And yet, to speak correctly, she did know more. She knew that the veiled lady who had intervened at long intervals in her life must have been her mother. But she felt no impulse of affection towards that woman—whom she had not seen. Her heart went out instead to a shadowy mother who walked the silent house at sunset, whose skirts trailed in the lonely passages, of whose career of wild and reckless gaiety she had vague hints here and there. It was to this mother, radiant and young, with the sheen of pearls in her hair, and the haunting smile, that she yearned. She had learned in some subtle way that the vacant place over the mantel in the hall which her own portrait by Maclise was to fill, had been occupied by her mother’s picture. And dreaming of the past, as what young girl alone in that stately house would not, she had seen her come and go in the half lights, a beautiful, spoilt child of fashion. She had traced her up and down the wide polished stairway, heard the tap of her slender sandal on the shining floors, perceived in long-closed chambers the fading odours of her favourite scent. And in a timid, frightened way she had longed to know her and to love her, to feel her touch on her hair and give her pity in return.
It is possible that she might have dwelt more intimately on Lady Sybil’s fate, possible that she might have ventured on some line of her own in regard to her, if her new life had been free from preoccupation; if there had not been with her an abiding regret, which clouded the sunniest prospects. But love, man’s love, woman’s love, is the most cruel of monopolists: it tramples on the claims of the present, much more of the absent. And if the novelty of Mary’s new life, the many marvels to which she must accustom herself, the new pleasures, the new duties, the strange new feeling of wealth—if, in fine, the necessity of orientating herself afresh in relation to every person and everything—was not able to put thoughts of her lover from her mind, the claims of an unknown mother had an infinitely smaller chance of asserting themselves.
But now at that word, twice pronounced by Lady Lansdowne, the girl stood ashamed and conscience-stricken. “You knew my mother?” she faltered.
“Yes, my dear,” the elder woman answered gravely. “I knew her very well.”
The gravity of the speaker’s tone presented a new idea to Mary’s mind. “She is not happy?” she said slowly.
“No.”
With that word Lady Lansdowne looked over her shoulder; conscience makes cowards, and her nervousness communicated itself to Mary. A possibility, at which the girl had never glanced, presented itself, and so abruptly that all the colour left her face. “She is not here?” she said.
“Yes, she is here. And—don’t be frightened, my dear!” Lady Lansdowne continued earnestly. “But listen to me! A moment ago I thought of throwing you in her way without your knowledge. But, since I have seen you, I have your welfare at heart, as well as hers. And I must, I ought to tell you, that I do not think your father would wish you to see her. I think that you should know this; and that you should decide for yourself—whether you will see her. Indeed, you must decide for yourself,” she repeated, her eyes fixed anxiously on the girl’s face. “I cannot take the responsibility.”
“She is unhappy?” Mary asked, looking most unhappy herself.
“She is unhappy, and she is ill.”