Free Mary Reilly by Valerie Martin Page B

doors may not know it. Any school, simply by existing, must be a force for good.”
    I smiled, both at the excitement in Master’s speechand the strange idea he’d brought to my mind. “What makes you smile, Mary?” he said at once. “Am I wrong? Speak frankly.”
    “I was thinking that there can never be such a thing as a force for good, sir,” I said. “And there’s the pity of it.”
    Master opened his eyes wide and protested, “But, Mary, I try to be just such a force.”
    “Well that’s it, sir, isn’t it,” I said. “That good is what always needs trying, as it is work for us and don’t seem to come natural, whereas havoc comes of its own accord. And also it does seem to me that the two words won’t go together, as force can never do aught but evil.”
    Master paused, mulling over my words. “Surely this is a grim view, Mary. If this is true then we must despair of our efforts—indeed, there is no point in any effort.”
    “Oh, I suppose, sir,” I said, “it does little harm to try. Your wicked boys is really no wickeder for learning to rob a school instead of a pocket.”
    Master smiled. “And it seems to me also, Mary, that there are many who have no difficulty in being good. Yourself, for example.”
    “Being and doing is different, sir,” I said. “I have no will to cause pain and suffering, as some do, if that’s what you mean. But as for
doing
good, I confess I don’t think of it. I only think of doing what I mun to stay as I am.”
    “Which
is
good,” Master said, as if to pay me a compliment.
    But my answer sprang to my lips, and I knew Master mun understand it as no one else might.
    “No, sir,” I said. “Which is safe.”
    Master leaned forward, propping his chin on one hand and gave me a long look, full of sympathy, so that there was no need to speak. We heard, though only because we had fallen silent, Mr. Poole’s step in the hall, for he walks like a ghost and often as not appears in a doorway as if he just sprang up from the floorboards. Master and I exchanged a look of warning, for if Mr. Poole saw me on my knees talking to Master, he would not approve and Master knows this as well as I. I went back to my lion’s feet and Master fell back on the settee. In the next moment Mr. Poole looked in, seeming surprised to see Master, and said, “Ah, sir, I did not know you had come in.”
    I t is very late. I’m weary but won’t sleep I know until I puzzle out my poor feelings, which has been in an uproar all day so that there is a chorus of voices in my head, each one demanding to be heard against the others. When Master is gay and kind to me, as he was today, asking my opinion and listening to me as no one has ever listened to me, then all the sadness I feel lifts as suddenly as a bird, leaves me entirely, and I know such a soaring of spirits as I think muncome to few in this life. Though I tell myself this is only a gentleman having idle conversation with his housemaid for want of a better pastime, I don’t believe it, have no will to believe it, but respond, no, he wants
my
company and not another’s. When he talks to me of doing good, of how his efforts is blocked by those who only think of money or prestige, then my worry about his sending me out on an errand to Soho, my distrust of the woman he has chosen to help him, seems the worst sort of suspicious mind, to imagine that Master means anything but good or that he owes me some explanation of his intentions. I feel ashamed of myself and resolve to accept my place as
Master
makes it out for me, and not as I might want it to be. When he tells me he trusts me and shows me he trusts me more than anyone else in this house, my heart leaps and I think, I am of use to him and mun keep that trust, that my obligation is clear, yet there is another voice that will put in, he means nothing by it, he is gay and it pleases him to say such things to one who cannot but obey him. This, I’ve no doubt, is Mr. Poole’s view of the