III.
"Mamma, if you don't tell me I shall write and ask him." Her mother looked up, frightened.
"You wouldn't do that, Mary?"
"Oh, wouldn't I though! I'd do it like a shot."
She wondered why she hadn't thought of it an hour ago.
"Well—If there's no other way to stop you—"
Her mother gave her the letter, picking it up by one corner, as though it had been a dirty pocket-handkerchief.
"It'll show you," she said, "the sort of man he is."
Mary held the letter in both her hands, gently. Her heart beat gently now with a quiet feeling of happiness and satisfaction. She looked a long time at the characters, the long-tailed M's, the close, sharp v's, the t's crossed with a savage, downward stab. She was quiet as long as she only looked. When she read the blood in her brain raced faster and confused her. She stopped at the bottom of the first page.
"I can't think what he means."
"It's pretty plain what he means," her mother said.
"About all those letters. What letters?"
"Letters he's been writing to your father and me and your Uncle Victor."
"When?"
"Ever since you left school. You were sent to school to keep you out of his way; and you weren't back before he began his persecuting. If you want to know why we left Ilford, that's why. He persecuted your poor father. He persecuted your Uncle Victor. And now he's persecuting me."
"Persecuting?"
"What is it but persecuting? Threatening that he won't answer for the consequences if he doesn't get what he wants. He's mistaken if he thinks that's the way to get it."
"What—does he want?"
"I suppose," her mother said, "he thinks he wants to marry you."
"Me? He doesn't say that. He only says he wants to come and see me. Why shouldn't he?"
"Because your father didn't wish it, and your uncle and I don't wish it."
"You don't like him."
"Do you?"
"I—love him."
"Nonsense. You don't know what you're talking about. You'd have forgotten all about him if you hadn't seen that letter."
"I thought he'd forgotten me. You ought to have told me. It was cruel not to tell me. He must have loved me all the time. He said I was to wait three years and I didn't know what he meant. He must have loved me then and I didn't know it."
The sound of her voice surprised her. It came from her whole body; it vibrated like a violin.
"How could he love you? You were a child then."
"I'm not a child now. You'll have to let him marry me."
"I'd rather see you in your coffin. I'd rather see you married to poor
Norman Waugh. And goodness knows I wouldn't like that."
"Your mother didn't like your marrying Papa."
"You surely don't compare Maurice Jourdain with your father?"
"He's faithful. Papa was faithful. I'm faithful too."
"Faithful! To a horrid man like that!"
"He isn't horrid. He's kind and clever and good. He's brave, like Mark. He'd have been a soldier if he hadn't had to help his mother. And he's honourable. He said he wouldn't see me or write to me unless you let him. And he hasn't seen me and he hasn't written. You can't say he isn't honourable."
"I suppose," her mother said, "he's honourable enough."
"You'll have to let him come. If you don't, I shall go to him."
"I declare if you're not as bad as your Aunt Charlotte."