“Why not?”
“You couldn’t live with her.”
“I could, Mary.”
“Not you. You said you couldn’t stand another evening like yesterday. … All the evenings would be like yesterday. … Please. … Even if there wasn’t Mamma, you don’t want to marry. If you’d wanted to you’d have done it long ago, instead of waiting till you’re forty-five. Think of two people tied up together for life whether they both like it or not. It isn’t even as if one of them could be happy. How could you if the other wasn’t? Look at the Sutcliffes. Think how he hated it. … And he was a kind, patient man. You know you wouldn’t dream of marrying me if you didn’t think it was the only possible way.”
“Well—isn’t it?”
“No. The one impossible way. I’d do anything for you but that. … Anything.”
“Would you, Mary? Would you have the courage?”
“It would take infinitely more courage to marry you. We should be risking more. All the beautiful things. If it wasn’t for Mamma. … But there is Mamma. So—you see.”
She thought: “He hasn’t kissed me. He hasn’t held me in his arms. He’ll be all right. It won’t hurt him.”
V
That was Catty’s white apron.
Catty stood on the cobbled square by the front door, looking for her. When she saw them coming she ran back into the house.
She was waiting in the passage as Mary came in.
“The mistress is upset about something,” she said. “After she got Mr. Nicholson’s letter.”
“There wasn’t anything to upset her in that, Catty.”
“P’raps not, Miss Mary; but I thought I’d tell you.”
Mamma had been crying all evening. Her pocket-handkerchief lay in her lap, a wet rag.
“I thought you were never coming back again,” she said.
“Why, where did you think I’d gone?”
“Goodness knows where. I believe there’s nothing you wouldn’t do. I’ve no security with you, Mary. … Staying out till all hours of the night. … Sitting up with that man. … You’ll be the talk of the place if you don’t take care.”
(She thought: “I must let her go on. I won’t say anything. If I do it’ll be terrible.”)
“I can’t think what possessed you. …”
(“Why did I do it? Why did I smash it all up? Uncle Victor suicided. That’s what I’ve done. … I’ve killed myself. … This isn’t me.”)
“If that’s what comes of your publishing I’d rather your books were sunk to the bottom of the sea. I’d rather see you in your coffin.”
“I am in my coffin.”
“I wish I were in mine,” her mother said.
Mamma was getting up from her chair, raising herself slowly by her arms.
Mary stooped to pick up the pocket-handkerchief. “Don’t, Mamma; I’ve got it.”
Mamma went on stooping. Sinking, sliding down sideways, clutching at the edge of the table.
Mary saw terror, bright, animal terror, darting up to her out of Mamma’s eyes, and in a place by themselves the cloth sliding, the lamp rocking and righting itself.
She was dragging her up by her armpits, holding her up. Mamma’s arms were dangling like dolls’ arms.
And like a machine wound up, like a child in a passion, she still struggled to walk, her knees thrust out, doubled up, giving way, her feet trailing.
VI
Not a stroke. Well, only a slight stroke, a threatening, a warning. “Remember she’s getting old, Mary.”
Any little worry or excitement would do it.
She was worried and excited about me. Richard worried and excited her.
If I could only stay awake till she sleeps. She’s lying there like a lamb, calling me “dear” and afraid of giving me trouble. … Her little hands dragged the bedclothes up to her chin when Dr. Charles came. She looked at him with her bright, terrified eyes.
She isn’t old. She can’t be when her eyes are so bright.
She thinks it’s a stroke. She won’t believe him. She thinks she’ll die like Mrs. Heron.
Perhaps she knows.
Perhaps Dr. Charles really thinks she’ll die and won’t tell me. Richard thought it. He was sorry and gentle, because he knew. You could see by his cleared, smoothed face and that dreadfully kind, dreadfully wise look. He gave into everything—with an air of insincere, provisional acquiescence, as if he knew it couldn’t be for very long. Dr. Charles must have told him.
Richard wants it to happen. … Richard’s wanting it can’t make it happen.
It might, though. Richard might get at her. His mind and will might be getting at her all the time, making her die. He might do it without knowing he was doing it, because he couldn’t help it. He might do it in his sleep.
But I can stop that. … If Richard’s mind and will can make her die, my mind and will can keep her from dying. … There was something I did before.
That time I wanted to go away with the Sutcliffes. When Roddy was coming home. Something happened then. … If it happened then it can happen now.
If I could remember how you do it. Flat on your back with your eyes shut; not tight shut. You mustn’t feel your eyelids. You mustn’t feel any part of you at all. You think of nothing, absolutely nothing; not even think. You keep on not feeling, not thinking, not seeing things till the blackness comes in waves, blacker and blacker. That’s how it was before. Then the blackness was perfectly still. You couldn’t feel your breathing or your heart beating. … It’s coming all right. … Blacker and blacker.
It wasn’t like this before.
This is an awful feeling. Dying must be like this. One thing going after another. Something holding down your heart, stopping its beat; something holding down your chest, crushing the breath out of it. … Don’t think about the feeling. Don’t feel. Think of the blackness. …
It isn’t the same blackness. There are
