“You must come in and lunch with us, to save me from facing Aunt Jane after my revenge upon her this morning.”
Then they went in together, and found that Mrs Herbert had called and was at table with the Colonel and Mrs Beatty.
“Are we late?” said Mary.
Mrs. Beatty closed her lips and did not reply. The Colonel hastened to say that they had only just sat down. Mrs. Herbert promptly joined in the conversation; and the meal proceeded without Mrs Beatty’s determination not to speak to her niece becoming unpleasantly obvious, until Mary put on her eyeglasses and said, looking at her aunt in her searching myopic way:
“Aunt Jane: will you come with me to the two-forty train to meet papa?”
Mrs Beatty maintained her silence for a few seconds. Then she reddened, and said sulkily, “No, Mary, I will not. You can do without me very well.”
“Adrian: will you come?”
“Unfortunately,” said Mrs Herbert, “Adrian is bound to me for the afternoon. We are going to Portsmouth to pay a visit. It is time for us to go now,” she added, looking at her watch and rising.
During the leave taking which followed, Colonel Beatty got his hat, judging that he had better go out with the Herberts than stay between his wife and Mary in their present tempers. But Mrs Beatty did not care to face her niece alone. When the guests were gone, she moved towards the door.
“Aunt,” said Mary, “don’t go yet. I want to speak to you.”
Mrs. Beatty did not turn.
“Very well,” said Mary. “But remember, aunt, if there is to be a quarrel, it will not be of my making.”
Mrs. Beatty hesitated, and said, “As soon as you express your sorrow for your conduct this morning, I will speak to you.”
“I am very sorry for what passed.” Mary looked at her aunt as she spoke, not contritely. Mrs Beatty, dissatisfied, held the door handle for a moment longer, then slowly came back and sat down. “I am sure you ought to be.” she said.
I am sure you ought to be,” said Mary.
What!” cried Mrs. Beatty, about to rise again.
‘You should have taken what I said as an apology, and let well alone,” said Mary. “I am sorry that I resented your accusation this morning in a way that might have made mischief between me and Adrian. But you had no right to say what you did; and I had every right to be angry with you.”
“You have a right to be angry with me! Do you know who I am, Miss?”
“Aunt, if you are going to call me ‘Miss,’ we had better stop talking altogether.”
Mrs Beatty saw extreme vexation in her niece’s expression, and even a tear in her eye. She resolved to assert her authority. “Mary,” she said: “do you wish to provoke me into sending you to your room?”
Mary rose. “Aunt Jane,” she said, “if you don’t choose to treat me with due respect, as you have to treat other women, we must live apart. If you cannot understand my feelings, at least you know my age and position. This is the second time you have insulted me today.” She went to the door, looking indignantly at her aunt as she passed. The look was returned by one of alarm, as though Mrs Beatty were going to cry again. Mary, seeing this, restrained her anger with an effort as she reached the threshold, stood still for a moment, and then came back to the table.
“I am a fool to lose my temper with you, aunt,” she said, dropping into the rocking chair with an air of resolute good humor, which became her less than her anger; “but really you are very aggravating. Now, don’t make dignified speeches to me: it makes me feel like a housemaid and I’m sure it makes you feel 1 like a cook.” Mrs Beatty colored. In temper and figure she was sufficiently like the cook of caricature to make the allusion disagreeable to her. “I always feel ridiculous and remorseful after a quarrel,” continued Mary, “whether I am in the right or not — if there be any right in a quarrel.”
“You are a very strange girl,” said Mrs Beatty, ruefully. “When I was your age, I would not have dared to speak to my elders as you speak to me.”
“When you were young,” responded Mary, “the world was in a state of barbarism and young people used to spoil the old people, just as you fancy the old spoil the young nowadays. Besides, you are not so very much my elder, after all. I can remember quite well when you were married.”
“That may be,” said Mrs. Beatty, gravely. “It is not so much my age, perhaps; but you should remember, Mary, that I am related to your father.”
“So am I.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, child. Ah, what a pity it is that you have no mother, Mary! It is a greater loss to you than you think.”
“It is time to go to meet papa,” said Mary, rising. “I hope Uncle Richard will be at the station.”
“Why? What do you want with your Uncle Richard?”
“Only to tell him that we are on good terms again, and that he may regard Mr Jack as his future bandmaster.” She hurried away as she spoke; and Mrs Beatty’ s protest was wasted on the oldfashioned sideboard.
CHAPTER VII
Miss Cairns, of whom Mary Sutherland had spoken to her aunt, was an unmarried lady of thirty-four. She had read much for the purpose of remembering it at examinations ; had taken the of Bachelor of Science; had written two articles on Woman Suffrage, and one on the Higher Education of Women, for a Radical review; and was an earnest contender for the right of her sex to share in all public functions. Having in her student days resolved not to marry, she had kept her resolution, and endeavored to persuade other girls to follow her example, which a few, who could not help themselves, did. But, as she approached her fortieth year, and found herself tiring of books, lectures, university examinations of women, and secondhand ideas in general, she ceased to dissuade her friends from marrying, and even addicted herself with some zest to advising and gossiping on the subject of their love affairs. With Mary Sutherland, who had been her pupil, and was one of her most intimate friends, she frequently corresponded on the subject of Art, for which she had a vast reverence, based on extensive reading and entire practical ignorance of the subject. She knew Adrian, and had gained Mary’s gratitude by pronouncing him a great artist, though she had not seen his works. In person she was a slight, plain woman, with small features, soft brown hair, and a pleasant expresion. Much sedentary plodding had accustomed her to delicate health, but had not soured her temper, or dulled her habitual cheerfulness.
Early in September, she wrote to Mary Sutherland.
Newton Villa, Windsor,
4th September.
Dearest Mary — Many thanks for your pleasant letter, which makes me long to be at the seaside. I am sorry to hear that you are losing interest in your painting. Tell Mr Herbert that I am surprised at his not keeping you up to your work better. When you come back, you shall have a good lecture from me on the subject of lukewarm endeavor and laziness generally: however, if you are really going to study music instead, I excuse you.
“You will not be pleased to hear that the singing class is broken up. Mr Jack, unstable as dynamite, exploded yesterday, and scattered our poor choir in dismay to their homes. It happened in this way. There was a garden party at Mrs. Griffith’s, to which all the girls were invited; and accordingly they appeared at class in gay attire, and were rather talkative and inattentive. Mr Jack arrived punctually, looking black as thunder. He would not even acknowledge my greeting. Just before he came in, Louisa White had been strumming over a new set of quadrilles; and she unfortunately left the music on the desk of the pianoforte. Mr Jack, without saying a word to us, sat down on the music stool, and, of course, saw poor