, and laboriously corrected lapses of memory on the part of
relations or parents. It was impossible for one of her acquaintances to
resurrect so much as a buckle without her instant and cordial
recognition. "And the paste buckle that you had on your purple silk all
those years ago--how well it comes in! `Keep a thing a dozen years, and
it comes into fashion again,' as my old mother used to say."
She remembered the Vicar's sermons when he preached them after a lapse
of years, and the good man chid himself because the fact brought
annoyance, rather than gratification. Not for the world would he have
put it into words, but deep in his heart lay the thought that it was
useless to remember precepts, which were not put into practice.
Within her own home Mrs Mallison's curiosity reached its acutest pitch,
so that it became sheer torture to her to be shut out from even the
smallest happening. To overhear tags of conversation was insufferable,
unless she were instantly supplied with the context. Thus to come into
a room and hear a daughter say, "I always thought so," was to know no
peace until she had been enlightened as to the context of the statement.
"What have you always thought, Teresa? Teresa, _what_ do you always
think?"
"Nothing, mother."
"My dear! Nonsense. I heard you. As I opened the door I distinctly
heard you say so. What were you talking about?"
"Nothing, mother. Nothing worth repeating, at any rate. You wouldn't
be interested."
"My dear, I am always interested. How could I not be interested in my
children's thoughts? Wait till you are a mother yourself... You can't
possibly have forgotten in this short time. What do you always think?"
Then Teresa would set her lips and look obstinate, and Mary would come
to the rescue.
"Teresa said that she always thought silk wore better than satin."
There was a ferocious patience in the tone in which Mary responded to
these calls, it was the patience of a wild beast which must submit or
starve, but behind the submission a discerning observer might have
observed the teeth and the claw. But then no discerning observer
troubled about Mary Mallison. She was one of the women on whom the
world turns its back.
As might naturally be expected, the arrival of the post-bag furnished
Mrs Mallison with some of the most thrilling moments of her day, and
her interest in the correspondence of others was even keener than in her
own. If the recipient was out at the time the letter was delivered, she
examined postmark and writing to discover the writer, and then set to
work to anticipate the contents.
"Mrs Fenton writing to Mary... What can she have to say?... She's at
home, from the postmark... They never correspond. Dear me! ... Most
peculiar! Perhaps it's a subscription... Perhaps it's a bazaar...
Mary did once help her in a sale of work. Baskets, I remember--a stall
of baskets. She wore a brown dress. She must certainly refuse. Too
many calls at home. What does she want gadding over to Mayfield?...
That! Madam Rose's bill again for Teresa. The third time. Papa must
speak to her. Gives the house a bad name. And... er... what's this? I
_know_ the writing--do I know it? Is it a man or a woman? They all
write alike nowadays. No crest. On such a good paper one would expect
a crest. I must explain to Teresa that on no account can I allow her to
correspond with men... Perhaps it is a schoolfellow..."
It was at the breakfast table one morning that the great news came, and
it was imparted in a dull, legal-looking envelope addressed to the
eldest daughter. Mrs Mallison's eye caught the lawyer's name on the
flap of the envelope, and pounced on the significance.
"Ratcliffe and Darsie--Miss Brewster's lawyers. She's left you a
legacy. I expected it, of course. Quite the right thing. Her own
godchild, but I did not think we should hear so soon. Dear me! How
much? She was not rich, so you can't expect a large sum... Twenty
pounds perhaps, to buy a ring. Most kind. Possibly a hundred...
_Mary_! We are all waiting! Why don't you speak? Quite a long letter.
Read it out--read it out! Most inconsiderate to keep us waiting. How
much is the legacy?"
"There is no legacy."
Mrs Mallison's breath forsook her, for it might be the quarter of a
minute, then returned with renewed force and violence.
"_What_? Impossible! None? Then why write? A lawyer's letter costs
six and eightpence. There must be a reason. Mary--I insist!"
Mary lifted her colourless eyes, and looked her mother in the face.
"Miss Brewster left me no legacy. She left me her principal.
Everything she had. I shall have five hundred a year."
"God bless my soul!" cried the Major loudly. Teresa flushed scarlet
over face and neck, and stared with distended eyes.
"Oh, _Mary_! I'm glad! How ripping."
"Ripping, indeed. Is that the best word you can find for your sister's
good fortune?" Mrs Mallison raised her eyes in ecstatic rejoicing to
the electric light ornament which decorated the centre of the ceiling.
"Thank God that I have lived to see this day! I told papa when we chose
her as godmother that it might be for the child's benefit. Not likely
to marry, and a settled income. We thought of your welfare, Mary, in
your long clothes and see the result. And I made a point of inviting
her once a year. She was devoted to you as a child--you remember the
pink corals? but of late with her ill-health we have fallen apart, and
she seemed indifferent. Nothing, even on your birthdays. Well! Well!
what news! What thankfulness. All things work together. Five--
hundred--a--year!" Her large body expanded in beatific realisation.
"Five hundred--pounds. It's marvellous how much a few hundreds mean
after necessities have been provided. As I have said a hundred times--
after a thousand, every hundred does the work of two... What about a
brougham? We have always needed a second carriage. Papa and I are
getting too old to drive in the open in winter, and Teresa goes out so
much at night. It would be only the initial expense, for Johnson could
do the work. He might need a new livery. And the little conservatory
opening out of the drawing-room... That has been a long-felt want. So
cheerful,--and you could look after the plants, dear. Such agreeable
work! ... Five hundred,--about forty pounds a month, ten pounds a week,
nearly thirty shillings a day. My dear, what riches! Quite a little
millionaire... So apropos too, with a wedding in prospect. It would
have been a strain out of a regular income, and one hesitates to break
in on capital. Perhaps your rich sister will give you your trousseau,
Teresa, who knows! Indeed I feel sure she will wish it. It doesn't
seem suitable for one sister to have so much, and the other nothing.
You may not care to halve it, Mary, perhaps halving would be too much,
but a hundred a year for Teresa. Oh, certainly a hundred. It is so
nice for a young wife to have pin-money of her own... What about a
brass tablet in the church? Quite a nice one for forty pounds, and she
worshipped there in her youth... We must wear black, of course.
Handsome black, only suitable. We could run up to town. Ah, Mary!" her
voice grew arch and playful, "if it were not spring, I would remind you
of my ambition for sables! Nothing looks so well as handsome black and
a sable set. Never mind! Never mind. Christmas is coming! Dear me,
quite a Portunatus cap! Only to wish, and the thing appears... Papa,
you must tell Mary what _you_ want next!"
Then Mary spoke, and if a peal of thunder had crashed through the sunlit
room, the shock could not have been half so great.
"I shall not give," said Mary slowly, "one penny to anybody. I shall
keep every farthing for myself."
Major Mallison gaped, Teresa screwed up her face and stared at her
sister with a vivid kindling of interest. At last! At last! the
dormant spirit had roused itself from its lethargy. Teresa felt a
sympathy, an excitement, which had no element of self. She braced her
knees under the table, and sent forth a telegraphic message of support.
"Go it, Mary!"
"_Mary_," gasped Mrs Mallison deeply, "have you gone mad?"
"Oh, no," said Mary calmly. "I may have been mad before. I've
sometimes fancied I was, but I'm sane now, I'm more than sane... I'm
free! I've been only a slave--a white slave."
Mrs Mallison cast an agonised glance at the sideboard and bookcases, as
if terrified of offending their susceptibilities. She held up
protesting hands.
"Silence! _Mary_... Have you no decency?"
"I'm sorry if the word shocks you. Perhaps it would be better to say a
useful maid. I've been a useful maid at thirty pounds a year, and no
holiday nor nights out. I've done what I've been told to do, from
morning till night, and from night till morning when it has been
necessary, but I've had no life of my own. I'm thirty-two, and I've
never even invited a friend to tea without first having to ask
permission. I have no corner of my own to which I can invite a friend--
not a corner in the world--except a tireless bedroom. Every servant in
the house has had more freedom than I have had. I have not been free
even to think. It was useless, for what I thought was never noticed.
Nobody troubled about what I thought. I was just Mary--a useful
machine. Nobody takes any notice of a machine, except to keep it oiled.
Nobody expects it to be sad, or in pain, or lonely, or discouraged, or
tired of turning round and round in the same small space. Nobody
suspects it of having a heart... but it has all the same, and when it
has a chance of breaking free--it does not let it go. This money is my
chance. A woman brought up as I have been is powerless without money,
and I have had none. I've never had a penny piece in my life for which
I've not had to say thank you. The money you have given me has never
been looked upon as my right, as payment for work... yet I have worked
hard. I have given you my whole life."
"You have done your duty in the position in which it has pleased God to
place you," said Mrs Mallison with dignity. As Mary's excitement had
increased, she had grown quieter, and her face showed signs of mental
shock. Not the news of the legacy itself had been so startling as this
sudden outbreak on the part of the silent, patient daughter. Nor was
her distress in any sense affected. According to her lights she had
been a good mother, careful of colds and draughts, of food and raiment.
Five minutes ago she would have declared her conscience to be free of
reproach so far as Mary was concerned; it was paralysing to discover
that she had been looked upon as a heartless task-mistress. Her
exultation of a moment before was replaced by pain and discomfort, and
her voice took the deeper tone of earnestness.
"You have fulfilled your duty in the place in which it has pleased God
to place you... and have done the work He set you to do."
"Are you so sure of that?" Mary asked, and Mrs Mallison had an
agonised conviction that the girl was going to turn atheist into the
bargain!
"Then why did He make me with a woman's heart, with a woman's natural
longing? Why did He give me the instinct to crave for someone of my
own, who would put me first, instead of nowhere at all. Someone who
would _care_. And it isn't only people that a woman wants,--it's
things! What had I of my own? The clothes I wear. Nothing more. No
pauper in the land is poorer than I have been! If this is my appointed
place and I have done my duty in it, why am I so empty and tired? Poor
Mary Mallison! whom everyone pities, and nobody wants. Oh, yes! you may
think I don't know how people talk of me, but I do know! You say it
yourself quite often. `Poor Mary.' _Why_ am I poor Mary... whose fault
is it that I have missed my chance?"
"I think you are forgetting yourself, Mary. You talk very strangely,
very--indelicately, I must say. I suppose you mean that you are not
married. You can hardly call that my fault!"
"I am not so sure. What chance did you give me? If I'd been a boy you
would have sent me to college, and paid money to give me a start, but I
was only a girl, and it was cheaper to have a governess than to send me
to a good school. So I was educated at home, and made no friends. That
meant no visits, no change, but just Chumley always Chumley, and the
five or six young men I'd known all my life. I could count up on two
hands all the marriageable men I have met in the last ten years. It
bored you to entertain, so we had no young people here till Teresa came
home. I was not pretty nor clever, but I should have made a good wife.
Some man might have loved me... If you had given me a chance I might
have been happy now, living in my own home."
There was a dead silence. Mrs Mallison was too shocked to speak. Of
all her emotions this was predominant. She was shocked. Shocked that a
spinster daughter should openly regret marriage and a mate, shocked that
such feelings should find vent in words, shocked that a man--albeit her
own husband--should be present to hear such sentiments emerge from
virgin lips. Shocked for Teresa, the bride, down whose cheeks large
tears were rolling. Mrs Mallison believed them to be tears of shame,
but in reality they betokened the purest sympathy and regret.
Major Mallison stared with glassy eyes. Suddenly he cleared his throat
and spoke, and the sound of his voice caused yet another shock to the
hearers. Another dumb creature had found his voice.
"The girl is right," he said. "She speaks the truth. I wish she had
spoken before." He paused for a moment painfully rumpling the
tablecloth. "It would have been kinder to speak out, Mary. I should
have endeavoured to meet you. But thirty-two is not old. You can still
enjoy your life. As for the money, I wish you all to understand one
thing: I require no help, and I accept no help. What is necessary and
suitable for my household, I can supply. I have done so in the past,
and can do so for the future. Your fortune is your own, Mary. Do with
it as you please. We need no contribution. You hear that, Margaret?
You understand?"
"Yes, Henry, I understand. I am learning to understand a great many
things this morning."
The old man rose feebly, and stood plucking at the edge of the
tablecloth. It was evident that there was something more which he was
trying to say. Mary looked up, and their eyes met.
"All these years," said her father slowly, "while you have been silent,
running after your mother, serving us all, appearing so patient,--has
there been bitterness in your heart, Mary? Bitterness and rebellion?"
The two pairs of eyes held one another in a steady gaze.
"Yes," Mary said.
"Ah!" the Major winced. "That hurts me," he said slowly. "That hurts
me, Mary!"
He turned and left the room. Mrs Mallison stood up in her turn, and
began rolling up her napkin before putting it into its silver ring. She
reserved her parting shot until her husband was out of hearing.
"Well, Mary, I hope you are satisfied. You have turned our rejoicings
into bitterness and revilings, and sorely hurt and distressed your poor
father. I fear your fortune will bring you no blessing."
The door closed loudly, and the sisters were left alone, abashed and
discomfited. When our minds are overflowing with the consciousness of
our own grievances, it is always irritating to be forced to realise that
there are two sides to every question, and that we ourselves are not
altogether without blame. Mary Mallison had so long been in subjection
to her parents, that the consciousness of their serious displeasure
overwhelmed for the moment the smart of her own injuries. She was still
obstinate, still determined, but her conscience was pricked, and she was
unheroically afraid.
"Oh, Trissie... they are cross! Do you think they will ever forgive
me?"
"Don't be a rotter, Mary," the younger sister cried scornfully. "I was
thankful to hear you assert yourself at last. For goodness' sake don't
give one bleat, and then relapse back into the old rut. _Of course_
they are cross! What else did you expect? Did you expect them to be
pleased? If you are going to break loose and lead an independent life
you must be strong enough not to mind crossness."
"Yes, but I can't, and besides--father was sad! That's worse than being
cross. I felt miserable when he said that!"
"Well! he was right!" Teresa pronounced with characteristic certainty.
"It was sneakish to go on pretending.--It wasn't patience at all, it was
sheer funk. It would have been better for you, and everyone concerned,
if you'd spoken out years ago. You would have had more freedom, and
mother would have been less of a bully."
"It would have been better if I'd been born with a different
disposition, a disposition which would have _let_ me speak," Mary said
bitterly. "I am a coward, as you say, and nothing but a shock like this
morning's news could have wound me up to speak. It seems hard that
people should have such different dispositions."
"Humph!" Teresa mumbled vaguely. She was not interested in the
difference of temperament; she was interested in Mary's fortune, and how
she was going to use it. She pushed aside her cup and plate, leant her
arms on the table, and cupped her chin in her hands.
"Look here, Mary--what are you going to do?"
"I'm going away."
"Where?"
"I don't know! Anywhere. London. Paris. It doesn't matter very much.
I want just to be away from Chumley, and to be free. To go where I
like, and do as I like."
"Alone?"
Mary's face twitched.
"I have no friends."
"You have acquaintances. They would be glad... lots of people would be
glad to go with you."
"No! They are part of the old life. They would stare and take notes.
They would write home and gossip. It would be no use going away--I
should not escape. The old atmosphere would be round me all the time.
I shall go alone."
Teresa sat silent, striving to grasp the extraordinary idea of Mary on
her own, Mary going forth into the world, staying in hotels, wandering
about bustling streets, alone, always alone... There was something
pathetic in the prospect which pierced even to the preoccupied, girlish
heart. She frowned, and racked her brains for illuminating suggestions.
Where could Mary go? What could Mary do? To stay alone in an hotel,
with no occupation to help one through the aimless hours, would be
desolation, yet the mental searchings brought no solution. Honestly,
Teresa could not think of one thing outside the Chumley radius, in which
Mary took a flicker of interest. In imagination she entered a great
restaurant, heard the babble of voices, the flare of the band, and
beheld in a corner the dun-coloured figure of Mary, seated in solitary
state at a flower-decked table. She saw the other visitors stream forth
to their various pleasures, and Mary creep silently up the stairs. She
saw Mary's face peering disconsolately through dusty panes.
Breed a bird in a cage, and rear it there, and at the age of maturity
throw open the door. The bird will fly and as it flies it will sing.
It has its moment of joy, but when the moments have passed into days,
its lifeless body falls to the ground. Liberty may come too late.
Teresa looked at her sister with puzzled, unhappy eyes.
"Mary! I don't like it. You ought not to go alone. Those big places
can be so desolate. You see all the other people talking and laughing
together, and feel like a pelican in the wilderness. What would you do
from morning till night? Don't think I'm hinting; I wouldn't come with
you if you asked me, because of Dane, but _do_ take someone! If you go
alone, you'll be bored to death."
Mary rose from the table, the precious envelope in her hand, and turned
towards the door.
"Very well, then," she said quietly, "I will be bored. _But I'll be
bored in my own way_."