The bulb party pursued its inevitable course. The guests arrived in
little groups of three and and four, entered the house at the front and
made their painful way along highly polished corridors, to a door
leading on to the terrace, where Cassandra stood waiting to receive
them. Here it was the orthodox thing to intercept greetings with
ejaculatory exclamations of admiration at the beauty of the floral
display, which being done the visitors descended the stone steps, and
roamed to and fro, picking up other friends _en route_. At times the
pitiful sun shone out, and then the Chumley matrons unloosed the feather
boas which were an inevitable accessory of their toilettes, and confided
in one another that it was "quite balmy," and anon it retired behind a
cloud, and gave place to an east wind which came whirling round
unexpected comers, sharp and keen as a knife. Then the matrons thought
wistfully of the bountifully spread tea tables which they had discerned
through the windows on the terrace, and consulted watch bracelets to see
how soon they could hope for relief. There were at least ten women
present to every man, and entirely feminine groups were to be seen
wandering round from one garden to another, for an hour on end, growing
ever chillier and more pinched, yet laboriously keeping up an air of
enjoyment.
Grizel Beverley was the latest guest to appear, having made a compromise
with the weather by donning a white dress with a bodice so diaphanous
that Martin had informed her he could see her "thoughts," the which she
had covered with a sable coat. When the sun shone, she threw open the
coat, and looked a very incarnation of spring, so white and lacy and
daintily exquisite, that coloured costumes became prosaic in contrast.
When the wind blew, she turned up her big storm collar and peered out
between the upstanding points, so snug and smooth and unwrinkled that
the pinched faces above the feather boas appeared doubly wan and
miserable. Feminine Chumley felt it a little hard to be beaten in both
events, but bore it the more complacently since it was the bride who was
the victor. There was no doubt about it,--Grizel was a success, and
already, after but a few months' residence, Chumley was at her feet.
She was sometimes "shocking," of course, but as she herself had
predicted, the sober townspeople took a fearsome pleasure in her
extravagances. They were as a dash of cayenne, which lent a flavour to
the fare of daily life. Moreover, though welcomed with open arms by the
county, Grizel was on most intimate terms with the town. Invitations to
afternoon festivities received unfailing acceptance; she made extensive
toilettes in honour of the occasion, ate appreciative teas, and groaned
aloud when she failed to win a prize of the value of half a crown.
Anything more "pleasant" could not be imagined!
In the more serious role of parish work also, Grizel had made her debut.
The Mothers' Meeting was still waiting time, but one afternoon she had
slipped a little gold thimble and a pair of scissors with
mother-of-pearl handles into a vanity-bag, and taken her way to a Dorcas
meeting at the Vicarage, agreeably expectant of adding a new experience
to life.
The Dorcas meeting was held in the dining-room of the Vicarage, on the
long table of which lay formidable piles of calico and flannel. At a
second small table the churchwarden's wife turned the handle of a
particularly unmelodious sewing machine. Over a dozen women sat round
the room still wearing their bonnets, but denuded of coats and mantles,
and balancing upon their knees some future garment for the poor, at
which they sewed with long, rhythmic stitches. They were assembled
together in a holy cause, and under the more or less holy roof of the
Vicar himself, yet the observant eye could have discerned as much hidden
worldliness in that room as in the most fashionable assembly. At a
Dorcas meeting everyone was welcome, the wives of tradesmen as well as
representatives of the professional and learned classes. It was
difficult to keep up the numbers, and since social engagements were less
frequent in the former class, its members were able to give more regular
attendance. The grocer's wife was a cutter-out with whom no other
member could compete. She stood at one end of the long table with a
length of calico spread out before her, and a pair of gigantic scissors
in her hand. As she cut still further and further into the material,
she leant forward over the table, and automatically her left leg swung
out,--a stout, merino-stockinged leg, terminating in a laced leather
boot. All the members came to her for instructions, and all of them
were agreeable and friendly in manner, but when the cutting process was
over, she retired to a corner of the room where were congregated a few
of her own friends. The two classes never mixed.
Grizel took the work presented to her,--a full-sized garment of
mysterious intent,--and glanced in questioning fashion round the room.
The tradesmen's wives who had been eagerly drinking in the details of
her costume, immediately lowered their eyes to their seams, but from
every other face beamed a message of invitation. Grizel beamed back,
but continued her scrutiny, till finally in the furthermost corner she
discovered the figure of that lonely parishioner who was neither fish,
flesh, nor good red herring,--Miss Bruce, the retired plumber's
daughter, to whom she had introduced herself at the church decorations.
She waved her bag with a smile of recognition, and carried a chair to
the corner.
It was not the first time that Chumley had noticed the extraordinary
intimacy between Mrs Martin Beverley and "poor Miss Bruce." They had
been seen driving together in the country; Grizel's car--a wedding
present from one of the relatives who had benefited by her marriage--had
been observed more than once waiting outside the cottage with the green
porch, and the little maid had divulged consequentially that the lady
"dropped in now and then, to play cribbage with the missis." The
Chumley matrons were not in the least inclined to follow the lead, and
call upon the plumber's daughter, neither, to tell the truth, did Miss
Bruce desire their attentions. She now looked down upon the town, and
cherished sneaking ambitions after the county. She gave herself airs,
and bought an aigrette for her Sunday bonnet. It is doubtful whether
her character was improved by being singled out for such special
attention, but at least she was happy, and happiness had been a chary
visitor in her life.
"This is the first, the very first Dorcas meeting I have ever been to in
all my life," announced Grizel, smiling. "And d'you know I believe it's
my first introduction to calico. This is calico, isn't it? Funny
smell! I rather like the smell. Do people really use it for undies?
Rather,--just a little--gritty,--don't you think?"
"Personally," Miss Bruce said primly, "I do not use calico. Not that
thread, Mrs Beverley! It's too fine. Let me give you a length...
What has Mrs Thompson given you to make?"
Grizel made a feint of unrolling the calico under cover of an upraised
arm.
"I shouldn't wish it mentioned in society,--but it's a comby! A comby
for a giant, or for a fat woman at a show. _Look_ at the waist width!
and I don't believe she'll ever be so long from the waist to the
shoulder. It will bag over her corsets, and make her back round.
Couldn't I take out a reef in the waist, and join it again with a bit of
embroidery?"
"We don't put embroidery on Dorcas garments."
"Never?"
"Never."
"Not the teeniest bit? Even at the top?"
"Never; but the bands are feather-stitched round the neck."
Grizel adopted an air of severity.
"I call it immoral. I shall speak to the Vicar. No woman can be
self-respecting in a calico band!... Well! can I cut out a piece and
join it to itself? Its against my principles to let it bag."
"Mrs Beverley, it won't bag! It might with you. That's different. Of
course if it were for you--"
Grizel's eyes opened in a round-eyed stare.
"Aren't they the same shape as I am?"
Miss Bruce made an unexpected answer. She looked the bride over, taking
in the graceful lines of the beautiful body which had the slightness of
a fay, an almost incredible slightness, but which was yet so rounded and
supple that by no possibility could it have been called thin... She
looked, and she shook her head.
"No, Mrs Beverley," she said firmly. "They are not."
Grizel sewed industriously all afternoon, and on departing exhibited an
exquisitely neat seam for Mrs Evans's inspection.
"Never say I can't sew!" she said complacently. "This afternoon has
taken me back to my childhood, when I used to hem handkerchiefs and bits
of finger at the same time." She pointed dramatically to a small red
stain in the middle of the seam. "In more ways than one. Human gore!
Isn't it piteous?"
Mrs Evans threw a protesting glance.
"My dear! What language!... Very nicely done; very nicely indeed! An
excellent beginning!"
She folded up the garment as she spoke, and with a swift movement placed
it at the bottom of a pile. Not for a contribution towards the Organ
Fund would she have betrayed the fact that Grizel had sewed a leg seam
to a sleeve!
From all sections of the community Grizel Beverley was sure of a
welcome, and on the afternoon of the bulb party she had a special reason
for being her most charming self, a reason which she had found in the
weariness of Cassandra's eyes. The two friends had descended the
terrace steps together, but had separated at the bottom, the hostess to
talk to as many of her guests as possible before they adjourned to the
house for tea. Cassandra was conscious that each group stiffened into
attention at her approach, and that natural manners suffered an eclipse
while she was present. Invariably the same stereotyped remarks were
repeated. "How large the hyacinths are this year. How charming the
blue squills look against the bright yellow of the daffodils. The
hepaticas are finer than ever... How very early for iris!"
Cassandra sighed. Eight years had she lived among these people, yet she
remained the merest acquaintance, while Grizel Beverley was already a
friend. A month ago she had been proudly indifferent to her own
unpopularity, but to-day it hurt. She was so overwhelmingly lonely that
a craving was upon her for human companionship which in some measure
might rill the void. She moved about from one group of guests to
another, always skilfully turning in an opposite direction when she
caught sight of a fair girl in a blue dress, accompanied by a tall man
in grey; until presently, with the feeling of reaching a haven, she
found herself alone with the Vicar's wife.
Mrs Evans looked with concern upon the small, brilliantly coloured face
under the fashionable hat. She noticed how little flesh there was on
the finely modelled cheeks, how sharp cut was the bridge of the nose.
The girl looked delicate; she was too thin; taken in conjunction with
the tired eyes, that exquisite flush could not be healthy. There was a
motherliness in the good woman's manner which pierced through the crust
of dignity as she put her hand through Cassandra's arm, and said kindly:
"You look tired, dear! I hope you didn't feel cold standing about on
the terrace. It is exposed, and the wind is chill. Are you quite well,
Cassandra?"
"I think so. Why? Don't I look well?" Cassandra felt a relief in the
thought that her depression might be physical. "You know I am always
unhappy at these functions. I am not a good hostess, and it worries me
to know what to say. I'm so thankful I'm not a Vicar's wife! That must
be even worse. Doesn't it bore you to extinction to be everlastingly
two people,--yourself with your nice natural impulses--and the Vicar's
wife who has no business to have impulses at all! Doesn't it bore you
terribly to be always _ex officio_?"
Mrs Evans hesitated. She intensely wanted to say yes, but that highly
trained article, her conscience, would not allow the deception. The
colour deepened on her large, plain face as she said slowly:
"I _did_ find it a trial in early years. Of late the trial has come to
me in another fashion. I am perhaps a little too ready to enjoy the
importance of my position."
Cassandra's laugh rang out with sudden gaiety. She gripped the large
arm, and said with a charming indulgence:
"Ah, but why shouldn't you? If you _do_ manage us, it's for our own
good. It's sweet of you to take the trouble... Mrs Evans, Mary
Mallison has been here to lunch, and I've been talking to her. Her
mother is vastly excited about this windfall, but the girl herself does
not seem capable of anything but relief at the thought of getting away
from home. I'm afraid she's been rather desperately unhappy. It
surprises me that she could suffer so much. I thought she was one of
those dull women who are contented to jog along in any rut in which they
are placed, and never demand anything for themselves."
"Do you think there are any such women, Cassandra?"
"Don't you?"
"I am quite sure there are not."
Cassandra knitted her brows and stared intently into the face of the
woman, who was a virtual father confessor to the parish. If Mrs Evans
were sure, what right had she to question; but the thought held a sting.
"But--if not, there must be so horribly many who are wretched!"
"There are," Mrs Evans said. A moment later: "Wretched is a strong
word, Cassandra," she added, "perhaps it would be better to say
`disappointed.' There are very few women who get to my age who are not
making a fight against some sort of disappointment. They are very brave
about it, for the most part, and cover it up so successfully that the
world does not suspect; but the fight goes on. I get many peeps behind
the scenes; it's part of my work. Sickness comes or loss, and then it
is a comfort to speak out and unburden the heart. I've been amazed at
the number of hidden sorrows in the places where I least expected them.
I have looked down on a woman as frivolous and commonplace, and have
come away after half an hour's confidences looking up to her as a
heroine."
Cassandra turned her head and looked up and down the diverging paths.
Women everywhere, crowds of women, old and young, and heavily
middle-aged, talking, smiling, bearing themselves with complacent airs.
It was a ghastly, a hideous thought that they were all suffering some
inner smart! She had believed that she was an exception, but according
to Mrs Evans it was not the sufferer who was the exception, but the
child of the sunshine, who, like fortunate Grizel, was endowed with the
gift of happiness.
"All of them?" cried Cassandra sharply. "Oh, not all! They look so
calm and comfortable. I couldn't bear to think that under the mask they
were all suffering!"
"They are not, my dear; they are forgetting! That's the lesson so many
of us have to learn,--to forget the unattainable, and make the best of
what remains. And every innocent distraction that comes along, like
this party to-day, to see your beautiful flowers, helps a step along the
road."
"Suppose," said Cassandra slowly, "one did not wish to forget?"
The Vicar's wife shook her head.
"One rarely does. It is easier to cling hold. But it's possible to ask
oneself a straight question... Which is going to make life easier for
myself, and the people around me,--to cling hold, or,--to let go? It
saps one's vitality to grieve over the unattainable, and in most lives
there _is_ an unattainable. There are not many women so fortunate as
you, Cassandra!"
Mrs Evans spoke in good faith. She had a sincere liking for the
Squire, who as a patron was not only generous, but delightfully free
from the dreaded vice of interference. When consulted on church
matters, he would shrug his shoulders, and declare that it was all one
to him. So long as the music was passable, and the sermons kept within
a ten minutes' limit, he could be relied upon to give liberally, and to
make no complaints. Truly a patron in a hundred! Such a man could not
fail to be a kind husband. Moreover, the touch of snobbishness in Mrs
Evans's nature invested Cassandra's position in the county with a most
satisfying importance, while the presence of the needful heir made the
picture complete. Youth, beauty, wealth, a fine position, a kindly
husband, a strong young son,--what more could a woman desire? "But you
must be careful not to take cold!" she added remindfully.
Cassandra gave a short, mirthless laugh, but before she had time to
speak her husband and Grizel turned the corner of the path, and Bernard,
with his usual lack of ceremony, beckoned to her to approach. He looked
flushed and worried, and with a word of apology to Mrs Evans, Cassandra
hurried to meet him.
"Here you are at last! Been searching all over. Trust you to hide
yourself out of sight. Look here! I want you at the house. There's
been an accident. Peignton--"
Cassandra straightened herself hastily. The flower-beds with their
blaze of colour whizzed round in kaleidoscopic fashion before her eyes.
She felt very cold, and faint. Grizel's voice sounded a long way off,
speaking with a studied distinctness.
"A _slight_ accident! Only his ankle. He was doing something in the
rockery, clambering over the big stones, and one turned over... The
Squire sent for an old Bath chair in the stables, and he has been
wheeled into the plant room. There is a terrific discussion going on as
to what next. Can't you come and take away _some_ of Mrs Mallison?"
Cassandra turned homeward without a word, the Squire walking by her
side, waving his hands in excitement.
"She wants to drag him home with her in that shandrydan! Says he'll be
lonely at home, and would have Teresa. Hang Teresa! There's a time for
all things,--a man can't be bothered with love-making when his foot is
giving him blue lightnings. Shake him to pieces driving over those
roads! Jevons can get him to bed here, and look after him properly.
I'll wire to that Swedish fellow to come down, and he'll have him on his
feet in two or three days. We'll put him in the blue room, next to the
Den, and he can wheel in on a sofa to-morrow. Now back me up!"
"What does Captain Peignton say? It is he who must decide. He may
prefer--"
"Oh, rats!" The Squire waved impatiently. "He won't prefer. What man
would? Teresa's a fine girl, but that mother is the limit. She'd drive
Peignton daft, mewed up in that little house. I know what I'm talking
about,--what you've got to do is to back me up! You're always so deuced
ready with objections. He's hurt himself here, and he's going to stay
here till he's better. I've made up my mind."
The Squire stormed on, repeating the same things over and over again
until the house was reached, and he led the way through a doorway level
with the ground into a large, bare room furnished with a couple of
chairs, a few cupboards, and a long central table. It was a room used
by the gardeners for the arrangement of flowers for the house, and had
been chosen on the present occasion as offering the easiest access to
the Bath chair. Cassandra's eyes darted past a group of female figures
and rested on Peignton's face, pale and drawn, though resolutely
composed. The realisation that he was suffering put an end to
hesitation, and she swept forward, ignoring an opening chorus of
explanations, and said firmly:
"His foot ought to be raised. It ought to be bathed at once. The shoe
must be cut off."
Mrs Mallison was loud in assent.
"I said so, Lady Cassandra; I said so! I've been talking to him for the
last ten minutes. _Folly_ to waste time! The trap is in the stable,
and we could be home in half an hour. I want to take him home with me,
Lady Cassandra. The best thing, isn't it? So dull for a man with a
sprained ankle,... but he'd have Teresa. Teresa would amuse him. Do
let me order the trap!"
"My dear madam, it's madness. The poor beggar can't stand a drive.
He'd better get off to bed upstairs, and I'll wire for the Swedish
fellow who put me to rights last year. My man knows how to start
operations, and he can begin right away. Marvellous how those Swedes
treat sprains! I was laid up a solid six weeks with the same ankle ten
years ago under a country G.P. Sprained it again last year, and called
in this masseur fellow, and in four days--"
The Squire was safely launched on a favourite story, staring from one
feminine hearer to the other, demanding full attention. Cassandra
turned her head and looked steadily at Dane. She meant that look to be
a question, and the question received its answer. If ever a man's eyes
expressed appeal, Dane's expressed it at that moment. With all the
intensity which eyes could express, he threw himself at her mercy.
"I think," said Cassandra clearly, "Captain Peignton had better stay.
It will be quicker in the end. Teresa must come up and amuse him here."
She laid her hand on the girl's arm with a kindly pressure. "You will
stay and look after him now, till my husband finds Jevons. There is an
old carrying chair in the box-room, which will get over the difficulty
of the stairs. Mrs Mallison! shall we lead the way to tea?"
The next moment the room was empty save for the engaged pair. Teresa
knew that the opportunity had been made, and knew that she ought to be
grateful, but she was anxious and miserable, and more than a little
wounded by her lover's unwillingness to accept her mother's invitation.
"I should have _liked_ to nurse you, Dane!" she said reproachfully, and
Dane pressed his lips in a spasm of pain, and rejoined quietly:
"I know, dear. Thank you, but it's better as it is. I'll be
confoundedly glad to get this shoe off, and try what sponging will do.
You'll come up?"
"Oh, yes!" Teresa said. She leant against the side of the Bath chair,
and held out a tentative hand. "I wish it had been me! I'd rather bear
it myself a dozen times. It _will_ help you, won't it, Dane, if I come
and sit beside you? If I were ill, I'd want more than anything else
just to see your face!"
"Bless you, Teresa! You're a dear girl," Dane said, smiling, but his
eyes wandered wistfully to the doorway. The Squire was right. A man in
pain has no zest for love-making. A woman would welcome it with her
dying breath.