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.

n.o.body troubled about what I thought. I was just Mary--a useful machine. n.o.body takes any notice of a machine, except to keep it oiled.

n.o.body expects it to be sad, or in pain, or lonely, or discouraged, or tired of turning round and round in the same small s.p.a.ce. n.o.body 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 n.o.body 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 gla.s.sy 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 p.r.i.c.ked, 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 a.s.sert 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 p.r.o.nounced 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 pa.s.sed 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_."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.