The House of Discontent (20 page)

He looked doubtful.

“I’ve left my things in the hotel in the town,” he said. He looked towards Camilla.

“Why don’t you go and fetch them?” Camilla asked.

“May I really? Do you think I could get a taxi at this time of night?”

“I’ve got a car coming to fetch me,” Patricia said. “I could drop you, and you can take a taxi back from the square.”

“That will be grand.”

In the car, during the drive to the town, Patricia had to listen to an uninterrupted flow of Camilla’s praises. More than once she thought to herself. “Thank goodness Mary doesn’t still care for him,” but she was a little hurt all the same that he made no mention of Mary whatsoever. In the excitement of discovering Camilla he seemed to have forgotten the other girl’s very existence.

It was perhaps not surprising that Patricia went to bed very depressed that night. Anthony seemed farther away than ever, and her own feeling for him more futile and hopeless, and yet more painful than it had ever been before.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE storm duly broke over Mary’s head. The clouds began to gather when Lady Brierleigh’s invitation arrived.

It was addressed to Mrs. Leslie and was couched in the usual formal terms. Lady Brierleigh was At Home on the 24th May at Brierleigh Cottage and requested the pleasure of Mr. and Mrs. Peter Leslie’s and Miss Mary Leslie's company. At the bottom of the card it was announced briefly: “Dancing—10 p.m.” There was a separate invitation for Edward, with “Please forward” written on the envelope.

Dorothy’s comment at the breakfast-table when she opened the invitation was characteristic. “I’ve never heard' of such a thing,” she said. “Giving a dance in that tiny house. It isn’t any bigger than The Knowle.”

“What dance?” Peter asked.

“Lady Brierleigh. And an engraved invitation, too!” Dorothy was bitterly jealous of Lady Brierleigh and of her position in the neighbourhood.

Mary was listening with all her ears, and watching her mother’s reactions as if her life depended upon them. Peter read the invitation which his wife handed over to him.

“It will be nice for Mary,” was his only comment.

“I shall refuse it by return,” Dorothy retorted.

“Why, mother?” Mary asked with a beating heart. “I should so like to go.”

“It will put Lady Brierleigh in her place. Do you think that just because we have come down in the world, I haven’t any pride left? That woman hasn’t once been to call here. It will give me great pleasure to refuse.”

“Oh no, mother, please let me go,” Mary pleaded. “I missed the Grey’s dance. Oh, please, you must let me go to this one.”

“She will have much more respect for us if we refuse.”

“I don’t care what respect she has for us. I want to go.”

“Your mother has a perfect genius for cutting off her nose to spite her face,” Peter Leslie said, and as he spoke he folded up the newspaper he had been reading and pushed back his chair.

“That’s right,” Dorothy said. “Don’t hesitate to do all you can to put my own child against me.”

“You don’t need any help from me, my dear,” Peter said quietly.

“Oh, daddy, do make mummy let me go. Oh, daddy, don’t leave till this has been settled,” Mary wailed.

‘You have my permission to go to this dance, Mary,” Peter said firmly. “If your mother does not choose to go I will take you myself.”

And with these words he strode to the door, opened it and went out, shutting it none too gently behind him.

“If you don’t obey me, and if you go with your father, I will never forgive you as long as I live,” Dorothy said, as soon as the door shut behind him. “You can choose. If you have no love or respect or obedience left for me you can go with your father, but don’t ever expect anything from me again.”

Mary answered this by bursting into tears, upon which Dorothy hoping for moral victory, immediately changed her tone. “There, there,” she said soothingly, “you mustn’t cry. It’s such a little thing to get upset about.”

Mary, warmed by the unusual and unexpected gentleness of her voice, got up and ran to her and knelt impulsively at her feet.

“Oh, mummy, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I don’t want to seem unkind to you. Don’t make me choose between you and daddy. I can’t bear it”

“You won’t have to. Your father won’t mind a bit if you tell him that you don’t want to go.”

“Oh, but I do want to go—I do.”

“Then it’s your own fault if you have to choose between us,” and she got up roughly, nearly knocking Mary over.

“But I’ve
got
to go,” Mary said, getting to her feet “I’ve got to go. The party is really being given for
me
.”

“What do you mean, being given for you?”

Mary told her. She could not have done anything more foolish. Dorothy was furiously indignant but as her rage increased Mary grew proportionately calm. Without answering back, she turned and walked with dignity from the room and upstairs to her own bedroom—but once she was safely there with the door locked she found that she was trembling from head to foot. But it was only her body which was trembling. In her mind she felt calm and resolved. She wasn’t going to stand any more. She wasn’t going to stay a moment longer under her mother’s roof.

She pulled her small suitcase out from under the bed and began to pack with almost feverish haste. Perhaps she was afraid that the strength of her resolve would leave her if she did not hurry.

When she had finished packing she took paper and pencil and sat down on the bed to write to her father. She could never remember afterwards what exactly she said to him, but it was certainly rather a hysterical letter. She was just putting it in an envelope when someone tried the door. She held her breath and listened. It was probably only Margaret, for it was not tried again, and she heard footsteps going away along the passage.

A few minutes later Mary opened her door and peeped out cautiously. If her mother were following her usual morning routine she would be in, the kitchen now. All was quiet. Picking up her suitcase, she crept downstairs and let herself as silently as she could out of the front door.

She went down the garden path and reached the road without being seen. Her suitcase was heavy, but not too heavy for her to carry, though on account of it she was not able to go as fast as she would have liked. She had expected to have to walk all the way to Church Carding, but as luck would have it she found a taxi returning empty to the station. She hailed the driver, whom she knew.

“Will you take me to the White House, please?” she said as she got in, “but stop for a moment on the way at my father’s office?”

“Right you are, miss.”

When they reached Peter’s office she gave the taxi-driver her letter to her father and asked him to take it in and give it to a clerk. She did not want to wait for an answer. The driver jumped out. He was only gone for a moment or so, and then they continued on their way to the White House.

It never occurred to Mary that Mrs. Grey would not welcome her or would fail to be sympathetic, and her faith in Johnny’s mother was justified. Mrs. Grey was surprised, but she immediately ordered a spare room to be got ready—the room which Jim had occupied a few nights before.

Mary told her all that had happened and everything that her mother had said. “I can’t stay there,” she ended up by saying. “I can’t—I can’t.” And because she was very overwrought she burst into tears again. “Let me stay with you,” she sobbed. “Please let me stay with you. Don’t make me go home.”

“Of course you shall stay with me, darling, as long as you like. I shall simply love having you. It will be a joy to me, for I hate being here all alone, but we must let them know where you are or they will be worried to death.”

“Daddy knows,” Mary said. “I wrote to him and dropped the letter at his office on my way here. I told him I was never coming home again. When you are tired of me I’ll get a job and become independent. I can’t live with mother any more.”

“I’ll ring up your father,” Mrs. Grey said. “I’ll ring him up straight away. That will be the best thing. You go up to your room now and unpack while I telephone to him.” Mary went upstairs. When she came down again Mrs. Grey said to her: “I have been speaking to your father. He told me to tell you that he has your letter and that he quite understands. He is coming round here this evening on his way back from the office to see you. He is going to let me keep you—anyway for a little while.”

Mary’s eyes shone. “Oh, I am so glad,” she said. “He’s not going to try to make me go home?”

“No. I’m sure your father would never force you to do anything against your will. He seems to have a very great power of understanding.”

“Oh, he has. He is an angel. But he will have such an awful time tonight, I am afraid. I don’t know what mother will say and do.”

“It may be easier for him to talk to her if you are not there. It is very difficult for parents to quarrel in front of their children.”

“It isn’t difficult for mother!” Mary said ruefully.

“But it would be for your father. He is a man of peace.”

Mary spent the rest of the day quite happily, but as the acuteness of her emotion wore off she began to be not a little scared at the thought of her own daring. It needed a courage to run away from home which she had never thought she possessed.

She was longing to tell Patricia about it, but she knew that Patricia did not like being rung up at the Hospital, so she wrote her a long letter in the course of the afternoon telling her everything that had happened. As a postscript she added:

Don’t tell Lady Brierleigh that there has been such a fuss as it might upset her after all her kindness. Daddy has promised to take me to the dance himself, but if I am still here I shall be able to go with Johnny and Camilla. I simply don’t know what mother will do.

Peter Leslie arrived at the White House at half-past six, and Mrs. Grey, after greeting him, tactfully left him and Mary alone together.

Peter sat and held her hand, and they had a long talk. Mary had never felt so close to him as she did during that conversation, nor had she ever loved him so much, and she had an inkling for the first time of all that he himself had suffered from Dorothy in the last few years.

“I have felt for a long time,” he said, “that it would be better for you to get away from home. I am very sorry, naturally that it should have happened in this way, but it was bound to happen sooner or later, and whenever it happened it was bound to be a hard break—for me at least.”

Mary squeezed his hand. “If it makes things easier for you I will come back,” she said.

“No,” he replied. “I shall miss you terribly, of course, and I shall be very lonely without you but it will really make me happier to know that you are away from that dreadful, strained atmosphere at The Knowle. It is awful to think that that is all the home I have been able to give you—and that you will be better off away from it—but there it is, and it’s no good looking back or having vain regrets. I had hoped that when Patricia came to stay with us, things would be better for you ...”

“Oh, but they were!” Mary exclaimed.

“Yes, but she couldn’t stand it either—and quite rightly. It hurts me more than I can say to think that I have not been able to give a home to either of you.”

“Oh, darling daddy,” Mary said. “I can’t bear to leave you alone there.”

“Don’t worry about me. It is my responsibility. I’m going to arrange with Mrs. Grey now that you should stay here as a paying guest. I’ll also arrange for your allowance to be paid straight from the office every month.”

“I want to get a job,” Mary said.

“Yes, you will eventually, but it will be splendid for you to stay here in the meantime. I’ll get all your things packed up and sent over to you.”

“You are an angel,” Mary said.

Mrs. Grey did not want to have Mary as a paying guest. She said that it was
she
who ought to pay for the joy of having her, but Peter insisted that he would only let her stay on the condition that he was allowed to pay for her keep. They wrangled about it for quite a long time, but in the end Mrs. Grey gave in. There was no gainsaying Peter when his mind was really set on a thing.

He took his leave soon after this, promising, at Mrs. Grey’s invitation, to look in again the following evening, and leaving Mary in a seventh heaven.

“How sweet your father is,” Mrs. Grey said. “I have, never had much opportunity of getting to know him, but I do hope he will come here quite often to see you.”

“I hope so, too,” Mary said. “It is wonderful of you to have me, but don’t be frightened that you will be burdened with me for ever. I’m going to look for a job at once.”

“I sincerely trust that I
shall
be burdened with you for ever,” Mrs. Grey said with deep meaning.

Mary could not help but understand her, and she blushed furiously, and then went and threw her arms impulsively round her neck. “I wondered whether he had said something the other evening,” Mrs. Grey went on. “That evening Camilla brought Jim Ossory here. You both looked so happy. But he didn’t actually say anything?”

Mary shook her head, her face glowing. “He told me that he would have something to ask me on the night of the dance,” she said in a low voice. “So you can imagine how much I want to go to that dance.”

“And your mother would prevent you from going, if she could, just out of false pride. Be proud, Mary; pride is a great thing to have, but learn to distinguish between real pride and false pride.”

“You will have to teach me,” Mary said. “I wish you were my mother.”

“You will be my daughter one day—and I hope it will be soon.”

Mary wondered whether it was possible to be happier than she was at the moment

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

MARY was never to know what took place between her father and mother that evening when she failed to return home. It must have been a stormy scene, however, and she was glad that she was not present at it.