Behind that locked door of her bedroom the night after his departure, she sat and wrote to him. A short letter it was, free of restraint, as though across some narrow space dividing them, she had just called out of her heart to him and laughed.
"I love you," she wrote. "Don't let it interfere with life. You have given some greater thing than you could ever dream of, and need not think of breaking hearts or things that do not happen in a healthy world. I am not thinking of the future. For just these few moments, the present is wonderful enough. Just because I belong to you, I sign myself--YOUR MARY."
Herself, with jealous hands, that morning she posted it and when she came back to the house a letter from him was awaiting her.
Both Jane and Fanny watched her as, with an amazing calmness, she picked it up and put it in her lap.
Both, knowing what they knew, were swift to ask themselves again, was this their Mary who had grown so confident with love.
A smile of expectation twitched about Jane's lips as Hannah, simple as a child, inquired who it was had written.
This would confuse her, Jane thought, and almost with the eagerness of spite, she waited for the flaming cheeks, for all the discomfort of her lip and eye.
Mary looked up quietly from her plate. Almost she felt sorry for them then that they were ignorant of all she knew. What was there to hide in telling them that? She realized Jane knew. She felt her waiting for those signs of the distressing confusion of a guilty heart. She had no guilt in her heart. She was not ashamed. They had no power to shame her.
"It's from Mr. Liddiard," she replied openly.
"Mr. Liddiard!" repeated Hannah. "What's he writing to you about?"