Chapter Nine.
The Gift of Creation.
Teresa entered the quiet house, cast a look at the drawing-room door, and realised with relief that her mother had retired to bed. Probably she would be awake, and would expect the returning daughter to enter her room in passing, and give a history of the evening’s adventures, but Teresa had no intention of doing anything of the sort. Pausing for a moment in the hall, she took off her slippers and crept noiselessly past the dreaded portals up to the third floor. To-morrow morning there would be reprisals, but she had news to tell which would speedily turn the tide. The flood of questions and curiosities which were bound to flow from the maternal lips would be intolerable to-night, nevertheless Teresa felt the need of speech. The relief, the joy, the triumph of the moment seemed more than she could endure alone. She needed someone to listen, not to talk, and Mary had been trained by long years of self-abnegation to fill that post.
Teresa entered her sister’s room and turned on the electric switch. Mary lay asleep, her face showing yellow against the whiteness of the pillow, her hair screwed together in a walnut-like knob at the top of her head. She stirred, opened listless eyes to stare at her sister, and automatically struggled to a sitting position.
“Got back?—Do you—is there anything you want?”
Teresa sat down on the side of the bed and threw back her cloak. In the plainly furnished bedroom her blue dress became at once a rich and gorgeous garment, the trifling ornament on her neck gleamed with a new splendour; to Mary’s dazzled eyes she appeared a vision of beauty and happiness.
“What should I want? Cocoa? Coffee? You funny old Martha! your thoughts never get away from housekeeping. I don’t want anything; not one single thing in the whole wide world. I’ve got so much already that I can hardly bear it... Mary! I’m engaged. He does care. He asked me to-night.”
“Who?” asked Mary blankly, and Teresa, staring at her in indignation, realised that, incredible as it appeared, this ignorance was real, not feigned. A pricking of curiosity made itself felt; since this most obtuse of sisters had noticed nothing between herself and Dane, it would be interesting to see whom she would select as a possible fiancé. She smiled, and said, “Guess!”
“Mr Hunter,” said Mary promptly.
“Gerald Hunter!” Teresa was transfixed with surprise at the unexpectedness of the reply, for Gerald Hunter, the young partner of the local doctor, had come to the neighbourhood some months later than Dane himself, by which time she had no attention to bestow upon another man. Hunter was a member of the tennis club, he made a welcome addition to local dances and bridge teas; occasionally on Sunday afternoons he had called and stayed to tea. Teresa was aware that he had a dark complexion, a strong, overhand serve, and a dancing step which went well with her own, but beyond these preliminaries her mind had not troubled to go.
“What on earth made you think it was Gerald Hunter?”
“He admires you.”
“Oh, well!” Teresa glanced complacently into the tilted mirror which showed a reflection of flaxen hair, pink cheeks, and rounded shoulders, sufficiently attractive to merit any man’s admiration. The same law of contrast which made the dress appear rich and elaborate came into operation as regards its wearer. The mirror reflected the faces of both sisters, and it was not unnatural that Teresa should feel a thrill of pleasure at her own fair looks. “Oh, well! But that’s different. Lots of people may admire. Guess again, Mary! Somebody far, far more exciting than Mr Hunter.”
But Mary shook her head.
“If it’s not Mr Hunter, I don’t know. Tell me yourself.”
“Dane Peignton! Oh, Mary, why didn’t you guess? I’ve cared always—from the very first hour I saw him, and I knew he cared too, I was sure of it—and yet, one can’t be sure! When one cares so much, it seems too good to be true. He is so different from anyone else in this stupid little place. He belongs to the world, and to people like... like the people I met to-night, not to our poor, prosy little set. He was the most popular man there. He talked, and they listened; he made things go. They all liked him, and admired him. He has been here only a few months, and they all treat him as a friend, and oh, Mary! you know what they are like to us? If it hadn’t been for him I should have felt like a fish out of water. They gushed, of course, they always gush, but one felt so apart. Old Sir Henry sat on my other side, and persisted in mistaking me for Miss Pell, and talked of things I knew nothing about. I am sure they were all wondering what on earth I was doing up there. What will they think to-morrow when they hear! I’m going to announce it at once. I want everyone to know. I’d like to shout it from the church tower... Oh, Mary, isn’t it splendid? Don’t you think I am the luckiest girl... Don’t you think it is wonderful that he should care for me?”
“Yes... Does he?”
There was an incredulity in the voice in which the words were put which arrested Teresa in her flow of eloquence. She stared with lips agape, her blue eyes darkening in amaze.
“Does he? Does he care?... You ask me that! What are you dreaming about? If he didn’t care, why in the world should he ask me to be his wife? We are not rich; we are not grand. Ours is not exactly a lively family for a man to marry into. He might have chosen a girl in such a different position. Why should he choose me?”
Mary pulled the blankets over her thin chest, and appeared to consider the matter, her eyes resting on her sister’s face with a coolly critical scrutiny.
“Perhaps because—you wanted him to! You generally do manage to get what you want, don’t you, Teresa?”
Teresa straightened herself with an air of offence.
“There was no management about this, anyhow! Whatever I wanted, I didn’t give myself away. I never ran after him and made myself cheap, as some girls do. It’s horrid of you to suggest such a thing. Did I ever show that I cared for him when he was here? I can’t have done, or you would not have been so surprised when you heard of our engagement.”
“I knew you cared for him. You had a perfectly different face when he was in the room. We all knew. We were sorry for you, because we thought he didn’t return it. Mother was thinking of sending you to Aunt Emma’s.”
“Oh, she was, was she!” Teresa tossed her head once more, but the inner happiness was too great to allow of more than a passing irritation. She stretched out her hand, and gripped her sister by the arm.
“Mary! you are horrid. Not one single nice word yet, not one congratulation, when I came in at once to tell you before anyone in the world! If it had been mother, she’d have been hanging round my neck in hysterics of excitement, but you do nothing but lie there and croak, and throw cold water. I’m your own sister—does it seem so extraordinary that a man should want to marry me? Mary, be nice! Congratulate me! Won’t you be glad to have a married sister, and all the fun and excitement of a wedding in the house?”
“Fun!” echoed Mary, and shuddered eloquently. In imagination she saw her mother collecting store catalogues, comparing prices to the fraction of a penny, and dictating innumerable notes. In imagination she saw herself spending week after week eternally sewing for Teresa, marking for Teresa, running ribbons through Teresa’s lingerie, unpacking Teresa’s presents, packing Teresa’s boxes, tidying, arranging, slaving for Teresa, while Teresa herself paid calls, and sat with her lover in the drawing-room. All these things she would do when the time came, and do them meekly and well, but in the doing there would be no “fun.” There was no lightsomeness of spirit in the Mallison household to ease the strain of small duties, or turn a contretemps into a joke. Mrs Mallison’s heart would swell with pride at the prospect of providing an outfit for the future Mrs Dane Peignton; she would say and believe that the whole responsibility was borne on her shoulders; nevertheless, the preparation of that outfit would add years to the lives of every human creature beneath her roof.
“I can’t say that I look forward to the wedding itself, but I hope you will be happy. It would be nice for one of us to be happy. Captain Peignton is a good man; I hope he will be happy too.” Mary hesitated, and a pathetic curiosity showed itself in her face. “I suppose you couldn’t tell me what he said?”
Teresa shook her head.
“Of course not! ... Very little really. It was in the car. The man ran us into the ditch. I was frightened, and... and then, of course—he comforted me! We got home so quickly that there was not much time.—He is coming to-morrow morning.”
Mary nodded, a light of comprehension brightening her eyes.
“You are quite sure he meant it? You are always so sure that you are right, and that everything ought to go as you wish. Don’t be too sure of him, Teresa! Even if you are properly engaged, don’t be too sure. He has only met you now and again for an hour at a time, and seen that you were young and pretty, and good at games. Now he will see you often. He may be disappointed and change his mind!”
“Am I so much worse than I appear?”
“I didn’t mean worse.”
“Then what did you mean? Not better, evidently. What do you expect him to find out when he knows me better?”
“Nothing. There’s nothing to find.”
Teresa rose with an elaborate flutter of garments, and stood tall and straight by the bedside.
“I’d better go. It is evidently not the slightest use talking to you to-night. I think you have been very unsisterly and disagreeable. I wish I had never come in. I was so happy, and you have done nothing but throw cold water. Are you jealous, Mary, that you are so unkind?”
Mary gave her back look for look. A dull flush showed itself on her cheek-bones.
“Would it be such a wonderful thing if I were? I am jealous; of course I am jealous. I have every reason to be jealous. You get everything, Teresa; and I get nothing. It has always been like that, and it always will be. You are strong, and I am weak; you are pretty, and I am plain; you are popular, and I am dull. You are masterful, and get your own way, and I am cowardly, and am beaten; but because one is dull, and cowardly, and plain, it doesn’t follow that one can’t feel—it doesn’t follow that one can’t ache! I have ached for this all my life, and it has come to you. No one ever cared for me, but I should have made a good wife. I should have loved him more than you will ever love. You have wasted so much love on yourself, but I had it all to give. I loved a man once, as you love Captain Peignton, but he never thought of me. He married a girl with a pretty face, and lived close to us for nearly two years. Mother used to invite them here, and send me with messages to the house. I could not look out of the window without seeing them together, walking down the street, sitting in the garden. My bedroom window overlooked their summer-house. I used to see him come in and kiss her.”
Teresa shuddered.
“I should have gone mad! Poor old Mary! But why did you stand it? I should have gone away, and done something.”
“What?” Mary asked, and Teresa was silent. Mary had a way of asking questions which were impossible to answer. What could Mary do? She was one of the vast army of middle-class daughters brought up to do nothing, and thereby as hopelessly imprisoned as any slave of old. She possessed no natural gifts nor accomplishments, she lacked the training which would have ensured excellence in any one department of domestic work, she was devoid of a personality which would make her mere companionship of marketable value. What could Mary do, and who would care to engage Mary to do it? Teresa was silent, finding no reply. She stood hesitating by the bedside, sympathetic but impatient. She was sorry; of course she was sorry, but to-night she wanted to be glad. It would have been better to have gone straight to her room.
“I couldn’t go away,” Mary continued slowly, “but they went—after two years! I fought so hard to deaden myself that I might not feel, that I seem to have been half dead ever since. It’s eight years since they left. I don’t love him now. I don’t think of him for months at a time; but that was my love affair, Teresa. There was never anyone else. There never will be now, and life goes on just the same year after year. It’s wicked, I suppose, but I wonder sometimes why women like me were ever born.”
“Mary, you are very useful. You work so hard—you are always working.”
“Little things!” said Mary, sighing. “Little things! Things with my hands. But a woman is not all hands.” She hitched the blankets once more, and lay back on the pillow. “You’d better go to bed. It’s getting late.”
“Good night, Mary; good old Mary! You shall come and stay with me in my house, and I’ll give you a real good time.”
Teresa turned away, eager to make her escape. She did not kiss her sister, for kisses were not frequent in the Mallison family, and the sudden unlocking of Mary’s sealed lips left an effect of strangeness, as if some stranger had taken her place. It was disturbing and disagreeable to realise that Mary could feel! She opened the door softly and was stepping over the threshold when Mary’s voice called in an urgent note. “More confidences!” sighed Teresa to herself, and stood still to listen.
“Did you remember to turn out the hall light?” asked Mary.