The Squire heard the news of Peignton's engagement at the County Club,
and carried it to his wife on his return to lunch. He found Cassandra
on the terrace, where she had spent what was perhaps one of the happiest
hours of her life. An hour before she had opened one of the long
windows of the morning room, and had stepped bareheaded, in her white
morning dress, into a bath of sunshine and warmth. Hitherto though the
sun had shone, east winds had prevailed--making it necessary to put on
wrappings for even the shortest excursion, but this morning the "nip"
had departed; what wind there was blew balmily from the south, and the
temperature without was warmer than that in the house. There is always
a special thrill attendant on the first breath of summer, a special
consciousness of freedom and escape, when for the first time it becomes
possible to leave the house and wander bareheaded under the skies, but
never, as it seemed to Cassandra, had a springtide been so wonderful as
this.
She looked downwards over the terraced gardens, and everywhere the world
seemed new. Green branches on the larches, shimmers of green on oak and
ash, swelling of buds on the great chestnuts, and through the bare brown
of the earth the shooting of living things. Everything was new and
pregnant with joys to come, and from her own heart came an answering
song of joy. It seemed in mysterious fashion as though the stateness of
custom had been left behind, with other drearinesses of the long winter,
and the coming spring had vivified her life. The air breathed hope and
expectation, and although she could not have said to what special event
she was looking forward, she knew that there was hope in her heart also,
and an expectation which gilded the coming days. It was good to be
alive, to wander bareheaded in the sunshine inhaling the fragrance of
flowers, to behold reflected in the long windows the graceful glimpses
of one's own form, to look around the fair domain lying to right and
left, and be able to say, "This is mine!"
Cassandra clasped her hands behind her back and strolled to and fro,
thinking the many and inconsequent thoughts that come to a woman in such
hours. She wondered why she had ever been unhappy, and decided never
again to "give way." She wondered what Bernard had really felt when she
had declared that she did not love him. Poor Bernard! How could she
have been so bold? Of course she loved him! He was a nice old dear.
She wondered if, after all, the new afternoon dress had better be grey!
Suppose it were violet for a change; just the right shade of violet,
without a touch of red. She wondered if she dare wear the new French
hat in Chumley, and what the boy would say of it when he came from
school. He had a way of calling her hats "the Limit," and looking
self-conscious in their presence. She had laughed, and worn them all
the same, for the wearing of the latest eccentricity in hats had been
something more than a slavish following of fashion,--it had been a
virtual throwing down of the gage in the face of the prejudices of the
neighbourhood. On the days when she was most oppressed by the
atmosphere of Chumley and its inhabitants, it had a tonic effect to
drive up and down the High Street, wearing a feather stuck at an angle
never before attempted out of Paris, and to watch eyes roll from right
to left. There had been a time when the church aisle was her chosen
shocking-ground. Cassandra blushed when she recalled that phase, and
remembered what had brought it to an end. Just an expression on Mrs
Evans's face. Nothing more. She had paused outside the church gate to
speak a passing word before getting into the car, and the Vicar's wife
had been kindly and affectionate as ever, had called her "Dear," and
held her hand in a lengthened pressure, but there had been a shadow upon
the large, plain face, and the grey eyes were rigorously averted from
the marvellous headpiece topping the small, brilliant face. The
silence, the kindliness, made Cassandra feel suddenly mean and small, a
sensation which was intensified as the car turned from the church door,
and Bernard had said with a laugh: "Give 'em a treat this time, Cass!
That hat of yours took the starch out of the Vicar's sermon." An hour
later the hat was a smouldering ruin, and henceforth Cassandra took her
plainest clothes to church. But the High Street remained, and here no
one could interfere. As the wife of the squire and landlord she might
indeed be said to have the right to shock, when it pleased her so to do.
Now that the bulbs were in bloom Bernard would agitate for the usual
spring garden party. He always asked the same question: "What was the
use of having the things at all, if nobody came to see them?" So the
entire neighbourhood was invited, and frequently it rained, inevitably
the wind blew from the east, and the guests made scant work of the
bulbs, and huddled in the house, partaking of lengthy teas. Cassandra
hated all garden parties, and spring parties most of all, but this
morning the prospect seemed less distasteful. She would no longer know
the feeling of loneliness in a crowd, she would have friends of her own,
whose presence would transform the scene. In imagination she summoned
them before her--Grizel, with her radiant smile, and merry, chattering
tongue; Peignton, his head bending forward from the slightly bowed back,
his eyes fixed upon her, with their questioning look, the look that said
so plainly: "I am waiting. Give me your orders, and I obey!" Some men
had that expression; it meant nothing, of course, but it had charm.
Decidedly it had charm. It would help her through the formalities of
entertaining, to feel in the distance that waiting glance.
Cassandra turned and saw her husband ascending the stone steps of the
terrace. He had entered the grounds by a side gate, and made his way
across the path. His cap was pushed back from his brow, his brown face
showed the flush of heat, his eyes looked astonishingly blue and clear.
There was a metallic quality about those eyes which, taken in
conjunction with the strong white teeth, gave a somewhat fierce
expression to the face, but to-day he was smiling, and an air of
complaisance and satisfaction pervaded the whole figure. Cassandra
smiled in response. It seemed fitting that to-day everyone should feel
happy. She stood waiting for his approach, and together they paced
slowly onward.
"Isn't it lovely? I've been out over an hour. A perfect spring day!"
"Mating time, eh?" said the Squire with a laugh. "`In the Spring a
young man's fancy...' Well! it seems it is true. I've just been
hearing news. You haven't heard? I thought perhaps they would ring you
up."
"No," said Cassandra blankly. "No." She stared uncomprehendingly in
her husband's face, and suddenly her heart gave a queer unexpected
little thud, and her pulses quickened their beat. "Who did you expect
would ring me up?"
"Oh, either of them. Or both. They're at the stage when they'll want
to do everything in pairs. And they know you'll be interested."
"Couldn't you tell me at once what the news is?"
"I _did_ tell you. An engagement, of course. Peignton's engagement.
With the fair Teresa. For goodness' sake, don't pretend to be surprised
to hear. You notice precious little, but you must have noticed that. I
told you myself it was coming on."
"Of course you did. I remember perfectly. I am very--"
Cassandra paused from sheer inability to think what feeling dominated.
She felt neither glad nor sorry, interested nor surprised; nothing but a
curious blankness, as if a veil had been dropped over the scene of life.
Five minutes ago, two minutes ago, she had been tingling with vitality,
now she was numb, and found it an effort to collect her thoughts.
For once Bernard's lack of observation was a gain. He strode along the
terrace with hands thrust into his pockets, smiling in agreeable
reminiscence of club-room gossip.
"Rather a stiff thing in mothers-in-law,--Mrs Mallison, what? Don't
envy him the connection. Best thing he can do to cut away to a
distance. But the girl's all right. Fine buxom creature. Got her head
screwed on all right. Just the wife he needs. Nice fellow, but
inclined to be fanciful,--the sort of man one could imagine taking up
any mad scheme, if he were left on his own. Miss Teresa will stop that
nonsense. She's got a partic-u-larly keen look out for number one.
Ought to have fine children too. Just the type to go in for an annual
baby without turning a hair."
Cassandra's look was frigid.
"I think we may leave that. It is hardly the time--"
"Lord bless my soul, what else is she _for_!" cried the Squire loudly.
"What is any woman for, if it comes to that? If more of them did it,
there would be less talk of nerves and nonsense. The modern woman is
too careful of herself to be burdened with a family, and what's the
consequence? I ask you what's the consequence? Are they any healthier
than their mothers before them? Are they as healthy? Damned sight more
satisfactory work looking after a nursery, than gambling in bridge clubs
every afternoon. Too squeamish nowadays even to talk of 'em, it
appears!"
Through the roughness of the man's voice there sounded a note of pain
which pierced through the wife's torpor. He would have liked a nursery
full of his own, and had grieved over the fate which made it impossible.
Cassandra knew it, and admired the reticence with which he kept his
disappointment to himself, never allowing it to escape in so many words.
She was the more remorseful as the disappointment was not mutual. She
had hoped so much, given so much for her son, had suffered so bitter a
disappointment from his lack of response, that she had no wish for
another child. But she was sorry for Bernard.
She stretched out her hand and put it through his arm, leaning against
him with unusual intimacy.
"Don't shout at me, Bernard; don't be cross! Why should you? I daresay
it's all quite true, but children don't always bring happiness. Think
of the parents you know who have large families! They are always in
trouble. Some of the brood are always miserable, or ill, or in
difficulties, or poor, or unruly, or all at once, and the poor parents
have to rack their brains to think how they can help, and suffer every
pang with them; _worse_ pangs, because the children are young, and can
shake things off, and the parents sit by the fire and think. I've seen
it with my own parents. They never had a chance of being happy and
restful. One or other of us was always tearing their heart-strings."
"People don't have children for the sake of happiness, my good girl,"
the Squire said bluntly. "A certain amount of happiness goes to it, no
doubt, but that's not the principal consideration. It's a duty they owe
to the race, and they must be prepared to take the rough with the
smooth. You can't expect to rear any young thing without trouble."
"But they don't _care_ in return, Bernard! They care so little. That's
the heart-break. Parents are everlastingly giving out, and getting so
little in return. It's an empty feeling. Children give so little, in
comparison with the love that is lavished on them."
"Who expects them to care?" demanded the Squire. "It's nature that the
old should look after the young; it's nature that the young should fly
away. It's no use bucking against nature! You are thinking of your own
satisfaction, and the amount of happiness _you_ are going to get out of
the business. That's where you're wrong. There's too much talk of
happiness these days. I don't believe in it. It makes people soft and
finicking. If they thought less about their feelings, and more about
their work, it would be a damned sight better for all concerned. We
were not put into this world to be happy."
"Weren't we, Bernard, weren't we?" Cassandra asked piteously. Five
minutes ago it had seemed that happiness was the be-all and end-all of
life, that in fact it was life itself, the only thing worthy of the
name, but that was five minutes ago, and since then the veil had fallen.
Pacing the terrace by Bernard's side, the hard theory of work and duty
seemed infinitely more applicable. And yet--life was so long! Barely
thirty years behind and perhaps forty or more to come. Cassandra's
heart shrank at the prospect. She could have faced death bravely, but
life appalled; long, dragging-out years of duty, unillumined by love.
If it were hard now in the days of youth, and health, and beauty, what
would it be in the searing of the leaf? She looked into her husband's
face, so strong and wholesome in its clear, out-of-door tints, and her
heart went out to him in a wave of longing. As a drowning man will
cling to the first support that his arms can reach, so did she turn to
the man who had vowed to give her a lifelong support. If Bernard would
care! If just for once he would show that he could care. Her starving
heart cried out for food. It seemed impossible to live on, without a
word of love or appreciation. She pushed her hand further through his
arm, and gently smoothed the sleeve of his coat. It lay just beneath
his eyes, the long, beautiful hand, the tapering fingers delicately
white, with a tinge of pink on the almond-shaped nails; the square-cut
emerald sent out gleams of light. Cassandra knew that that hand was a
lovely thing. Surely the sight of it, resting there, would bring that
other strong, brown hand to meet it! Then, grasping it fast, she could
speak out, and say: "Help me, Bernard. Show me your love! I am only a
woman, and I am afraid..." But the strong hand did not come. Bernard
slackened his arm, and turned towards the house. His ear had caught the
tremor in his wife's voice, and it was his fixed decision that when
women waxed emotional it was wisdom to leave them alone. He looked at
his watch, announced that there was just time for a wash before lunch,
and took his departure. And as he went he whistled a lively song.
Cassandra leant her arms on the stone balustrade and looked over the
sloping gardens. The shimmer of green buds was on the trees; through
the brown earth were springing living things. All the world was new,
but in her breast her heart lay dead.