forgive me!”
Mary looking after him thought, — “When he says ‘his family,’ he means his
mother
. She must be an odious old lady. I’m beginning to dislike her.”
She drew a deep breath of nervous tension. All the rooms in the house were alive now, conscious of her, antagonistic to her. Shebelonged nowhere, not even in her own bedroom. The children ran past her, as though they did not see her.
“Are you tidy?” she called after them. “Are your hands clean?”
They gave derisive laughs and ran on.
Jake came panting and snuffling along the passage. He ran into the room prepared for the Buckleys and again lifted his leg against the leg of the four-poster. Again no one saw him.
Mary descended the stairs and found Eliza lighting an ornate brass oil lamp in the drawing-room. Eliza was always pleasant when Mrs. Nettleship was not about. Now she remarked:
“It seems early for lighting the lamp but Mrs. Whiteoak does like to see things cheerful-looking when she comes home.”
“No rooms could look brighter or more polished than these,” said Mary. She raised her eyes to the crystal chandelier. “Every prism glitters.”
Eliza was pleased. “I took each one off and cleaned it separately. Mrs. Whiteoak always has a good look at it when she comes home. When she has a party we light all the candles in it. And, of course, on her birthday.”
Jake lollopped down the stairs and looked into the drawing room. He raised himself on his hind legs and stood against Mary. Mrs. Nettleship came from the basement. She gave Mary and Jake looks of equal disapproval.
“I won’t have that dog about my clean rooms,” she declared and clapped her hands vindictively at the spaniel.
He uttered a yelp of horror, flinging himself past Mary and almost knocking her down. He rushed through the open front door, still yelping. Outside he spied his decorous parents and flung himself at them for protection. First he tried to push himself inside his sire’s body, then, failing that, his mother’s. Mrs. Nettleship slammed the door after him.
Nearly an hour dragged itself by. Again and again Mary took her watch from where it was tucked inside her belt and looked at its laggard face. Her own face burned. Now the lamps were needed, for it was almost dark.
Horses’ hoofs clattered on the drive.
Mary fled upstairs to her own room.
There she stood in the open doorway listening. The hall seemed full of people. Surely those few could not make all that noise. Above the talking came every now and again the sound of a laugh, almost masculine in its vitality, yet with a feminine gaiety. Later she heard luggage being carried up the stairs. She heard voices in the bedrooms below. She heard a man’s deep voice call, “Come here for a minute, Ernest.” Then the voice of the Mr. Whiteoak she had met in London replied, “All right, Nicholas. I’ll be there when I’ve put on a fresh collar.”
Mary resolutely closed her own door. She made up her mind to stay where she was till sent for. She would read, and yes — she would smoke a cigarette! Mary’s own father had introduced her to this decadent habit, and it had grown on her to such an extent that, in times of stress, she not infrequently sought its comfort. In ordinary times one a day sufficed her. She had brought several packets with her.
Now she sat down, with both windows open, so there might be a current of air to carry away the smoke. She put a cigarette between her lips and lighted it, taking care to throw the match as far as possible into the shrubbery. She inhaled gently. She took up the copy of
Lady Audley’s Secret
which had kept her awake for hours the night before and began to read. Either the house was quieter now or she had succeeded in isolating herself. She started when a peremptory rap came on the door. The cigarette had been finished long ago but she dashed a little good scent on her hair and collar to allay any lingering odour of tobacco.
“Miss Wakefield!”
Mary looking after him thought, — “When he says ‘his family,’ he means his
mother
. She must be an odious old lady. I’m beginning to dislike her.”
She drew a deep breath of nervous tension. All the rooms in the house were alive now, conscious of her, antagonistic to her. Shebelonged nowhere, not even in her own bedroom. The children ran past her, as though they did not see her.
“Are you tidy?” she called after them. “Are your hands clean?”
They gave derisive laughs and ran on.
Jake came panting and snuffling along the passage. He ran into the room prepared for the Buckleys and again lifted his leg against the leg of the four-poster. Again no one saw him.
Mary descended the stairs and found Eliza lighting an ornate brass oil lamp in the drawing-room. Eliza was always pleasant when Mrs. Nettleship was not about. Now she remarked:
“It seems early for lighting the lamp but Mrs. Whiteoak does like to see things cheerful-looking when she comes home.”
“No rooms could look brighter or more polished than these,” said Mary. She raised her eyes to the crystal chandelier. “Every prism glitters.”
Eliza was pleased. “I took each one off and cleaned it separately. Mrs. Whiteoak always has a good look at it when she comes home. When she has a party we light all the candles in it. And, of course, on her birthday.”
Jake lollopped down the stairs and looked into the drawing room. He raised himself on his hind legs and stood against Mary. Mrs. Nettleship came from the basement. She gave Mary and Jake looks of equal disapproval.
“I won’t have that dog about my clean rooms,” she declared and clapped her hands vindictively at the spaniel.
He uttered a yelp of horror, flinging himself past Mary and almost knocking her down. He rushed through the open front door, still yelping. Outside he spied his decorous parents and flung himself at them for protection. First he tried to push himself inside his sire’s body, then, failing that, his mother’s. Mrs. Nettleship slammed the door after him.
Nearly an hour dragged itself by. Again and again Mary took her watch from where it was tucked inside her belt and looked at its laggard face. Her own face burned. Now the lamps were needed, for it was almost dark.
Horses’ hoofs clattered on the drive.
Mary fled upstairs to her own room.
There she stood in the open doorway listening. The hall seemed full of people. Surely those few could not make all that noise. Above the talking came every now and again the sound of a laugh, almost masculine in its vitality, yet with a feminine gaiety. Later she heard luggage being carried up the stairs. She heard voices in the bedrooms below. She heard a man’s deep voice call, “Come here for a minute, Ernest.” Then the voice of the Mr. Whiteoak she had met in London replied, “All right, Nicholas. I’ll be there when I’ve put on a fresh collar.”
Mary resolutely closed her own door. She made up her mind to stay where she was till sent for. She would read, and yes — she would smoke a cigarette! Mary’s own father had introduced her to this decadent habit, and it had grown on her to such an extent that, in times of stress, she not infrequently sought its comfort. In ordinary times one a day sufficed her. She had brought several packets with her.
Now she sat down, with both windows open, so there might be a current of air to carry away the smoke. She put a cigarette between her lips and lighted it, taking care to throw the match as far as possible into the shrubbery. She inhaled gently. She took up the copy of
Lady Audley’s Secret
which had kept her awake for hours the night before and began to read. Either the house was quieter now or she had succeeded in isolating herself. She started when a peremptory rap came on the door. The cigarette had been finished long ago but she dashed a little good scent on her hair and collar to allay any lingering odour of tobacco.
“Miss Wakefield!”
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