"What?"
"You have cut the knot with your heroic rescue! The Squire will call;
the General will call; the neighbouring sheep will follow in their
train. We shall be graciously `forgiven' and admitted into the fold.
Our quiet, sent-to-Coventry existence is at an end."
I looked at her anxiously. From voice and manner it was impossible to
tell what she was really feeling. Above all things I wanted to please
her. But still--
"Are you sorry, Charmion? Would you be sorry? I suppose they _will_
come, but there is no necessity to receive them, if you would rather
not. After ignoring us so long, they could not complain. I will leave
it to you to decide."
"Then they shall come," she said firmly. "You've been a brick about it,
dear, but I'm not blind. I know that it has been a trial for you to be
cut off from general society. You are a sociable creature, and need
friends around you. We have had a happy _tete-a-tete_, and I've enjoyed
it thoroughly, but it couldn't go on. I should not have _allowed_ it to
go on. I am a selfish woman in many ways, but not selfish enough to
make a hermit of you at twenty-six. So!--let them all come. In any
case, we shall probably be making a move before very long, so we can't
be drawn very deeply into the rustic maelstrom!"
"_We shall be making a move_."
The words gave me a jar. My "Kensington" flat is now in order, and
ready to receive my furniture whenever I care to send it in. I am still
in love with the Pixie scheme; but, while summer lasts, and the garden
grows more beautiful every day, I want to stay here! In my own mind I
had settled down till September at least. I had believed that Charmion
was as happy as myself, but now the old restlessness sounded in her
voice. I looked at her, and saw her eyes staring wearily into space.
Oh dear, oh dear, the narcotic of the new life is already losing its
power; the grim spectre of the past is casting its shadow between us!
They have called! This afternoon, when we were having tea in the
garden, General Underwood's bath-chair appeared suddenly on the scene.
First came a crunching of gravel, and when we turned our heads to
discover the cause, the front wheel was already turning the corner of
the path, and the next moment there was the General smiling benevolently
upon us, the valet pushing the handle, and walking by his side the
Squire himself, very red in the face and puckered about the brow,
exactly like a naughty boy who is being dragged forward to say he is
"sorry."
Fortunately there was no time to consider the situation. We shook
hands, and found a chair for Mr Maplestone, and ordered more tea, and
discussed the weather in its various branches, all with the utmost
propriety, until gradually the ice thawed. Charmion is a gracious
hostess, and the General is as genial and simple in manner as most men
who have spent their lives "east of the Suez". After five minutes in
his society one understands why he is the idol of the neighbourhood. He
looks ill, poor dear, but his blue eyes are still clear and alert, and
he twinkles them at you in such a shrewd, kindly fashion.
Not a word did he say about the accident until tea was half over and I
handed him some cake, when he looked full at me, and asked slyly:--
"How is the poor arm?"
"Progressing beautifully, thank you. _And_--the poor feet?"
"Ah," he said eloquently, "that was a moment! I am ashamed of my
ingratitude; but, my dear young lady, if you could have felt--"
"I know," I said humbly. "Eight stone six. But I had no choice; and at
the worst, it was not so bad as being spilt into the road."
"Indeed, yes. I am under the impression that I owe you a great deal.
It is difficult to express--"
"Please don't!" I said hastily. "I could hardly have done less, but I
could very easily have done it in a less clumsy way; and--it's so
embarrassing to be thanked! Let us talk of something else. Would you
care to see our garden? We have worked very hard at it all spring, and
are so proud of our effects. We love showing people round!"
Then I suddenly remembered and blushed, and glanced guiltily at the
Squire, to discover that he was doing exactly the same at me, and we all
three got up in a hurry, and disputed who should push the bath-chair.
The Squire did it, of course, and Charmion and I walked one on each side
and played show-women, and the dear old man admired everything he saw,
and asked for seeds in the autumn, and offered _us_ seeds in return, and
did everything nice and polite that nice polite people do do on garden
visits.
As for the Squire, he kept on saying nothing.
Our tour ended at the gate, and when we said our final good-byes,
General Underwood explained he was not up to calling, as he was often
unable to go out, but that at any time, if we could spare half an hour
to visit _him_, it would be doing a kindness to a lonely old man. "And
will you allow me to wish you much happiness and prosperity in your
beautiful home?"
Charmion thanked him with serene unconsciousness, and the Squire and I
stared elaborately into space, so elaborately that on parting we made
two separate dives before we succeeded in finding each other's hands.
Then the valet came forward, and the little procession turned out of the
gate.
"Charmion," I said solemnly, "I feel a worm. That dear, heroic old man!
I wish we had let him have `Pastimes' ten times over."
"Mistaken heroism, my dear. He can be still more heroic at `Uplands'."
"Er--what do you think of--the other one?"
"Er--honestly, Evelyn, I don't think of him at all!"
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mrs Maplestone has called, and the three or four other county magnates,
none of them particularly interesting from our point of view. We are
now formally and definitely "received," and the first result has been a
violent increase of intimacy on the part of the Vicar's wife. I think
she has always "hankered" to know us, but not having enough
individuality to act for herself, she has waited for a lead before
taking the plunge.
Now it appears that she is organising a garden fete and wants us to
help. It is her own idea, and she says it is for the organ fund. I
don't want to be uncharitable, but I think it is equally designed for
the amusement and diversion of Delphine Merrivale! I am uneasy about
that girl. Nature never designed her for a clergyman's wife; she is
restless and bored, while that dear, good, fine man, who loves her so
much, is as blind as a bat, and believes that all is well. To-day she
sent for me to come to tea, and he came into the room while she was
volubly discussing various plans, which struck me as likely to cost more
money than they were ever likely to gain. When he appeared she gave a
little shrug of impatience, and for a few moments lapsed into silence,
but her self-control being soon exhausted, she took up her tale and
babbled on as enthusiastically as before.
It appears that every summer a "Sale" is held in the vicarage garden to
dispose of the articles manufactured by the "Working Party" throughout
the winter session. They consist of serviceable garments for the poor,
which are eagerly purchased by the members of the Needlework Guild, and
also of a selection of "fancy" articles which nobody wants, such as
brush and comb bags of pink and white crochet, shaving paper cases with
embroidered backs (first catch the man who uses them!) and handkerchief
sachets of white satin, on which are painted (badly) sprays of wild
roses and maidenhair fern!
The parish has always meekly assembled itself together for the fray,
paid threepence for a plain tea, and departed peacefully on its way; but
this year--_this_ year, there is to be a band, and a man to cut out
silhouettes, and ices, and strawberries and cream, and quite a variety
of excitements.
"A treasure hunt for one, at an entrance fee of a shilling a head. The
treasures to be supplied as voluntary offerings by the ladies of the
neighbourhood."
Mrs Merrivale paused and cocked an interrogative eye at me, and her
husband said gently:--
"Dear, aren't you too ambitious? Our ordinary quiet sale has done very
well until now. Why land yourself with a great deal of extra work and
fatigue, to say nothing of expense, for an altogether problematical
result!"
"Oh, Jacky," she cried deeply. "It is not problematical. We shall make
pounds and pounds. I don't mind the work. I like it. Think how lovely
it would be if we could clear off the whole debt!"
He smiled at her with the tenderest appreciation. Oh, if any man looked
at me like that, I would work my fingers to the bone to help him.
Honestly and truly, he believed that she was bracing herself to the fray
out of the purest, most disinterested motives. Never for one moment did
it occur to him that a grown woman could hanker after such ploys for her
own amusement. There is much in his unconsciousness which is beautiful,
but--there is danger, too! Surely, surely when two people live together
in such a terribly close relationship as husband and wife, before all
things it must be necessary to understand!
"Then I leave it to you, dearest," he said. "Arrange as you think best.
And now, if Miss Wastneys will excuse me, I must say good-bye. Poor
Mrs Evans is worse this afternoon. They fear that an operation may be
necessary. She has had terrible pain."
Mrs Merrivale threw out her hand impulsively. I was amazed to see that
she had grown quite white.
"Don't, Jacky--don't! You know _I_ can't bear it. _Why_ will you speak
of such things when I have begged you not?"
"I'm sorry, darling. I forgot. My mind was so engrossed." He laid his
hand on her shoulder as he passed, and said to me, in an apologetic
voice, "This poor child is so sensitive. The pain of the world wounds
her tender heart. I am inconsiderate in bringing my burdens to her."
The door shut behind him, and we stared at one another for a long tense
moment. I _knew_, and she knew that I knew, and suddenly the long
strain of pretending to be what she was not reached the snapping point,
and she spoke out in a burst of impotent irritation:--
"It's not true! I'm _not_ tender-hearted. They don't wound me at all,
all these sordid miserable details; they just irritate and disgust and
asphyxiate. Oh, I'm so tired of it all--so _tired_--and he doesn't see,
doesn't understand! He puts me on a pedestal, and burns incense at my
feet, and believes that I am as interested as himself, and all the
time--all the time I am smothered with boredom and impatience. I don't
know why I am saying all this to you. Yes, I do. I saw in your eyes
that you saw through me, and knew what I really felt. Now I suppose you
are horribly shocked?"
"Not a bit. I don't understand enough to judge you one way or another;
but I wish, as you have begun, you would tell me a little more. I'm
young myself, you see, so I should probably understand. Lots of people
tell me their secrets, and I'm always sorry, and very rarely shocked.
We all have our own faults. Why should we be so very hard on other
people because theirs are a different brand from our own?"
She stared at me with her big blue eyes.
"What are your faults?"
"Well," I laughed, "the list would take a long time! Shall we leave it
for another day? What I want to know now is, why, with your
temperament, did you come to marry a country parson?"
"Because I loved him, of course," came the ready reply. "He came to
take duty in our church while our own clergyman was ill, and he stayed
in our house. He was so much older than I--fifteen years--that I never
thought of him--like that! I just thought he was a dear, and liked to
talk to him, and show him about the garden, and get him to help me in
little odd ways. He was so learned and serious and staid that all the
others were in awe of him, but I ordered him about, and made him wait on
me, and teased him because he did it so badly. It was such fun! I
enjoyed myself frightfully. Mother read me a long lecture one night,
and said Mr Merrivale would be pained to see father's daughter was such
a frivolous girl. But he wasn't. He fell in love with me instead.
Doesn't that seem queer?"
I didn't think it was queer at all. Imagination conjured up scenes in
the summer garden where the gay pretty girl had held her little court,
and queened it over the grave, silent man. It was a thousand to one on
his falling under the spell. The mischief of it was that he had
expected the marriage ceremony to convert a butterfly into a staid,
parochial wife. John Courtney Merrivale had a thousand virtues, but
imagination was not his strong point.
"I think it was extremely natural. Just what I should have expected to
happen. You are very pretty, you know, and I expect you made a charming
task-mistress. And, of course, any sane girl must have been interested
in him. But--what did you think about the life in this little place?"
"Oh! I didn't think about it at all," she said calmly. "I was so
happy, and--excited. And so busy getting my clothes, and the presents,
and arranging for the wedding. I had a lovely wedding. Eight
bridesmaids carrying rose-staves. And Jacky took me to Switzerland for
the honeymoon, and was so young and gay himself. Like a boy. I had a
perfectly glorious three months, and then--"
She paused, and the pink and white face puckered into a grimace as she
cast an expressive glance to right and left.
"We came _home_! That was the first shock, seeing all this dingy,
hideous furniture, and realising that it had to stay. Jacky likes it
because it belonged to his mother, and he thinks it would be wicked
waste to sell it for nothing, and buy new. I tried to brighten things
up, but--if you look round this room you will realise that a few new
things made the effect _worse_! I gave it up in despair, and all my
pretty cushions and embroideries, and pictures and ornaments are hidden
away in boxes in the attic."
"Oh, that's hard! You have my unbounded sympathy. I should hate to
live in uncongenial surroundings. Isn't there _any_ room in the house
you could have for your own, and furnish just exactly as you like?"
"All the rooms are full. I've given up trying to change things _now_,
but they irritate me all the same. When I've been out all the day at
meetings and guilds, it would be a rest to come home to a pretty room.
I look at those maroon curtains, and this hideous patterny carpet, and
feel all nervy and on edge; then Jacky thinks I am tired, and brings me
hot milk." She opened her speedwell blue eyes to their fullest width,
and stared at me dolefully. "Oh, Miss Wastneys, it is so strenuous to
have to live up to an ideal!"
"It would be still more strenuous to--_fall short_," I said curtly, and
she gave a start of dismay.
"Oh, goodness, yes! Anything rather than that! I wouldn't for the
world have Jacky find me out."
I felt like an aged grandam admonishing a silly child. Of course in the
long run he was bound to find out, for Delphine's discontent was
obviously increasing, and the hour was at hand when her self-control
would come to a sudden and violent end. Then there would be hasty words
and recriminations, the memory of which no after remorse could wipe
away. I was sure of it, and said so plainly, qualifying my prophecy
with a big "unless."
"Unless you can make up your mind to be honest _now_, and tell your
husband the whole truth. There is nothing to be ashamed of in being
young and needing variety in life. Tell him frankly that too much
parish gets on your nerves, and that you could do your work better if
you went away for a few weeks every three or four months. There must be
friends whom you could visit, and who would be glad to have you. After
a change of scene and occupation you would come home braced and
refreshed, and ready to make a fresh start. And you might speak about
the room at the same time. You need not suggest selling any furniture,
but just storing some of it away in an attic or cellar, so that you
could have a little boudoir of your own. Do be sensible, and tell him
to-night. He loves you. He wants you to be happy. He would
understand."
She shook her head.
"No. He would be kind and patient. He would agree at once, and never
say a word of reproach, but--he wouldn't understand. That's just it.
His whole idea of me would be shocked out of existence. He would be
disappointed to the bottom of his soul. I--I can't do it, Miss
Wastneys; but it's been a relief to grumble to you. Thank you for
letting me do it. Things have been just a little better since you and
Mrs Fane came to `Pastimes'. I haven't seen much of you, of course,
but I have enjoyed watching you. You wear such lovely clothes, and you
are young and interesting. Most of the people are so dull and settled
down. I wish you would call me `Delphine,' and come to see me as often
as you can. Just run in any time you are passing, and let me come to
you in the same way. I've been so bored. Well, never mind," she
brightened suddenly; "the fete will be a little excitement. I _am_
looking forward to that."
An idea flashed into my head. I was sorry for the girl, and intensely,
forebodingly sorry for her husband. If one could help to avert the
threatened tragedy.
"I am just wondering," I began tentatively. "Of course I can make no
definite offer without consulting Mrs Fane, but--would you like it if
we lent our grounds for the fete? The extra space might be an
advantage, and we could save you trouble by arranging for the tents and
refreshments, and perhaps organise some little stall on our own
account."
I really thought that might save a good deal of expense, and so add to
the profit of the afternoon, and also that with our wider experience we
might run the fete on more advanced lines, and so give her, as well as
the rest of the parish, a more amusing time; but to my disappointment
she flushed, and looked far from pleased.
"Oh, thanks, but--really, this is my affair! If I have all the duty and
responsibility of being the Vicar's wife, I don't see why I should give
up the fun of being hostess and arranging my own fete in my own way.
It's very sweet of you, of course, and I'm very grateful. I hope you
won't be offended."