Now that Lent was over dinner parties came on with a rush, started, as
was only discreet, with a state gathering at the Court, when the county
was invited to welcome the bride. The Vicar and his wife were the sole
representatives of Chumley proper, but Dane Peignton was in request, as
an odd man is bound to be in the countryside.
"It will be deadly dull," Cassandra had warned her friend, "but it has
to be done. Brace up, and go through it bravely, and if you don't like
it you need never try again."
"I won't," Grizel said frankly. "A duty is a duty, and has to be done
whether you like it or not, but I choose my pleasures to suit myself.
If I'm amused I'll go,--if I'm not, all the saddles of mutton in the
world won't tempt me. It always amuses me to be with you, my dear, but
judging from the specimens I've already seen, it's a very, very heavy
county. The women are heavy in the afternoon. I tremble to think of
what they must be in the drawing-room after dinner. Could I do anything
to jolt them up? Put on a black gown, or do a little skirt dancing, or
tell stories? I could tell some awakening stories!"
But Cassandra shook her head and issued her orders.
"You are to wear your wedding dress, and behave yourself like a sweet
young bride, and do credit to yourself, and to me, and to your husband's
books! When you go to Rome, do as the Romans do."
When the night of the dinner arrived the sweet young bride repaired to
her husband's dressing-room _en route_ from the bathroom to her own
apartment, and squatted on the floor to watch _him_ shave, with her
white gown wrapped around a foam of lacey under-garments, and her white
shoes kicked off on to the rug. She looked young, and fresh, and
blooming, and brought with her a delicious odour of violets, and it
appeared to afford her intense satisfaction to watch Martin lather his
chin, and twist it from side to side for the convenience of the safety
razor.
"Darling, you _do_ look plain! I love you dreadfully when I see you
shave. All that trouble to spare me a beard! ... Don't cut yourself,
like a precious. I do so object to bits of cotton-wool... Doesn't it
feel nice and married to have me sitting here, watching you, in my bare
tootsies, and knowing that even the Vicaress herself could not object?
She'll be there to-night, you know. What will she wear?--A black satin,
cut in a V, with a pendant of agate, and a cap with an aigrette. Dear
thing! I must remember to enquire for the Mothers' Meeting."
Martin, his chin violently undulating, murmured a word which was
evidently of a warning nature, but Grizel took no notice. Her hands
were clasped round her knees, she was smiling, in a soft reflective
fashion.
"No," she said slowly, "no! this first year must be just for
ourselves.--I am so thankful that Katrine is away and so happy, for our
own sakes, as well as her own. I am thankful there are no other near
relatives to trouble about. I don't want _Anyone_ to come between us
this first year, not even--that! A year or two alone together we must
have, and then,--we'll pray for twins!"
Martin's sureness of hand alone saved him from the necessity of
cotton-wool. He turned round, smiling, lathered, twinkling with humour.
"Why be so greedy? Surely _one_--"
"No, no--two would be twice as nice. You get on so slowly with one at a
time." She bent her head still lower, so that her chin rested upon her
knees; her golden eyes stared into space, her shoulders heaved with a
regretful sigh. "No," she said at last, "no! I suppose it would not
do. Triplets _are_ vulgar, but oh, Martin, think of it!--_three_ ducks,
all in a row, each with its long white tail, and its little ribbons
round its wrists, and its little gold sovereign hanging round its
neck... The Queen's Bounty! And oh, Martin, think, think! what an
advertisement for your books... It would be in all the papers. `Mrs
Martin Beverley, wife of the well-known novelist, yesterday became the
mother of three daughters. (They must be daughters!) Later enquiries
at the house elicited the news that the mother and family were all doing
well.'"
"Really, Grizel! really!" cried Martin, protesting. "You make me
blush."
"Oh, well!" Grizel sighed, and rose to her feet in one swift,
astonishingly agile movement. "Bear up. There's no use getting
agitated before the time. It might be only twins!"
She strolled out of the room, and seating herself on the chair before
her own mirror, gave herself into the hands of the waiting maid.
"Now then, Marie, make me look like a sweet young bride."
Marie looked complacent. It was easy to obey that order, since her
mistress was radiant with beauty and happiness, and there lay waiting on
the bed a gown, which looked as if it had been blown straight out of a
fairy tale for her adornment. The ordinary white satin was far too dull
and substantial to have a place in its concoction. It was a mass of
cobweb lace of extraordinary antiquity and frailness, mounted on a
lining of silver gauze. The fine folds accentuated the reed-like
slimness of Grizel's figure, the misty indefiniteness of shading suited
to a marvel the small face, with its white cheeks and amber eyes, that
face which was at once so colourless, and so aglow. Marie looking at
the reflection in the mirror, pushed aside the cases of jewels, and
lifting a piece of tulle swathed it lightly round her mistress' head,
allowing one long end to flow down the back. It was unconventional, it
was daring, but the effect was irresistible, and Marie stood aside
heaving a sigh of triumph.
"No jewels. Only the gauze. In effect--a veil!"
So it came to pass that when Mr and Mrs Beverley made their entrance
into the great drawing-room of the _Court_, there came to one and all of
the assembled guests the impression of a creature half human, half
fairy, poised midway between heaven and earth, aglow with that absolute,
unshadowed happiness, which is seldom given to mortals to see or to
enjoy. It was indeed the primitive note in Grizel's temperament, which
made such a condition possible. The least introspective of mortals, she
accepted happiness as manna from heaven, throve on to-day's supply, and
confidently expected the morrow's supply. The minor trials, which would
have dimmed the rapture of another bride, pricked her for the moment,
and were then cast aside, and dismissed from thought, as completely as
though they had never existed. There were occasions when such
abstraction brought about material _contretemps_, but of the mental
lightening there could be no doubt.
Everyone in the room received the same impression of radiance as the
bride entered, but on the different minds the impression acted
differently. The Vicar's wife, clad as had been foretold, in black
satin and aigretted cap, but showing a pendant of cameo, instead of
agate, on the discreet decolletage, felt a sudden unreasoning
disposition towards tears, and the good man, her husband, breathed a
mental "God keep her!" but the Hon. Mrs Mawson was distinctly shocked.
She was the Evangelical magnate whose religion seemed largely to consist
in disapproving of other people's enjoyments, and the bride's obtrusive
happiness appeared to her as a deliberate "tempting of Providence."
Moreover, she disapproved of the costume as theatrical and unusual. Why
not satin, like everybody else? And no jewels! The niece of Lady
Griselda Dundas must possess jewels of price. Then why that bare neck?
Mrs Mawson was wearing her own rubies, and took it as a personal slight
that the bride had come to meet her unadorned.
Midway between the two extremes flowed the general verdict, but Grizel
was blissfully unconscious of criticism. She went through the necessary
greetings of acquaintances, among whom she was surprised to recognise
Teresa Mallison, and then exchanged a few words with her hostess before
leading the way to dinner on the Squire's arm.
Cassandra looked as usual, both tired and vivid; she gave a caressing
pressure to her friend's elbow, and murmured softly:
"Exquisite. About eighteen! ... Talk hard, Grizel, for pity's sake--
talk hard! The atmosphere is freezing. At the last moment Mona
Fenchurch sent a wire. Flue. I had to send for Teresa. She's so good
about filling gaps."
"Oh, well!" Grizel said significantly. Of course Teresa was delighted
to come, especially when by good luck it was Peignton's predestined
partner who had fallen out! She stood by his side now--flushed, silent,
a trifle gauche, for it was something of an ordeal to meet the people
who politely ignored her existence in the life of the neighbourhood.
Grizel divined something of the cause of the girl's embarrassment, and
sent her a smile of beaming friendliness. Well! all had turned out for
the best. Nobody wanted Mona Fenchurch for the pleasure of her company,
and her absence had paved the way to a lovers' meeting. Captain
Peignton looked supremely content, and how sensible of the girl to stick
to blue!
Teresa, however, was not at all self-congratulatory on the subject of
her gown. If she had had a day's notice,--even half a day, she could
have dashed up to town, and equipped herself in something newer, and
more worthy of the occasion. She was miserably conscious that the blue
dress was past its freshness, and had already paid several visits to the
Court.
The dinner which followed was lengthy and stately. It was also
undeniably dull! At one end of the table Grizel chatted and leant her
elbows on the table, and kept the Squire in complacent chuckles of
laughter, but their gaiety, instead of spreading, seemed to throw into
greater contrast the forced conversations of the other guests. With the
exception of Teresa Mallison they were all elderly people, who had
driven over many miles of country to perform a social duty, and neither
expected nor received any pleasure in its execution. They all knew each
other, met at intervals, and discoursed together on the same well-worn
topics. Lady Rose talked garden, and was an expert on bulbs. Sir
George Everley, her partner, described all bulbs vaguely as daffodils,
lived simply and solely for "huntin'," and would in all probability die
for it another day. The Vicar's partner lived for bridge, and his wife
had fallen to the share of an old general who looked upon food and drink
as the events of the moment, and had no intention of losing a good
chance. Long years of dining out had made him an expert at the game of
starting his partner on a hobby during an interval between courses, and
then giving her her head until the next stop. "Well! and what is the
latest good work in the parish, Mrs Evans, eh, what?" he enquired
genially, as he waited the advent of fish, and then with the help of a,
"Did you though? God bless my soul! Pine work! fine work!" he was left
free to enjoy his fare, and make mental notes on the flavouring of the
sauce, until such time as he had leisure to give Mrs Evans another lead
on the vexed question of the choir.
Lord Kew sat on Cassandra's left side, and threw depressed crumbs of
conversation to his companion, the stout wife of the huntin' squire. It
was said of Lord Kew that he could not talk for five minutes together
without bringing in the German invasion, and his conviction that England
was galloping headlong to the dogs. He prophesied as much to the
squire's wife in less than the prescribed time, and she said that
"something ought to be done," and seizing on the word "dog" introduced
to his notice her two pet Chows. From time to time also Cassandra
helped her along with a few words, leaving Martin to make the
acquaintance of his right-hand neighbour, who had heard of his books,
and really must get them from the library. "Do you write under your own
name?"
Teresa sat like a poker, still and silent, vouchsafing monosyllabic
replies to the formalities of a county magnate, about whom she knew
everything, but who had got it firmly impressed into his sluggish brain
that she was someone else, and accordingly insisted upon referring to
people and incidents of whom she had never heard. Now and then came a
happy moment when Peignton gave her his attention, and smiled
encouragement into her eyes, but he was working hard to rouse a chilly
lady to animation, and even on occasion throwing an occasional bold
challenge across the table, where a couple seemed settling down into
permanent silence.
Teresa had the impression that Dane was putting aside his own amusement
as something entirely subservient to the general good. It was almost as
though he felt a responsibility, and was working for a reward. She
never suspected that the reward came more than once in a glance from
Cassandra's eyes, and a smile of appreciation flashed down the length of
table. Cassandra's head and neck rose above the banked-up flowers, her
cheeks were flushed, the stars of emeralds on her throat sent out green
flames of light, she looked brilliant and beautiful, a fitting
chatelaine for the stately old house, but it was not her beauty which
appealed to Peignton's heart; it was the subtle _want_ which
mysteriously he felt able to supply. He did not trouble himself to
enquire into the nature of this strong mutual sympathy, for he was a
practical man accustomed to do the next thing, and not trouble about the
future.
To-night Cassandra was a hostess struggling with an unusually depressing
set of guests, and he expended himself to help her. Looking up the
length of table, Grizel's face was like a flowering shrub in an avenue
of cedars. Peignton looked at her and felt a pang of something like
anger. _She_ was content enough! She had everything she wanted.
Things were cursedly unfair...
In the drawing-room Grizel as the bride was handed round for five-minute
conversations, and being in an amiable mood exerted herself to be all
things to all women. She talked "huntin'" and she talked bridge, she
asked advice concerning her garden, she listened sweetly to details of
May Meetings, and vouchsafed copious and entirely untrue descriptions of
an author at home; only with the Vicar's wife did she allow herself the
privilege of being natural, and saying what she really meant.
Mrs Evans was elderly and stout, parochial and intensely proper.
Grizel was young and unconventional to an extreme, yet beneath the
dissimilarity there existed a sympathy between the two women which both
divined, and both failed equally to understand.
Grizel knew that Mrs Evans's brain viewed her with suspicion, but she
was complacently aware that Mrs Evans's heart was not in sympathy with
her brain. Was it not exactly the same in her own case? Mentally she
had pronounced the Vicar's wife a parochial bore, the type of
middle-aged orthodox, prudish woman whom her soul abhorred, but, as a
matter of fact, she did not abhor her at all, for the eyes of the soul
saw down beneath the stiffness and the propriety, and recognised a
connecting link.
"If I were in trouble, I'd like to put my head down on her nice broad
shoulder, and,--she'd like to have me there!"
"Well!" cried Grizel, sinking down in a soft little swirl of lace and
silver by the side of the chair which held the portly black satin form,
and resting one little hand on its arm with a gesture of half-caressing
intimacy. "Well! Are the Mothers still meeting?"
Mrs Evans preened herself, and did her honest best to look distressed.
"My dear, I am afraid you _mean_ to be naughty!"
Grizel nodded cheerily.
"I do... Aren't you glad? It's no use pretending to be shocked. You
have a whole parish-full of proper people who do what they ought, and
say what they should, and I come in as a refreshing change. Besides, I
really mean quite well! Who knows,--after half a dozen years of Chumley
influence, I may be as douce and staid as any one of them!"
At this point the obvious thing for Mrs Evans to do was plainly to
express a hope such might be the case; she knew it, and opened her mouth
to utter the aspiration, but as she did so she inclined her head to look
down into the dimpling radiance of the bride's face, and once again her
heart softened, and she felt that mysterious pricking at the back of her
eyes.
"My dear," she said gently, "I--I think I prefer you as you are!"
Grizel did not answer, but her eyes softened, and she slipped her hand
an inch forward so that it pressed against the black satin sleeve. She
was thinking happily that she had already two friends in Chumley,
Cassandra, and--the Vicar's wife!
Seeing a pause in the conversation, a small woman in pink satin made a
swoop for the seat next the bride, and eyed her with a bright, birdlike
smile. This was Mrs Fotheringham (with a small "f"), a lady who
combined having nothing to say with a positively uninterrupted flow of
conversation. She overcame the apparent difficulty by pouring forth a
flood of personal questions, from the storehouse of a curiosity which
knew no bounds. She pounced upon Grizel now, as a hawk pounces upon its
prey.
"So pleased to meet you to-night. So unfortunate to miss you when I
called. I've been so longing to meet you. Knew you so well by name.
You were Miss Grizel Dundas?"
"Yes."
"Niece of Lady Griselda?"
"Yes."
"Lived with her, didn't you? Sort of adopted child?"
"Yes."
"All your life?"
"Yes."
"But of course you had parents?--"
"No--"
The "no" was devilment pure and simple, and gave Mrs Fotheringham what
is technically described as a "sensation." She jerked, stared, and
finally forced a wooden laugh.
"Oh, I see. Yes. Stupid of me. Died, I suppose, at your birth?"
"One after. One before."
"How sad. Very eccentric, wasn't she? Lady Griselda, I mean. I've
heard that she was exceedingly--"
"She was."
"But you got on with her? Must have done, of course, or she would
not... Quite attached to you, I suppose?"
"Yes."
"So nice! And you stayed with her until her death, and married
immediately after? It was immediately after, was it not?"
"Several months."
"So nice for you that you had Mr Beverley. He must be a proud man.
Not many women would have given up so much. But I'm sure you never
regret it?"
"Oh, but I do!" cried Grizel. "_Often_!"
She was getting bored by this time, and decided that this might be a
favourable point at which to end the catechism, so she rose and strolled
across the room, leaving Mrs Fotheringham to express her consternation
to the nearest listener.
"How extraordinary! Did you hear? She said she _does_!"
But Mrs Evans had known the question-monger from a child, and stood
upon no ceremony.
"You had no right to put such a question, Flora. It was impertinent.
Mrs Beverley answered in the only manner possible, by turning it into a
joke."
"I suppose so. Yes. It must have been a joke. She _looks_ happy."
The birdlike eyes roved towards Martin, who had just entered the room
with the other men, and subjected him to a curious scrutiny. "_Do_ you
think he looks worth it?"
"My dear, it is immaterial what I think! How can any outsider judge of
the worth which another woman's husband represents to herself? It's not
a question of credentials. It's a question of _fit_!"
Half an hour later the Squire buttonholed Peignton in a corner of the
room, and gave him his instructions.
"I've ordered the car for Miss Mallison. See her safely home, will you,
and take it on to your own place? Might as well do two good turns while
it's about it."
His look gave significance to the words, and Peignton could not do less
than declare his pleasure at the suggestion. As a matter of fact,
however, it was not pleasure of which he was conscious at that moment,
but something unaccountably like disappointment.
He had not expected the evening to end so soon; he was unwilling to be
dismissed. Throughout the long dinner he had been subconsciously
looking forward to something to come; and he now felt defrauded and
chilled. He had imagined that he would have had five minutes' talk with
Lady Cassandra--that they would laugh together, and in the meeting of
eyes exchange confidences which it would have been indiscreet to put
into words, but Cassandra was surrounded by guests of honour, and
apparently oblivious of his presence.
She turned with a start as he approached her with Teresa by his side,
and received the girl's adieux with a gracious smile. "So soon!
Captain Peignton going to see you home. That's right. _Good_ night.
It was really noble of you to come to the rescue. So very many thanks!"
Her manner to the girl was all that could be wished, but as she turned
to Peignton there came an unmistakable chill. Her face, her voice, the
fleeting touch of her hand were alike cold, devoid of friendship.
Cassandra was disappointed too, and, womanlike, vented her displeasure
on her fellow-sufferer. She also had looked forward to a few brief
moments of communion after the emptiness of the evening. She also had
the baffled feeling of one who has waited for naught. The while she
listened to Lady Mawson's dreary pronouncements she watched the dark
figure follow the girl from the room, and a pang pierced her heart.
"Oh, to be young! To be young,--and to be loved!"
Peignton struggled into his coat, and muttered savagely when a stud
caught in the lining. His usual mood was so serene that this sudden
irritability and depression was as puzzling as it was disagreeable. He
asked himself curtly what the devil was wrong, and made a swift mental
summary of the wine consumed at dinner. Nothing wrong, but these
elaborate feasts were not in his line. They bored him stiff. Another
time he would decline...
At this point Teresa made her appearance wrapped in a white opera cloak,
with her mother's best lace scarf draped over her head, and Dane's
depression lightened, as he smiled at her and took his place by her side
in the car. He felt a pleasant sense of intimacy as the door shut, and
they were alone together speeding through the darkened park. He had
been thinking a good deal of marriage lately, more than he had ever done
before, but he did not realise that at the same time he had been
thinking less of Teresa. He thought of her now, warmed by her presence,
and by the natural rebound from his fit of irritation. She looked
pretty in that white kit,--that lace over her face was uncommonly
becoming. He had divined the difficulty of her position during the
evening, pitchforked among a number of people who as a rule ignored her
existence, and he had admired the quiet composure of her manner. A nice
little girl. A dear little girl. A pretty, clever, uncommonly sensible
little girl.
Teresa looked up, met the approval in his eyes, and thrilled with
happiness. The evening had come as an unexpected and golden ending to a
long dull day. At tea-time she had been dismally counting over the days
which had elapsed since her last sight of Peignton, dismally realising
that no mutual engagements lay ahead, and then suddenly the summons had
arrived which had placed her by his side during the length of that long
dinner, and, best of all, ensured this _tete-a-tete_ drive in the
friendly dimness. Surely now--if he cared at all, he would open his
heart--
But Peignton was far from such an intention; he was opening his lips to
make some casual remark, half-bantering, half-caressing, as had grown to
be his habit when with Teresa, when there suddenly came about one of
those small happenings which are monumental in their effect on life.
The chauffeur, steering out of the lodge gate, took a sharp turn, and
the inner wheels of the car descended into the ditch. He was a skilful
driver, and as a rule careful enough, but the necessity of turning out
at night for the convenience of an insignificant guest had tried his
temper, and he was not unwilling to prejudice Miss Mallison against a
repetition of the drive. In any case, the swerve was startling enough,
and Teresa, feeling herself sinking through space, instinctively threw
out her hands and grasped the nearest object. For the moment she was
unconscious that that object was Dane himself; she simply found support,
and clung, and Dane's arms held her fast. Two or three violent wrenches
followed, as the whole strength of the car struggled to mount the
incline, and meantime, locked in each other's arms, the man and the girl
swayed together, this way and that, backwards and forwards, until with a
final jerk and groan the roadway was reached. All the time Teresa had
not uttered a sound, but now that safety was assured, a sobbing breath
quavered from between her lips. It was a pathetic little sound, like
the sob of a child in pain, and the red lips were very near. From pure
instinct, rather than any definite intention, Peignton bent still
nearer, and kissed those lips into silence, murmuring gentle words of
encouragement.
"Poor girl--poor dear! It's all over... We are all right now. You are
not frightened, Teresa?"
He held her fast, resisting a faint movement to escape. He did not want
her to go. He wanted to hold her, to kiss her again, and feel her lips
tremble against his own. The sore, wounded feeling of the evening had
disappeared, his heart was beating with strong, rapid strokes. The
electric lamp showed the girl's face flushed and tremulous, the eyes
shyly drooping before his own. He bent over her and whispered a
question, knowing full well what the answer would be, but wanting to
hear it, all the same.
"Are you angry with me for kissing you, Teresa?"
The girl shook her head. Her low voice sounded young and sweet.
"Oh, no... I'm glad!"
"Why are you glad?"
"Because you,--you _care_!" said Teresa, trembling.
For a breath Dane hesitated, and in that pause something ominous gripped
at his heart, and like a man who has made a false step on the edge of a
precipice he saw a glimpse of an abyss; but the next moment youth and
blood rose to the appeal, and he kissed the soft lips once and again,
murmuring appropriate protestations.
"Of course I care--who wouldn't? I've cared a long time... And you
care too? You do care for me, Teresa?"
"Oh, _yes_!"
The answer came with a fervour which could not fail to be infectious.
"Enough--some day--to be my wife? I wish I had more to offer you,
little girl!"
"Oh, I want nothing, I want nothing. I would marry you if you were a
workman in a cottage. Sooner--than a _king_!"
It was true. The girl's voice rang with a sincerity of passion, which
was startling in its contrast to the man's light tones, and Peignton,
realising the contrast, was at once touched and abashed.
"You dear girl!" he said softly. "Thank you, dear. I'm not worth it,
but--I'll be good to you, Teresa! You shall never regret it."
Teresa laughed at the absurdity of the thought. It seemed impossible
that anything in the nature of regret, or grief, or anxiety, or even
boredom could ever again cloud her heart. She had reached the pinnacle
of her desires. To know that Dane loved her meant absolute, unclouded
happiness. He would go on loving her. Therefore she would go on being
blissful and content. As in the fairy tales, they would be happy ever
after. "I never knew that it was possible to be so happy!" sighed
Teresa in her heart.