It was a spring morning, a year from the day when Mary Mallison had left
home, and the remaining three members of the family at the Cottage were
seated round the breakfast table. The passage of a single year leaves
little impression in the appearance of grown men and women, but this
instance was the exception to the rule, for an observant eye would have
noted in each countenance something that had been missing twelve months
before.
The Major had aged, in spirit as well as body. He ate little, but moved
his lips continually in nerve-racked fashion, his faded eyes wandered
here and there with a pitiful unrest. Mrs Mallison had noted the
symptoms and ordered cod-liver oil, and the Major swallowed the doses
with resignation, feeling the cure less obnoxious than continuous
argument. A large bottle of the oil stood in readiness on a table near
the door.
Mrs Mallison was stout and bustling as ever, but had lost her erstwhile
complacency. In truth, though the good lady kept up a valiant presence
in public, she was little pleased with the way things were going with
her two daughters. A year ago both had been on the wave of prosperity,
but the wave had floated them into a backwater, rather than to the haven
where she would have them be. Mary was still wandering about the
Continent, and mentioning no date for her return.
After several months in Switzerland she had crossed the frontier into
Italy, had visited Rome and Florence and Venice, and was now domiciled
in Paris. She wrote regularly once a fortnight, but her letters were
extraordinarily unenlightening. Travellers' letters are as a rule
boring in their minutiae, but Mary never attempted a word of
description. She simply gave a list of the things she had seen, with an
occasional addition of "it was very beautiful," which fact, as Mrs
Mallison tartly remarked, her readers knew without being told. She sent
home no presents as mementoes to the stay-at-homes. As a rich,
independent daughter Mary could not be considered a success.
Teresa's marriage hung fire! Mrs Mallison was a talkative woman, and
it was to her credit that even to her husband she had not allowed her
growing distrust of Dane Peignton to find vent in words. But day after
day she asked herself the same question. Since the man cared enough for
Teresa to ask her to be his wife, why did he not show a natural desire
to be married? It was no question of means, for the new agency was
sufficiently good, and included the use of a delightful house. It could
be no question of health, since he had not been laid up a day the whole
winter, and if, as was represented, his responsibility was such that he
could not spare even a week at Christmas to visit Chumley, all the more
reason that he should have a wife to look after his home! Teresa
herself appeared to accept the delay as a matter of course, but her
mother's eyes were sharp enough to see through the pretence. The girl
was unhappy; the girl was fretting; her persistent cheerfulness was a
cloak to cover a wound; when she thought herself unobserved her face
fell into weary lines. Yes! Teresa was unhappy, but with a mother's
jealous pride in a daughter's attractiveness, Mrs Mallison told herself
that, thank goodness! it hadn't spoiled the girl's good looks. She
looked thinner perhaps; a trifle older, but there was something which
added to her charm. She did not acknowledge in so many words that a
hard face had softened, but told herself reassuringly that Dane would
notice the improvement,--when he returned!
Anxiety about her daughters had made Mrs Mallison more than usually
unobservant of her husband during the last few months. She cherished
one or two axioms concerning him which lived on unchanged from year to
year. One was that "Papa was always ailing," another that "Papa was so
tiresome," a third that in dealing with Papa, it was wisdom to "take no
notice." The cod-liver oil was the only concession she had made to the
increasing weakness which she could not ignore.
Breakfast was finished, and half a dozen letters were distributed round
the table. Teresa turned over her share with an eager hand, and paled
into indifference. It was with an obvious effort that she tore open an
envelope, and made a pretence of reading. This morning at least she had
made sure of a letter from Dane. It was eight days since she had heard
from him last, and up till now he had written regularly once a week.
They were not lover-like letters, those chronicles of daily doings, and
allusions to the leading events of the day, but such as they were, they
made the sum of Teresa's life. She read each letter many times,
yearning to find in it some trace of returning love, and once or twice
of late she had believed the search successful. On one occasion her own
weekly letter had been delayed, and Dane wrote that he had been uneasy
all day fearing that she was ill. Again, writing of the loneliness of a
life among strangers, he had afterwards inserted a closely written
phrase: "_Less lonely after your sweet words_!" Teresa read that
sentence with a thrill of intensest relief. Throughout the months of
separation, she had persistently written to Dane in the same outspoken
loving manner as she had done before the fateful visit to Gled Bay. He
knew that she loved him, she was trusting to that love as the magnet
which should draw him back to her side, and would not allow pride to
stand in its way. Nevertheless, receiving those formally written
answers, it was inevitable that she should experience moments of
smarting doubt. Was she humbling herself to reap only impatience and
contempt? And then, after five long months, had come that blessed
reassurement.
"Less lonely, after your sweet words!"
Teresa had gone proudly after the receipt of that message, but she was
hungry for more. The waiting seemed longer than ever, now that hope
revived.
This morning at breakfast Teresa's thoughts were so busily occupied with
her _fiance_ that she barely realised the meaning of the words on the
sheet before her. She was automatically turning to read them once more
when her attention was attracted by a movement at the end of the table
where her father had his place.
A moment before the Major had opened a long business-like letter which
he still clasped in both hands, but he had fallen back in his chair, and
his face was blanched and terrible to behold. As Teresa stared in amaze
it seemed to her that with every second his body was changing, growing
smaller, and more helpless. "Father!" she cried loudly. "Father!" but
he had no eyes for her, he was staring across the table into his wife's
face.
"Margaret!" he gasped. "Margaret. It is ruin! I am a murderer,
Margaret, a thief--I've played with the money that belonged to you, and
the children, and it's gone. We are ruined, Margaret!--it is all gone.
What have I done! What have I done!"
Mrs Mallison rose from her seat and hurried round the table. She
opened her arms as she went; they were wide open when she reached her
husband's side, and he shrank into them, his head sliding downward on
her shoulder with a strange unnatural looseness. "As if he had no
neck," Teresa thought to herself as she looked on, "as if he had no
neck!"
"There, my dear, there!" cried the wife tenderly, "don't get upset!
Whatever you've done, you meant it for the best. We know you well
enough to be sure of that. There, my dear, there! You've been good to
us for thirty-five years--we're not going to blame you if you've made a
mistake now... Teresa! speak to your father... comfort him... Henry,
look up!... My God... Henry, _speak_!"
Her voice rose to a wail, for even as she spoke, even as she cradled him
in her arms, the bolt fell,--so suddenly, so swiftly, that one second it
was not, and the next it was there. One side of the face crumpled and
fell, the eye closed, the mouth stretched in a ghastly grin. His wife
seized his right arm, and shook it violently, but it fell to his side,
heavy as lead. Within the loose tweed coat the shoulder seemed to
disappear.
"Mother, Mother!" cried Teresa wildly, "you were so kind to him. You
were so kind... You didn't blame him one bit."
They got him to bed and sent for the doctor, but he never regained
consciousness. Before the afternoon was over he had breathed his last.
"And now, I suppose," Mrs Mallison said dully, "Mary will come home."