Teresa's marriage was arranged for the following August, a month which
Mrs Mallison appeared to believe was clearly appointed by Providence.
Three months was the shortest interval which could respectably elapse
between a funeral and a wedding: three months, taken in conjunction with
the date of half-yearly sales, was the period necessary for the
preparation of a trousseau; quarter-day falling in September, there
would be time to prepare for a removal after the wedding was over. It
must be a quiet wedding, of course, very quiet, but _white_. Certainly
Teresa must have a white wedding. It had been talked of so much, her
young friends had been asked to be bridesmaids. Papa would not have
liked a hole-and-corner affair. Papa dead was an even more convenient
Jorkins than Papa living, and, to judge from his widow's reminiscences,
would seem to have entertained strong opinions concerning the weddings
of young girls. Simple, of course; quite simple, but a white dress
_and_ bridesmaids, _and_ an assemblage of friends. So sweet to be
surrounded by loving hearts! And a cold collation. Champagne cup.
Handed round _after_ the tea and coffee. Two or three bottles would be
ample. "Teresa," said the widow beaming, "will look beautiful in
charmeuse!"
Peignton, like every other prospective bridegroom, would have preferred
to be married in an empty church, but Teresa sparkled at the prospect of
recovering her prestige in the eyes of the neighbourhood, and it was not
for him to refuse her the satisfaction.
The day after the funeral Peignton left Chumley. Teresa took it for
granted that he would not return until the date of the wedding, but it
was arranged that during the interval she should procure the chaperonage
of a married friend, and pay a week's visit to her future home, when
such important questions as carpets and wall-papers could be discussed.
"We won't be in a hurry to furnish the whole house. We'll start with
just what is necessary, and amuse ourselves with picking up the
superfluities one by one. It will be jolly collecting treasures on our
honeymoon. If we go off the beaten route, we shall find lots of happy
hunting grounds. It will give the sticks an added value to remember how
we bought them,--eh, little girl?" Peignton said, smiling. The
old-time interest in the prospect of introducing Teresa to the beauties
of new lands was struggling into new life. The prospect of a home
gained hourly in sweetness.
During the next few days the Chumley matrons garbed themselves in black,
and, with discreetly lengthened visages, repaired to the Cottage on
visits of condolence, to emerge half an hour or so later, considerably
shocked and bewildered. They were prepared to mourn with a widow for
the loss her husband; with a householder for the loss of income, with a
mother whose daughter was neglected by her lover--they beheld instead a
complacent personage in weeds, shedding a dutiful tear for "Papa," and
hastily whisking it away at the remembrance of "many blessings."
"So much to be thankful for! Mary home, and so useful. Taken up her
old duties, and dear little Trissie so happy! The Captain, _devoted_.
His house to be done up, regardless of expense. The marriage in August.
Quiet of course, but white. Just," the widow declared with a sigh, "as
Papa had planned!"
On the subject of finance the good lady was equally complacent. "There
had been losses... poor Papa had been ill-advised, but if income were to
be reduced, so, most appropriately, would be expenses also. No one but
Mary and myself to think of. Between you and me," said Mrs Mallison to
each visitor in turn, "I believe we shall feel quite rich!"
Grizel Beverley delivered a spirited account of her own interview with
the widow for the benefit of Cassandra on her first subsequent visit to
the Court. She thought it probable that rumour had already carried the
announcement of the marriage, but preferred to make sure of this in
indirect fashion, rather than by an open question.
"Oh, she is a wonderful woman, is Mrs Mallison," she quoted
mischievously. "The Vicar says she is bearing up wonderfully, _I_ say
she is having the time of her life. Notices in the paper, references in
church, flocks of callers, everyone talking about her,--what could she
wish for more? She looks so imposing, too, in her bombazines. Have you
the slightest idea what bombazines are? Neither have I, but you may
take my word for it--she's got 'em! Poor Papa is quite a useful
stalking horse, and has a tear dropped to his memory, before she enters
upon the _real_ subject of interest."
"I know," Cassandra said quietly, "Teresa's marriage. It's arranged for
August, I hear. I knew it must be. Teresa's not the sort of girl to
live on her sister's income, and Dane couldn't,--after all this time, he
couldn't let her turn out to work!" She sat silent for a few minutes,
her eyes gazing sightlessly over the terraced gardens. "So at long
last, this is the end, Grizel!"
"And at long last--are you still sorry, Cassandra?"
"I--don't--know!" sighed Cassandra slowly. "In one way I shall be
almost glad when the strain is over. I've come to see that, for him,
it's the best way out. He wasn't made to live alone. She will make him
happy--not so happy as I could have done, but he has wasted enough time,
and it's useless waiting on... Oh, he will patch up his life, Grizel.--
It will be all new--so many interests cropping up.--He won't have time
to think. And I shall settle down better when it's all over. Teresa's
husband won't be my Dane! ... My poor little love story! it had a very
short course.--I wonder if any other married woman ever loved so wisely
and so well!"
Grizel made an eloquent gesture.
"Hundreds! Thousands! Do you suppose you are the only woman who has
met the right man too late? Do you suppose you are the only woman who
has the decency to keep to her bond? There are thousands of them! You
meet them in every street. But they are silent. It's the _other_ women
you hear of,--the women who fill the divorce courts; the women who
_don't_ stay at home, and do their duty..."
"As I am doing mine!" sighed Cassandra again. Then suddenly the colour
flew to her face. "There's one thing, Grizel, that I cannot face, and
that is being here for the marriage. Think of the fuss and commotion--
all the town agog, flags out of the windows, the church bells ringing...
They'll ring them at Beston, too, at his old church... Grizel.--I
could not endure those bells."
"You won't hear them. We're going away. I've planned it all, and
you've nothing to do but to obey. I'm going to have a nervous
breakdown," announced Grizel, with a smirk. "Poor young wife! So sad.
Ordered abroad, and her husband absolutely _tied_ at home: obliged to
finish a book. Lady Cassandra has taken her. Some sort of retreat,
they say. Sounds very suspicious,--but she always _was_ excitable!
Pitiful for him, poor man! His _second_ wife!"
"Grizel! How can you?" In spite of herself Cassandra was laughing now.
"But you are a darling. It would be salvation. If I were at home I
should be obliged to go to the wedding, which would be torture for
myself, and they would be happier without me! Oh, let us go, do let us
go! I'd be so thankful..."
"We _are_ going. There's no doubt about that, but it's as well to be
prepared for emergencies. Do you think the Squire will object."
"Oh no. Not now. He'll be quite pleased. I have an idea, Grizel, that
his mother said something to him about me before she died. She knew I
was unhappy, I could see it in her eyes, and ever since he has been
more,--how shall I put it?--not affectionate, that's over,--more
_human_, shall we say? He doesn't take me _quite_ so much for granted.
It occasionally enters his head that I'm not very strong. He would be
quite willing for me to have a change, even without the excuse of your
breakdown. Poor young wife! ... And where is the Retreat?"
"In France. In Normandy. It's a convent, my dear, where they take a
few _pensionnaires_, but I'll arrange that there shall be no one there
but ourselves. I've been before when I needed a rest,--not the bodily
_I_, but the other bit, whatever you choose to call it, the bit that
_feels_! Being a good Protestant I should logically hate convents. As
a solid fact, I get more good in this particular one than anywhere else
in the world. The nuns are so sweet; they have such selfless,
crystalline, child-hearts. After you have been with them a few days,
some of their calm begins to steal into your own heart, and the fret to
die out. You feel such a long, long way from the outside world, that
you look at everything from a new perspective. It came upon me with
quite a shock that all my trouble had been about myself! ... My own
waiting, my own loss. But these sweet things have buried self... Oh,
it does one good, Cassandra, and the regular Spartan life, the bare
floors, the exquisite, exquisite, cleanliness,--it's all a tonic and an
inspiration. It's not dull either; don't think that it's dull! I take
my prettiest clothes, and an assortment of selected jokes. They love
'em, the dear things! I believe they love me too."
"I'm quite sure of that."
"Well!" Grizel smirked complacently, "so am I. To tell you the truth
I'm a tonic to them, so I give as much as I take. They do me good, and
I shock them, so we're both happy. The Reverend Mother once felt it her
duty to reprove me, but her eyes danced, so I went steadfastly on, and
did it again."
"And the services? Do you go to the services too?"
"Of course, and enjoy them so much that they have fond hopes of
converting me altogether. They won't; but that's a detail. Thank
goodness, I am so constituted that it's always the similarity between
creeds that strikes me, never the difference, so I find help in them
all... We'll allow a month for the convent,--I can't decently recover
from a nervous breakdown in less than a month,--but we'll take a few
days off now and then for excursions in the neighbourhood, and _then_,
darling, we come home by Paris! Food for the spirit, and food for the
flesh... _Nothing_ is more reviving than a becoming hat. We'll buy
hats, Cassandra, and be blowed to expense... What's the very most you
have ever spent on a hat?"
"I never have told, and I never will," Cassandra said firmly, "but it
had a real lace veil." She sighed with melancholy resignation.
"Somehow, Grizel, even hats lose their savour, when there's no one to
care..."
"Rubbish!" cried Grizel tersely, "and you know it. A woman buys hats to
please herself. Half the time her husband calls them `The Limit'! and
her friends wonder how she _can_, but so long as she and the mirror are
agreed, it doesn't make a rap of difference. She wears it to the end...
Cassandra, darling, I feel it in my bones that I'm going to find the
hat of my life! Oughtn't we to be dreadfully thankful that we go in for
different styles? All would be over between us, if we fell in love with
the same model!"