“I am quite sure it was,” Dane said sincerely. He was trying to banish a picture that rose before him, of the paralysed old woman with the dead body, and the live eyes that watched, hour after hour, the beautiful tragic face of her son’s wife. How much had the old Mater seen? How much had she divined?
The next morning Dane stood by Teresa’s side in the graveyard of the old church, and drove back to the Cottage by her side. In the afternoon he paid a second visit, and found the Vicar and his wife drinking tea with the mourners. The two girls were silent and self-contained, but the emotions of the day had had an exciting effect on Mrs Mallison’s nerves, with the gruesome result that she appeared to be in the highest of spirits. Her voluble tongue discussed times past, present, and to come, and very pointedly she gave her hearers to understand that no condolences were necessary on the score of poverty.
“We shall give up the Cottage—it is unnecessarily large now that Papa’s two rooms will be empty. Is there any chance of Oak Lea falling vacant, Mrs Evans? That’s the kind of house that would suit us, wouldn’t it, Mary? Two nice sitting-rooms, three or four bedrooms, and not too much garden to manage with a man once a week. I should like to keep on the cart. So useful for paying calls at a distance. There is a small stable at Oak Lea, I think? We’ll see! We’ll see! I shall quite enjoy a small, compact house. Mary and I don’t need much space. Teresa says we are not to count on her.”
Everyone looked at Teresa, and Teresa stared fixedly at her cup. Not a tinge of colour stole into her cheek.
When the Vicar rose to leave, his wife slipped her hand through Mary’s arm, and led her across the hall into the dining-room. At such a time it was natural that there should be “private words” and no one exhibited any surprise. Mrs Evans closed the door behind her, and held Mary’s hand in a firm, motherly grasp.
“Mary, dear—I am a very old friend,—may I give you a word of advice? In these days of grief and emotion, don’t be tempted into making plans, which you may regret later on. Wait until you have had time to consider.”
“Thank you, Mrs Evans, but what is there to consider? If Mother has no money, what can I possibly do but give her mine?”
“You must share it with her, of course; no right-minded daughter could do less. But—there are different ways of doing it, Mary, dear! It is your own money. You ought to reserve to yourself the right to decide, and to order your own life.”
But Mary shook her head.
“You don’t know Mother. I do. There would be no peace. I’ll leave it to her to do as she likes. I’ve had my fling, Mrs Evans, a whole year of being alone, and free to do as I liked. I—I was very lonely. I shan’t be altogether sorry...”