“My dear! Nonsense. I heard you. As I opened the door I distinctly heard you say so. What were you talking about?”
“Nothing, mother. Nothing worth repeating, at any rate. You wouldn’t be interested.”
“My dear, I am always interested. How could I not be interested in my children’s thoughts? Wait till you are a mother yourself... You can’t possibly have forgotten in this short time. What do you always think?”
Then Teresa would set her lips and look obstinate, and Mary would come to the rescue.
“Teresa said that she always thought silk wore better than satin.”
There was a ferocious patience in the tone in which Mary responded to these calls, it was the patience of a wild beast which must submit or starve, but behind the submission a discerning observer might have observed the teeth and the claw. But then no discerning observer troubled about Mary Mallison. She was one of the women on whom the world turns its back.
As might naturally be expected, the arrival of the post-bag furnished Mrs Mallison with some of the most thrilling moments of her day, and her interest in the correspondence of others was even keener than in her own. If the recipient was out at the time the letter was delivered, she examined postmark and writing to discover the writer, and then set to work to anticipate the contents.
“Mrs Fenton writing to Mary... What can she have to say?... She’s at home, from the postmark... They never correspond. Dear me! ... Most peculiar! Perhaps it’s a subscription... Perhaps it’s a bazaar... Mary did once help her in a sale of work. Baskets, I remember—a stall of baskets. She wore a brown dress. She must certainly refuse. Too many calls at home. What does she want gadding over to Mayfield?... That! Madam Rose’s bill again for Teresa. The third time. Papa must speak to her. Gives the house a bad name. And... er... what’s this? I know the writing—do I know it? Is it a man or a woman? They all write alike nowadays. No crest. On such a good paper one would expect a crest. I must explain to Teresa that on no account can I allow her to correspond with men... Perhaps it is a schoolfellow...”
It was at the breakfast table one morning that the great news came, and it was imparted in a dull, legal-looking envelope addressed to the eldest daughter. Mrs Mallison’s eye caught the lawyer’s name on the flap of the envelope, and pounced on the significance.
“Ratcliffe and Darsie—Miss Brewster’s lawyers. She’s left you a legacy. I expected it, of course. Quite the right thing. Her own godchild, but I did not think we should hear so soon. Dear me! How much? She was not rich, so you can’t expect a large sum... Twenty pounds perhaps, to buy a ring. Most kind. Possibly a hundred... Mary! We are all waiting! Why don’t you speak? Quite a long letter. Read it out—read it out! Most inconsiderate to keep us waiting. How much is the legacy?”