Mary was conscious of confused emotions, but not, so far as she could tell, of minding. She laughed.
"I suppose it was partly just my curiosity," her daughter went on relentlessly, "but mostly it was because I loved you, and because I had a feeling, that day when I told you about Tony, that you were much stronger, much more important—I don't know how to put it—than anybody knew. And I think too that I wanted to prove to myself that marriage isn't a grave—that one can come up out of it." She ended, and sat quietly looking down at the carpet.
Mary did not answer her, no answer seemed necessary. She had been conscious all that morning of some queer disturbance in her mind, a check to her reasoning, a deepening and strengthening of her emotion. Now when the moment came for speaking to Rosemary she felt suddenly detached from herself, lifted above the thoughts that troubled her. Down there James's Mary, Rosemary's Mary, struggled with plans and decisions, with things that were good or bad, and kind or cruel. Here, where she was, these values fell away. She had drawn back into some state of her being too simple, too fundamental, for the labels and measurements of experience. "They are names," she thought, "love and pain, sorrow and happiness—tricks of thinking, empty, arbitrary...."
Presently she noticed Rosemary's voice, a quivering sound that came towards her from a long way off.
"Mother, it's time I told you, Tony thinks that he and I ought to get married—do you mind very much?—will it hurt you?"
Mary felt Rosemary's warm skin now against her hand. A moment later she heard herself speaking. "My dear, why should it hurt me? Be happy. If it will make you happy, why should I mind? After all—" She did not finish her thought, she had not the strength or the will, she felt, to go on speaking.
A moment later she became conscious of a confusion of noises. A bell rang—she was certain of that—then someone was touching her. She roused herself to take in what her maid was saying. "Fetch Dr. Tanner at once, I should say, Miss, and shall I telephone to the master? Her hands are like ice——"
Mary could not quite make out whether she was succeeding in speaking or not. She was perfectly all right, she wanted to tell them, there was no need to worry James. She only felt a little giddy. She must have said something, for she realised later that Rosemary was reassuring her. They would see first what the doctor said—now they were going to carry her on to the sofa. She felt a vague pleasure, after a period of extreme discomfort, at finding herself on the sofa.
By the time the doctor came Mary was feeling better, and the doctor himself did not think there was anything serious the matter. He had always suspected Mrs. Heyham, he told her, of being one of your nervous high-strung people who will not listen to advice. She must go to bed for the rest of the day, and she must be careful. We have all of us to be careful when we aren't as young as we were—she mustn't excite herself, and she must eat more, she was thin; he would tell Mr. Heyham, when he saw him, to keep her quiet.
"Careful—careful—careful"—with a hundred voices whispering the word in her ears, Mary, when she had been put to bed and fed on beef tea and toast, fell asleep.