Her mother was sewing in the drawing-room and waiting for her to come to
tea. She looked up and smiled.
"What are you so pleased about?" she said.
"Oh, nothing."
Mamma was adorable, sitting there like a dove on its nest, dressed in a
dove's dress, grey on grey, turning dove's eyes to you in soft, crinkly
lids. She held her head on one side, smiling at some secret that she
kept. Mamma was happy, too.
"What are you looking such an angel for?"
Mamma lifted up her work, showing an envelope that lay on her lap, the
crested flap upwards, a blue gun-carriage on a white ground, and the
motto: "_Ubique_."
Catty had been into Reyburn to shop and had called for the letters. Mark
was coming home in April.
"Oh--Mamma--"
"There's a letter for you, Mary."
(Not from Mark.)
"If he gets that appointment he won't go back." She thought: "She'll
never be unhappy again. She'll never be afraid he'll get cholera."
For a minute their souls met and burned together in the joy they shared.
Then broke apart.
"Aren't you going to show me Mr. Sutcliffe's letter?"
"Why should I?"
"You don't mean to say there's anything in it I can't see?"
"You can see it if you like. There's nothing in it."
That was why she hadn't wanted her to see it. For anything there was in
it you might never have known him. But Mrs. Sutcliffe had sent her love.
Mamma looked up sharply.
"Did you write to him, Mary?"
"Of course I did."
"You'll not write again. He's let you know pretty plainly he isn't going
to be bothered."
(It wasn't that. It couldn't be that.)
"Did they say anything more about your going there?"
"No."
"That ought to show you then.... But as long as you live you'll give
yourself away to people who don't want you."
"I'd rather you didn't talk about them."
"I should like to know what I _can_ talk about," said Mamma.
She folded up her work and laid it in the basket.
Her voice dropped from the sharp note of resentment.
"I wish you'd go and see if those asters have come."