Part 8 (2/2)

Thirty had been considered enough for _her_!

On the morning after Grizel Beverley's reception the Mallison quartette was a.s.sembled at breakfast in the stiff, sunless morning room. Mrs Mallison poured out coffee; Major Mallison sat facing her before the silver bacon dish, the morning light streaming in on his tired, discouraged face. Mary sat on the right, opposite the toast-rack and the egg-stand. Teresa on the left, by the marmalade and honey jar. The _Morning Post_ lay neatly folded on the sideboard. Mrs Mallison approved of sociability at meals; conversation helped digestion. When the Major declared that he loathed general conversation at breakfast, and would rather be left in peace than listen to the finest conversationalist alive, he was told that he was unamiable and selfish, and a burden of regret prophesied for him also ”when he had _no_ one to talk to!”

Mrs Mallison poured out four cups of coffee, made her usual lament _re_ the price of bacon, and cast a disapproving eye on Teresa's blue _crepe_ blouse.

”I thought, my dear, that you were going to church this morning to decorate the chancel.”

”I am, Mother.”

”In that blouse?”

”Certainly. Why not?”

”Most unsuitable. Too light. A dark flannel is the right thing for the occasion. You will have time to change it before you start. Don't forget!”

Teresa cast down her eyes and applied herself steadily to bacon. She had not the slightest intention of wearing a dark flannel blouse. The blue _crepe_ had been chosen, not for its durability, but that it might look pleasant in the eyes of Dane Peignton. All the mothers in the world could not have made Teresa change it; so what was the use of discussing the point! She gave the conversation an adroit little switch.

”Don't wait lunch for me, Mother. I shall probably go to the Vicarage.

We shall need all our time.”

”We are having fried steak. If you come at all, you must be punctual.

If it's done too long, all the strength has gone. I could give you sandwiches to eat in the vestry. Or it might be stewed. If papa did not object, it could _quite_ well be stewed. He dislikes the onions.

If we had carrots instead, would you object, papa? But, of course, there's the flavour. Carrots are _not_ so seasoning... Perhaps it had better be sandwiches. Mary, is there a gla.s.s of that chicken and ham paste? See if there's a gla.s.s, dear. Cook could make some nice fresh sandwiches.”

Mary moved automatically, but Teresa stopped her with a waving hand.

”I loathe sandwiches. I shall go somewhere and have a proper lunch.

Don't bother, Mother.”

”My dear,” said Mrs Mallison reproachfully, ”I am your mother. When you have a tiring day before you I am naturally anxious that you should be fed. They will be busy at the Vicarage. Cold meat and salad. One could hardly expect more, but you are accustomed to a hot dish. It is the day for steak, but if papa didn't object we might change. I don't care for changes as a rule, it upsets the servants, but just for once.-- A chicken now! You like chicken. Just run to the telephone, dear, and tell Bates to send one up. Good, roasting. Three and six. If papa doesn't mind.”

Not a flicker of expression pa.s.sed over the Major's face. He was the Jorkins of the establishment, and knew well that, useful as he might be for purposes of quotation, he was negligible as a working factor. He continued resignedly to partake of bacon. Teresa vouchsafed an appreciative smile.

”We'll have fowl for dinner. Plenty of time when the boy calls. I'm going out to lunch, Mother. I'd rather. It's part of the fun.”

Mrs Mallison sighed. Here was one of the expected trials. A daughter, unappreciative, preferring to roam abroad, oblivious of the fact that after a morning's church decorating she would be in possession of a harvest of small talk which a mother would naturally desire to hear.

Who decorated the lectern; who the finials; who did the windows this year? The windows were the least coveted post. A mother whose daughter had been honoured with the east end would naturally feel agreeable sympathy for the mother of those who wrestled modestly with window-sills. Then also there were subsidiary interests. Who brought the Squire's flowers? Did Lady Ca.s.sandra drive down? Was the Vicar tiresome about nails? Exactly what did everyone present say about Teresa's scheme of colour? The good lady felt it hard that she should have to wait until evening to satisfy her interest on these thrilling points. She set her lips and said to herself, ”Certainly not! If young people have no consideration for others, they cannot expect to be indulged. _Not_ fowl. Roast end of the neck.”

At the side of the table Mary sighed, and stared dejectedly into s.p.a.ce.

Eight years ago _she_ had been asked to ”do” the east end, and the curate had been by her side all day helping her, reaching to high places, bending down, taking the vases from her hand. After all these years she could still see before her every line of the smooth boyish face. He had never loved her, he had gone away and married another girl, but he had been admiring and attentive; several times in the course of that day he had made her sit down to rest; at tea at the Vicarage he had placed a cus.h.i.+on behind her back. In Mary's starved life such small incidents took the place of romance. She looked across the table at her sister, not so much with envy, as with pity. Poor Trissie! she also was dreaming; she also must awake. And Teresa understood the glance and set her red lips. She had not the least intention in the world of following in Mary's footsteps. Thirty-two should never find _her_ dragging along at home! She thought of Dane Peignton with the warm glow at the heart which always accompanied the thought. If Dane did not ”care,” her dearest hope would be blasted, but it was characteristic of Teresa that she could put aside the possibility, and be a.s.sured that even Dane himself could not spoil her life, or reduce her to Mary's apathy of indifference.

After breakfast came ”Wors.h.i.+p,” when the maids came in and sat on two chairs placed as near as possible to the door, and the mistress of the house read aloud a chapter in the Bible, followed by a long prayer from a book ent.i.tled _Family Devotions_. The chapter this morning was taken from Judges, and had little obvious bearing on the lives of the hearers.

It is doubtful if anyone attended after the first few verses. The cook was listening for the tradesmen's bell. If it rang in the middle of Wors.h.i.+p it was understood that she was to rise softly and creep out.

Under such circ.u.mstances it was, as she expressed it, difficult to ”settle down.” The housemaid was thinking of her young man. Teresa was considering her scheme of decoration. Major Mallison and Mary were resignedly sitting it out. For the prayer everyone rose and knelt down, but the mental att.i.tude remained unchanged. They rose once more with sighs of relief.

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