Mary, Mary

to me when I might be scrubbing out your aunt’s kitchen or her hall door, maybe, and you sitting in the parlour with the company. Sure, I’m only an old charwoman, and what does it matter at all what I’d be thinking, or whether I’d be agreeing or not to anything? Don’t I get my wages for my work, and what more does anybody want in the world? As for me going to live with you when you are married⁠—it was kind of you to ask me that; but it’s not the sort of thing I’m likely to do, for if I didn’t care for you as a stranger I’m not going to like you any better as my daughter’s husband. You’ll excuse me saying one thing, sir, but while we are talking we may as well be talking out, and it’s this⁠—that I never did like you, and I never will like you, and I’d sooner see my daughter married to anyone at all than to yourself. But, sure, I needn’t be talking about it; isn’t it Mary’s business altogether? and she’ll be settling it with you nicely, I don’t doubt. She’s a practised hand now at arranging things, like you are yourself, and it will do me good to be learning something from her.”

Mrs. Makebelieve took a cloth in her hand and walked over to the fireplace, which she commenced to polish.

The big man looked at Mary. It was incumbent on him to say something. Twice he attempted to speak, and each time, on finding himself about to say something regarding the weather, he stopped. Mary did not look at him; her eyes were fixed stubbornly on a part of the wall well away from his neighbourhood, and it seemed to him that she had made a vow to herself never to look at him again. But the utter silence of the room was unbearable. He knew that he ought to get up and go out, but he could not bring himself to do so. His self-love, his very physical strength, rebelled against so tame a surrender. One thought he gathered in from swaying vacuity⁠—that the timid little creature whom he had patronised would not find the harsh courage to refuse him point-blank if he charged her straitly with the question: and so he again assayed speech.

“Your mother is angry with us, Mary,” said he, “and I suppose she has good right to be angry; but the reason I did not speak to her before, as I admit I should have if I’d done the right thing, was that I had very few chances of meeting her, and never did meet her without some other person being there at the same time. I suppose the reason you did not say anything was that you wanted to be quite sure of yourself and of me too before you mentioned it. We have both done the wrong thing in not being open, but maybe your mother will forgive us when she knows we had no intention of hurting her, or of doing anything behind her back. Your mother seems to hate me: I don’t know why, because she hardly knows me at all, and I’ve never done her any harm or said a word against her. Perhaps when she knows me as well as you do she’ll change her mind: but you know I love you better than anyone else, and that I’d do anything I could to please you and be a good husband to you. What I want to ask you before your mother is⁠—will you marry me?”

Mary made no reply. She did not look or give the slightest sign that she had heard. But now it was that she did not dare to look at him. The spectacle of this big man badgered by her and by her mother, pleading to her, and pleading, as he and she well knew, hopelessly, would have broken her heart if she looked at him. She had to admire the good masculine fight he made of it. Even his tricks of word and tactic, which she instantly divined, moved her almost to tears; but she feared terribly that if she met his gaze she might not be able to resist his huge helplessness, and that she might be compelled to do whatever he begged of her even in despite of her own wishes.

The interval which followed his question weighed heavily upon them all. It was only broken by Mrs. Makebelieve, who began to hum a song as she polished the fire-grate. She meant to show her careless detachment from the whole matter, but in the face of Mary’s silence she could not keep it up. After a few moments she moved around and said:

“Why don’t you answer the gentleman, Mary?”

Mary turned and looked at her, and the tears which she had resisted so long swam in her eyes: although she could keep her features composed she had no further command over her tears.

“I’ll answer whatever you ask me, mother,” she whispered.

“Then, tell the gentleman whether you will marry him or not.”

“I don’t want to marry anyone at all,” said Mary.

“You are not asked to marry anyone, darling,” said Mrs. Makebelieve, “but someone⁠—this gentleman here whose name I don’t happen to know. Do you know his name?”

“No,” said Mary.

“My name⁠ ⁠…” began the policeman.

“It doesn’t matter, sir,” said Mrs. Makebelieve. “Do you want to marry this gentleman, Mary?”

“No,” whispered Mary.

“Are you in love with him?”

Mary turned completely away from him. “No,” she whispered again.

“Do you think you ever will be in love with him?”

She felt as a rat might when hunted to a corner. But the end must be very near; this could not last forever, because nothing can. Her lips were parched, her eyes were burning. She wanted to lie down and go asleep, and waken again laughing to say, “It was a dream.”

Her reply was almost inaudible. “No,” she said.

“You are quite sure? It is always better to be quite sure.”

She