“Yes,” Mary said.
“Ah!” the Major winced. “That hurts me,” he said slowly. “That hurts me, Mary!”
He turned and left the room. Mrs Mallison stood up in her turn, and began rolling up her napkin before putting it into its silver ring. She reserved her parting shot until her husband was out of hearing.
“Well, Mary, I hope you are satisfied. You have turned our rejoicings into bitterness and revilings, and sorely hurt and distressed your poor father. I fear your fortune will bring you no blessing.”
The door closed loudly, and the sisters were left alone, abashed and discomfited. When our minds are overflowing with the consciousness of our own grievances, it is always irritating to be forced to realise that there are two sides to every question, and that we ourselves are not altogether without blame. Mary Mallison had so long been in subjection to her parents, that the consciousness of their serious displeasure overwhelmed for the moment the smart of her own injuries. She was still obstinate, still determined, but her conscience was pricked, and she was unheroically afraid.
“Oh, Trissie... they are cross! Do you think they will ever forgive me?”
“Don’t be a rotter, Mary,” the younger sister cried scornfully. “I was thankful to hear you assert yourself at last. For goodness’ sake don’t give one bleat, and then relapse back into the old rut. Of course they are cross! What else did you expect? Did you expect them to be pleased? If you are going to break loose and lead an independent life you must be strong enough not to mind crossness.”
“Yes, but I can’t, and besides—father was sad! That’s worse than being cross. I felt miserable when he said that!”
“Well! he was right!” Teresa pronounced with characteristic certainty. “It was sneakish to go on pretending.—It wasn’t patience at all, it was sheer funk. It would have been better for you, and everyone concerned, if you’d spoken out years ago. You would have had more freedom, and mother would have been less of a bully.”
“It would have been better if I’d been born with a different disposition, a disposition which would have let me speak,” Mary said bitterly. “I am a coward, as you say, and nothing but a shock like this morning’s news could have wound me up to speak. It seems hard that people should have such different dispositions.”