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Authors: Patrick White
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the hall had smelt of wet raincoat quite a while afterwards.
Those were the last dealings Mary Hare had with her mother.
For Peg had said, "Don't you bother to go to the funeral, Miss Mary, if you feel it will upset you. Who will hold you if you take a turn? We'll sit here together, you and me, and eat a piece of bread and dripping in front of the stove. And let the parson look after things; that's what he is there for."
Peg, although an elderly woman, had preserved some link with childhood, which allowed her to recognize the forms of reality through the rough sheath of appearance. She remained an admirable companion. Mary loved Peg. She would sit and rub her own wrinkles, and watch her maid's tranquil face: that of an elder sister in steel-rimmed spectacles, a sister who knew approximately the plan of an outside world, but who had not forgotten all the games.
Because she was of that district, Peg used to go about a lot. She would ride her bicycle at the hills, and it was surprising how she got to the top. Such a frail thing. Not much more than the sawing sound of her own washed-out, starched dress. Peg laundered and cleaned to perfection, but cooked badly. She liked to make jam, and render down beeswax, and usually smelled of one or the other. She would suddenly appear from under beds, holding a pad of waxy cloth, when a person least expected. In her steel-rimmed spectacles. In a dress that had once been pale blue, now almost white.
"Read to me, Peg," her mistress Mary Hare would command.
"Read yourself!" Peg advised, and laughed. "What shall I read, ever?"
"I can see it better if you read it out. Do, Peg!" begged Mary Hare. "Let us read Anthony Hordern's catalogue."
"Dear, you are a caution!" Peg had to laugh.
She was rather pale around the eyes.
Peg liked best to read the Bible, but not aloud, as her mistress did not care for it. The maid was always busy with the Gospels. She found the Epistles too dry, and did not go much on the Revelations--in fact, she showed no inclination to discuss that end of her battered book.
"You ought to be having a study of this," Peg used to say, glancing up from her Bible.
She had always worn an exposed look on account of her pale eyelids, but her innocence had protected her.
"Oh dear, no!" protested her mistress, almost in fear. "I know that that is nothing for me."
"It is for everybody," Peg would insist earnestly.
"Not quite. It is not for me."
"But you won't try it. How have you ever found out?"
"I will find out what I am to find out, in my own way, and in my own time. I am different," maintained Mary Hare.
"Yes," sighed Peg. "Different and the same."
She could not marvel at it enough.
Although the two women were in many ways not unlike, Peg was without that arrogance which snared her mistress frequently. Mary Hare loved Peg, but she loved her own arrogance. It was her great pride, and if nobody else recognized her jewel, then, she would still deck herself. That way she achieved distinction, perhaps even beauty, she was vain enough to hope.
But Peg was not taken in. She would say in her slightly gritty voice, "You are not flying into one of your tantrums, Miss Mary?"
And Peg was always right, the way glass is, and water--all that is blameless.
Which made it the more desperate when Mary Hare went into Peg's room, and saw that her friend had died, fust after dressing. On a dry morning. Peg had lain down again on the bed, in her dress that had once been a brighter colour. There she lay, very brittle, like a branch of one of the good-smelling herbs, rosemary, or thyme, or the lemon-scented verbena, that people used to break off to put away.
After a while the mistress dared to touch her maid. Then, she knew, at last, she was, indeed, alone. She stayed a long time in a corner of the room, looking, and it was only in the course of the morning that she remembered William Hadkin.
William was somebody Mary Hare had never taken to, perhaps because, on the night of her
Those were the last dealings Mary Hare had with her mother.
For Peg had said, "Don't you bother to go to the funeral, Miss Mary, if you feel it will upset you. Who will hold you if you take a turn? We'll sit here together, you and me, and eat a piece of bread and dripping in front of the stove. And let the parson look after things; that's what he is there for."
Peg, although an elderly woman, had preserved some link with childhood, which allowed her to recognize the forms of reality through the rough sheath of appearance. She remained an admirable companion. Mary loved Peg. She would sit and rub her own wrinkles, and watch her maid's tranquil face: that of an elder sister in steel-rimmed spectacles, a sister who knew approximately the plan of an outside world, but who had not forgotten all the games.
Because she was of that district, Peg used to go about a lot. She would ride her bicycle at the hills, and it was surprising how she got to the top. Such a frail thing. Not much more than the sawing sound of her own washed-out, starched dress. Peg laundered and cleaned to perfection, but cooked badly. She liked to make jam, and render down beeswax, and usually smelled of one or the other. She would suddenly appear from under beds, holding a pad of waxy cloth, when a person least expected. In her steel-rimmed spectacles. In a dress that had once been pale blue, now almost white.
"Read to me, Peg," her mistress Mary Hare would command.
"Read yourself!" Peg advised, and laughed. "What shall I read, ever?"
"I can see it better if you read it out. Do, Peg!" begged Mary Hare. "Let us read Anthony Hordern's catalogue."
"Dear, you are a caution!" Peg had to laugh.
She was rather pale around the eyes.
Peg liked best to read the Bible, but not aloud, as her mistress did not care for it. The maid was always busy with the Gospels. She found the Epistles too dry, and did not go much on the Revelations--in fact, she showed no inclination to discuss that end of her battered book.
"You ought to be having a study of this," Peg used to say, glancing up from her Bible.
She had always worn an exposed look on account of her pale eyelids, but her innocence had protected her.
"Oh dear, no!" protested her mistress, almost in fear. "I know that that is nothing for me."
"It is for everybody," Peg would insist earnestly.
"Not quite. It is not for me."
"But you won't try it. How have you ever found out?"
"I will find out what I am to find out, in my own way, and in my own time. I am different," maintained Mary Hare.
"Yes," sighed Peg. "Different and the same."
She could not marvel at it enough.
Although the two women were in many ways not unlike, Peg was without that arrogance which snared her mistress frequently. Mary Hare loved Peg, but she loved her own arrogance. It was her great pride, and if nobody else recognized her jewel, then, she would still deck herself. That way she achieved distinction, perhaps even beauty, she was vain enough to hope.
But Peg was not taken in. She would say in her slightly gritty voice, "You are not flying into one of your tantrums, Miss Mary?"
And Peg was always right, the way glass is, and water--all that is blameless.
Which made it the more desperate when Mary Hare went into Peg's room, and saw that her friend had died, fust after dressing. On a dry morning. Peg had lain down again on the bed, in her dress that had once been a brighter colour. There she lay, very brittle, like a branch of one of the good-smelling herbs, rosemary, or thyme, or the lemon-scented verbena, that people used to break off to put away.
After a while the mistress dared to touch her maid. Then, she knew, at last, she was, indeed, alone. She stayed a long time in a corner of the room, looking, and it was only in the course of the morning that she remembered William Hadkin.
William was somebody Mary Hare had never taken to, perhaps because, on the night of her
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