Mary spent a week in the London hotel, the longest week she had ever
known. She rose late, and went to bed early, nevertheless the days
stretched to an interminable length, and she was driven to extraordinary
devices to get through the hours. One day, attracted by a line of
flaring posters, she spent the morning in a Turkish bath; another
afternoon she drifted into a barber's shop and had her hair waved and
coiffured, a process which so altered her appearance that she hurried to
a similar establishment a few hundred yards away, and underwent a
drastic shampoo. Another day, after lunching in the restaurant of a
great store, she whiled away half an hour by having her nails manicured.
From morning till night no one noticed her, no one spoke to her, she
herself had no need to speak, yet all around was a babel of tongues, an
endless, ever-passing stream of fellow-creatures. If she had felt
herself superfluous in Chumley, the feeling was accentuated a thousand
times in this metropolis of the world, wherein she walked as on a desert
island. And yet, through all the desolation of soul pierced golden
moments, when the sense of freedom filled her with joy. To be able to
rest without comment or questioning; to rise in the morning, and retire
to bed, according to preference, not rule; to choose her own food, to go
out, or stay within, as fancy prompted,--such simple matters as these
came as happy novelties to the woman of thirty-two.
Mary had despatched a post card announcing her arrival, and giving the
address of her hotel but she received no message in reply. Mrs
Mallison was on her dignity, and would wait until she had received an
orthodox letter. The Major never wrote, and Teresa presumably was busy.
For a week or more the silence caused Mary no trouble, but by that time
the continued silence of her life awoke the exile longing for news from
home. She despatched a colourless letter, filling with difficulty three
sides of a sheet, and waited the result. It came, according to her
happiest hopes, in the shape of a missive from Teresa.
"Dear old Mary,
"I hope you are enjoying your liberty as much as you expected, and
having a real good time. It's pretty strenuous here without you. I
am running about all day long, and being instructed meantime to lie
down, and take things easy! I never in my life felt so irritated and
depressed. It's borne in on me, old thing, that you have been a
buffer between me, and--er--shall we say _circumstances_? and that I
never appreciated you properly until you had gone!
"You don't say much about your doings. Do you go to the theatres? I
suppose you can go to matinees, if it isn't proper to go alone at
night. Have you bought any clothes? You might look out for an
evening dress for me--white or pink--not blue this time, and not more
than three or four pounds. The Raynors and Beverleys have taken a
house together at the sea near good links. Dane is to join them for
part of the time, and I am asked for a day or two at the end of his
visit, so I need a new dress. The invitation came from Mrs Beverley.
I haven't once been asked to the Court since you left. Lady
Cassandra is dropping me now that she has her beloved Grizel.
Altogether I think her behaviour is rather _queer_. You would have
thought, after Dane staying there over a week, and getting so
intimate, as they must have done, that he would at least have been
asked to tea since he left, but not once! I asked him straight out,
so I know. He won't acknowledge that he thinks it odd--you know how
close men are.--but I can see he does from his manner. I shall go to
Gled Bay for his sake. He would be so disappointed if I refused. He
has given me a gold bangle, just the sort I like: a plain, flat band.
He looks thin still. Mother thinks he worried a great deal while I
was ill. Of course it was hard for him being tied by the leg
(literally!), and not able to do a thing for me. Dane doesn't say
much, but his feelings are awfully deep.
"I wonder if it isn't a mistake to conceal one's feelings? I'm
beginning to think that it is. We have been brought up to be
undemonstrative, but if I have children, I'll teach them quite
differently. What's the good of thinking nice things in your heart,
if the person you care for doesn't get the benefit? Mary! I'm sorry
I haven't been nicer to you. I'm sorry I was selfish, and let you do
so much. If it's any satisfaction to you to know it, I'm paying up
now! I do hope Dane will want to be married soon. I don't think I
can last out much longer. I have thought so often of what you told me
the night we were engaged, about your own love story, I mean. How
could you bear it, and live quietly on at home? I couldn't. If Dane
treated me like that, I should--marry Mr Hunter! I'd like to see
your face when you read that! But it's true. Much more sensible,
too, than the river, or growing sour at home!
"Good-bye. Write soon.
"Your affectionate sister,
"Teresa."
Mary put the letter back in its envelope, and went out to look for
Teresa's evening dress. She paid for it out of her own money, and
decided to offer it in the shape of an advance birthday present. In any
case she would have to give something in October; it might just as well
be bought now. She experienced a torpid satisfaction in the
transaction, but it soon faded, and left her mind empty as before.
Teresa's appreciation and affection came too late. Five years ago they
might have transformed her life, but they had not been given. Of what
use to offer them now when their lives lay apart? Speculations as to
Lady Cassandra Raynor, even as to Peignton himself, aroused no flicker
of interest. They had been mummers in a play, and she had escaped into
the open air. The only person of whom she had cared to hear was her
father, and concerning him Teresa was mute.
Another week passed, and still another. Mary left the big hotel, and
moved into a smaller one, of the glorified boarding-house type. Here,
if she had chosen, she might have been less lonely, for there were half
a dozen solitary women like herself, who would have been glad to include
her in games of cards, or to exchange confidences over afternoon tea,
but Mary had played a duty game of whist every week night for a dozen
years, and had vowed never to touch another card. Moreover, she shrank
from the furious curiosity of these women, who seemed capable of asking
personal questions for hours at a time. She left the boarding-house and
took furnished apartments, but the hot weather came on with a rush, and
the rooms grew stuffy and breathless, so for the third time she was
faced with the problem, of where to go next.
One afternoon she sat at tea at one of the little tables belonging to
the outdoor restaurant near Victoria Gate, and essayed the difficult
task of making up her own mind. In a limited sense the world was before
her, but the very largeness of the choice made it the more difficult.
If she could but think of something which interested... something for
which she really cared! No answer came to the question, yet of a
certainty she was happier under some conditions than others. Looking
back over the blank stretch of days, there were hours which stood out
from the rest, hours in which she had felt restful,--almost content.
Mary lived those hours, trying to draw from them a conclusion. There
were hours spent in the Park, not in the afternoon, but the morning,
when it was comparatively empty. The rhododendrons were in full bloom
in the beds near Rotten Row; she heard people say that they had never
been finer than this year. There had been other hours in the Abbey,
both during the services and after; there had been an afternoon on an
excursion steamer plying up the river to Oxford; and a drive on the top
of an omnibus on a misty night, when the lights twinkled in softened
radiance, and the great buildings assumed a mysterious splendour. One
by one, Mary recalled the hours, but the conclusion could not be found.
Then suddenly her ears were opened to a woman's voice talking at the
table next to her own.
"Switzerland," she was saying. "Of course! As soon as I can run away.
I am longing for the time to come. I have been there every summer for
the last ten years, and if it rests with me, I shall go every year till
I die. I've tried Norway, I've tried the Tyrol, but I've gone back to
my old love, and I shall never wander again. Switzerland gives me what
I need. I go there and feed upon it. It's the tonic that braces me up
for another year of hard, ugly life."
There was a moment's silence, then another voice asked:
"But what exactly _do_ you feed on? What is the name of the tonic which
helps you so much?"
"Beauty!" said the woman deeply.
The blood rushed to Mary's cheeks. She had found her clue! That word
showed her the secret of her heart. All her life she had fed on prose;
now unconsciously she was craving the tonic of beauty. It had been
beauty in one form or another, which had brought her few hours of
content.
The next morning she packed her box, and took a ticket for Berne.