When Grizel sailed down to dinner two hours later, it would have been
difficult to recognise in her the pallid traveller of the afternoon.
She was gorgeously attired in a robe of golden net covered with an
embroidery of the same hue. The golden sheaf clung round her, and
trailed heavily on the ground; encased in it her body appeared of an
incredible slimness, yet from head to foot there was not one angle, not
one harsh, unlovely line. Nymph, elf, fay, she was all rounded curve
and dimple, from satin shoulder to arched and tiny feet. Though one
might marvel that a human being could live in such wand-like form,
_thin_ was a word which could never occur. Grizel was no more thin than
Katrine herself. Her soft, mouse-brown hair was waved loosely back, and
twisted in a fashion which preserved the shape of the head,--a rare and
wonderful sight at a time when nine women out of ten carried a
cushion-like appendage standing out many inches behind the ear. Grizel
was too wise to disguise herself by any such freak of fashion; an artist
would have noted with delight that she invariably respected the natural
"line" of the body. Neck and arms were bare of ornament, her cheeks
were still pale, but with a warm, cream-like tint which had no trace of
ill-health, her honey-coloured eyes reflected the golden lights of her
dress. The scarlet lips made the one contrasting note of colour.
Katrine stared blankly at the entrance of the apparition, the inevitable
admiration largely tinged with reproach. How ridiculous, and
unsuitable, and altogether Grizelish to choose such a dress for a quiet
home evening! It was probably the first that had come to her hand, and
she had put it on without a thought. When there was a dinner party, and
the most important people in the neighbourhood were assembled to meet
her, she would just as likely as not appear in a simple muslin. Katrine
had lived through such experiences before, and had suffered much
aggravation thereby. She stared with exaggerated surprise, whereupon
Grizel gurgled, quick to appreciate the criticism.
"Yes, ma'am. My _very_ best! Ain't I a pr-etty ittle did?"
"It would be very suitable for a Court ball. What possessed you to put
it on to-night?"
"I felt like it,--in a golden mood! I always dress to suit my moods.
Besides it's quite new, and the dear thing wanted its turn. It is my
Sheba dress, but you aren't nearly so appreciative as Aunt Griselda.
_She_ bowed down before me."
"I'm not going to bow down, but it's a marvellous frock!" Katrine felt
a depressing consciousness of the shabby black net which had done duty
for home wear for several winters in succession, and woman-like
reflected with a pang that the price of that golden sheaf would probably
equal that of her entire summer outfit. How would it feel to own a
fairy purse, and bid Paquin do his best?
For a moment she was rent with envy, then curiosity claimed its day.
She crossed the room, and peered with awe and admiration at the
elaborateness of the dress, the chiffon skirts poised one upon another,
which softened the glare of the satin slip, the exquisite design of the
embroidery, the rare and varied beads with which it was intermingled.
"Grizel--what gorgeousness! Every bead is a treasure. It must have
taken months to work. And on a piece of perishable net. I have _read_
about such things, but I've never seen them... Mrs Brewston would read
you a lesson on wanton extravagance--"
"_Decadence_," interrupted Grizel firmly. "You must _always_ call it
decadence. And I should perfectly agree. But the poor lambs had
embroidered it, so some one _had_ to pay, and Aunt Griselda might as
well do it as any one else. I wouldn't have dreamed of _giving_ the
order!"
"Humbug! Quibbler!--Is there any possible way of getting into it, or do
you wriggle in at the neck? There's nothing of you, my dear, but you
are modelled so considerately--plump in the right places! ... The
sleeves are a trifle attenuated, don't you think?"
"Perhaps they are, but it's the fault of my arms. They _are_ so pretty!
Look at that ikkle, ikkle dimple... You wouldn't have the heart to
hide it!" returned Grizel, shutting one eye so as to peer with the other
at the soft, infantile dents above the elbow. In praise or blame she
was always markedly honest as regarded her own appearance. Even when
Martin made his appearance at the door, and came to the sudden stand as
if dazzled by the glittering apparition in the middle of the dark room,
Grizel seemed to see no reason for changing her pose, but continued to
peer and to crane with undiminished interest.
"I'm showing Katrine a bonnie wee dimple... This side, to the west! I
can just peer at it like this, but it's beautiful viewed from the side,
I wear my sleeve cut short `a pupos.' ... This is the dress that the
Duck wears, Martin, the night she's engaged. He hadn't intended to
speak so soon, but when he saw her in it he couldn't resist--"
"I'm sure he couldn't--!"
Martin's echo came back with what his sister considered a painful
banality. She flinched before it, as at a desecration. When one is
accustomed to regard a man as seated on a permanent pinnacle of grief,
it is a shock to find him condescending to the ordinary barter of
compliment, but Martin was oblivious of her frown, for Grizel had opened
her closed eye, and peered upward into his face with her sweet, lazy
smile.
He gave her his arm, led her in to dinner, arranged her chair, and
groped under the table for a footstool, leaving Katrine to follow, alone
and unnoticed. Never in all the years they had lived together had he
thought of a footstool for his sister's feet! As there was only one of
these articles in common use, she was obliged to do without the ordinary
support, and the feeling of discomfort lasted throughout the meal.
The curtains were undrawn, leaving a vista of garden sloping upward to
the knoll, the low panelled room was already dim, and the table was
lighted by candles in tall silver stands. A bowl of beautifully cut old
glass was piled high with roses, and the meal was dainty and well
chosen, for Katrine was on her mettle before Grizel's quizzical eyes.
Martin sat at the head of the table; he had the long thin face, the
deep-set eyes, the sensitive lips, which carry the mind instinctively to
the days of old. For him a stock and a fob would have seemed more
appropriate than twentieth-century attire. His eyes looked particularly
dark to-night; he held himself buoyantly erect.
Grizel rested both elbows on the table, and began feeding herself with
fragments of bread, before the soup was served.
"Excuse my bad manners. They're _so_ fashionable!" she mumbled in
explanation. She attacked her soup with a zest which one would hardly
have expected from so fragile a creature, and took little part in the
conversation until it was finished. Then once more she rested her
elbows on the table, and smiled across at her host.
"And so," she said lazily, "to-morrow is the Duke's bean-feast. It's no
end of a way, isn't it? How do we go?"
"Martin has engaged a car. Several neighbours wanted us to share, and
it was really quite a blessing to be able to refuse. Last year we went
with the Morlands, and they stuck to us like glue to the bitter end.
This time we shall be free."
"We three, and a second man. Who is the second man?"
"We three, and _no_ other man!"
Grizel dropped her hands on to the table, and stared with distended
eyes.
"But, my child, how absurd. I'm the most unexacting of critters but I
make it a principle, never to share a man! There _must_ be an odd
bachelor in the neighbourhood who'd be glad of a lift! A presentable,
flirtable creature to make up the four!"
The youthful parlour-maid jerked at the sound of that second adjective,
and scurried from the room, soup plates in hand, leaving Katrine to
whisper hasty reprisals.
"Grizel, please! Wait until afterwards. It's a young girl I am
training. She belongs to the Y.W.C.A."
Grizel's stare changed to a smile.
"I don't object, dear. I really don't. So long as she's pleased, I
assure you I won't let it make _any_ difference!"
"But that's just what I want it to do! Do please be sensible until
dinner is over, and for mercy's sake don't talk about flirts. She'll be
so shocked."
"Then she'll be the first Y.W. I've ever met who _was_. And I don't
believe she will, neither. There's a tilt to her cap--"
The door opened to admit the Y.W., bearing in her hands the fish, and on
her face that expression of concentrated vacuity which denotes acute
curiosity. Every householder has suffered such moments, and knows by
experience the painful pause which ensues before one of the diners
bursts vivaciously into impersonalities, but to-day there was no pause.
Grizel was too nimble-witted to permit such discomfiture. There was not
the slightest break in the continuity of her speech, her words flowed on
in a smooth unbroken stream.
"--The which I take to typify a certain temperamental tendency towards
the ornate, coupled with a desire to please, and be appreciated by those
whom Providence has appointed lords among us, against which tendency all
the restrictions of that admirable society--"
"Grizel! Idiot! Eat your fish. You talk too much!"
Martin had burst into a roar of laughter, in which Katrine perforce was
obliged to join. The Y.W. marched stolidly round the table. She was by
no means so dense as she appeared, was perfectly aware that the visitor
had been reproved in her absence, and suspected a personal application
in the long-winded speech. She disappeared in search of sauce, and to
report the progress of events to the eager cook.
"I'll make a compact with you," whispered Grizel eagerly. "I'll talk
like a tract to the end of my stay, if you can induce her _not_ to puff
down my back! Principles I respect, but draughts I abhor. Just make it
perfectly clear!" ...
The Y.W. returned, and puffed vigorously the while she handed the sauce,
whereat Katrine suffered a moment of acute suspense, but Grizel only
wriggled her white shoulders, and remarked sweetly:
"Chill, isn't it, for the time of year!"
Katrine hastily turned the conversation.
"Grizel, did you know that Martin's last book is already in its third
edition?"
"No. Is it? How very good."
The words were irreproachable but there was something lacking in the
tone. Katrine frowned, Martin looked across the table at the sparkling
golden figure, who sat with head on one side, and brows arched, like a
penitent child asking for forgiveness. Their eyes met, and he smiled in
reassuring sweetness.
"Martin's books are a forbidden topic at Martin's table. After dinner,
Grizel, I'll take you to see my roses. They are much more interesting."
"In that dress! In those slippers!" gasped Katrine outraged. As
neither of her hearers volunteered a reply she considered the
proposition ruled out of court, but after coffee had been served it was
necessary to retire to her room to write an order to the stores, and
upon her return, lo! the room was empty, the French windows stood apart,
and in and out between the bushes of the knoll passed a shimmer of
golden light.
Katrine's first sensation was one of shocked surprise at the
recklessness of garden promenades in a costly new gown, her second an
impulse to go out in her turn, and make one of a party to enjoy the
fragrant dusk. She had gathered up her skirts, was on the point of
stepping through the window, when like a dart came the remembrance of
Grizel's words, her avowed dislike to "sharing a man"; of Martin's
evident agreement. She drew back, seated herself on the nearest chair,
and digested the unwelcome thought.
They would not want her! They had probably chosen the moment when she
was out of the room to start on their ramble alone. If she were to join
them now, her presence would form the proverbial "trumpery."
Katrine could have understood it, could have sympathised frankly if it
had been a case of love; lovers naturally wished to be alone, but Martin
and Grizel were merely friends, not even intimate friends, since
Grizel's visits had come at long intervals during the past years. They
could have no sweet secrets to discuss.
Sitting alone in the room looking out into the dusk, a memory darted
back out of the years. Just so had she sat during her first visit to
the house, in that brief summer of Martin's wedlock. She had been a
young girl then, lately released from school. She recalled anew the
loneliness which had fallen upon her, while Martin and Juliet roamed the
garden paths, and she sat alone, listening to the soft burst of
laughter, watching the flit of the white dress.
A white dress, ghost-like, transparent; a light, slight thing, as
befitted the youthful wearer. Grizel's dress was gold; it flashed an
opulent orange and red. There was nothing ghostly about it; it was
warm, and human, and alive. It drew the eye with an irresistible
allure.
How could he! How could he! Along the very paths which he had paced
with Juliet. Beside the flowers which her hands had planted! Once
again Katrine suffered the pang, the repulsion. All these years she had
suffered at the sight of Martin sorrowful and lonely, now--mysterious,
but incontrovertible fact!--she suffered afresh at the sight of him
consoled.
Without, in the garden, Grizel was flitting from tree to tree like a big
gold moth, bending her head to drink in the heavy perfume. The curve of
the neck, the curve of the cheek half hidden against the leaves, the
reed-like figure bent low from the waist, they were the very epitome of
grace.
"Martin! Martin! I must have some of these to take up to my room.
There's magic in the scent of red roses... real country roses, living on
their own stems. It has something different from all other scents.
These are the trees which little Juliet planted? How sweet she was that
day, when they were planted, and she was so happy, so dirty, like a
pretty child in her big pinafore! They _ought_ to be sweet!"
Martin winced. He did not reply, but taking a knife from his pocket cut
off one or two of the best blooms, carefully pruning the thronged stems.
For the first months after Juliet's death her name had been continually
on his lips, he had loved to talk about her, to hear her discussed;
later on the reference had become rarer, more strained; now for years it
had been avoided as elaborately as though it had belonged to a criminal,
a prodigal. The young fair face still hung on the walls, but in the
house where she had lived no one mentioned Juliet's name. Only Grizel,
an outsider, talked of her still, naturally, simply, with a transparent
pleasure in the remembrance.
Martin was not sure whether the reference more pleased or jarred. Yes!
he remembered! He should never forget that bright autumn day, the
laughing crowd of spectators, the picture of his girl wife in her short
garden skirt, waving her spade in triumph. He could never forget, but
the personal significance had faded. There seemed little connection
between himself and that boyish bridegroom; it was an effort to realise
that that sweet child had truly been his wife.
The present moment seemed far more real, more vital. Himself, the man,
occupied with the matured work of life; Grizel, the woman, instinct with
the lure of her sex. He held the roses towards her that she might enjoy
their fragrance, and for a minute they stood in silence, side by side.
Then Grizel raised her head, and looked into his face with a long,
penetrating glance. This was the real moment of their meeting, and both
silently recognised it as such.
"How goes it, Martin?" she asked in her soft rich voice. "How goes it?"
"Haltingly, Grizel, haltingly!" his smile flickered, and died out.
"We'll talk of that presently; you are the one person to whom I _can_
talk on that subject, but first of all there is something else.
Prisoner at the Bar.--_Why don't you like my book_?"
His voice was gentle, bantering, almost tender in tone. There was not
the faintest touch of offence, but Grizel's discomfiture was as naive
and undisguised as that of a child.
"Martin! you said that we were not to discuss--"
"Not in public; not at meals, not even before Katrine, but certainly
when we are alone. There's no getting out of it, Grizel. You said
nothing, it was only a tone, but as it happens I understand your tones.
The book may run through a dozen editions, but for you it has failed.
Why?"
She stood before him, slim and straight, her face puckered in thought.
"I--don't--know! Everything,--or was it nothing, Martin?"
"Can I help you to find out? A few leading questions perhaps... Is it
clever?"
"Very clever."
"Original?"
"Original!"
"Interesting?"
"Quite interesting."
"Clever, original, and interesting, and already in its third edition!
What would you have more, Mistress Critic?"
Grizel lifted her right hand, and lightly tapped her heart.
"Clever, interesting, original, but it didn't _touch_! The craft is
good, Martin; you are a skilful workman--I think you grow more and more
skilful, but--"
"Go on, Grizel; don't be afraid. Tell me the whole truth."
Grizel faced him in silence. It was not often that so grave and
thoughtful an air was seen upon her sparkling face. Her eyes gazed past
his, far away into the night.
"Once," she said dreamily, "there was a painter. He painted marvellous
pictures, but it was the depth and tone of his colouring which made him
celebrated over all the world. And of all his colours there was one in
particular which appeared in all his pictures, and the secret of which
his fellow-artists tried in vain to discover. It was a red, Martin, a
red so rich, so warm, so _kindled_, that all who beheld it felt warmed
in their souls, and his fellow-artists questioned and pondered, and
tried in vain to produce the same glow upon their own canvases--and the
years passed, and they grew old and weary, and still they failed. At
last one day the great man died, and those who tended him for his burial
were amazed to find a wound, an _open_ wound, above his heart. And then
at last they understood. The red of his pictures, the glow which had
warmed the world, had been painted with his own blood!"
There was silence in the garden. The scent of roses hung heavy upon the
air.
"And I," said Martin slowly. "I write in _ink_."
Grizel made no reply. She turned from the rose-bed, and passed along a
winding path which led round the herbaceous border to the slope of the
orchard beyond. It was a narrow path, too narrow for two to walk in
line, so that Martin, following, could not see her face. It was like
Grizel, he reflected, to have chosen that path at this moment. She
divined that he could speak more openly unseen.
"And even, Grizel, if I wrote in your painter's medium, my reds would
have no glow! One cannot give out what one does not possess. While I
am cold myself, how can I give out warmth? It is so long, Grizel, since
my heart was warm!"
A sigh floated back to his ears.
"_Pauvre_!" breathed the deep voice, but she did not turn her head; the
gleaming figure flitted before him down the darkening path.
"I flattered myself that I had made a brave pretence. It was a good
enough sham to delude the world, but You have found me out. Don't think
that I regret it--I am thankful to Heaven that _some one_ understands.
To be praised for what one knows to be false is a bitter pill.
Sometimes I wonder, shall I throw it all up? Settle down comfortably
into the rut, and--grow roses! I could grow good roses, Grizel; the
best of their kind. There would be no need to be ashamed."
In the twilight he saw her shake her head. A fold of the golden robe
escaped her hands, and trailed on the ground. They stooped together to
lift it up, and she smiled up at him with her sweet gay smile.
"But you couldn't, Martin; you couldn't do it! You might make a hundred
resolutions, but you'd begin again. There's no escape that way, dear
man. You must write, as you must breathe, therefore it follows that you
must get warm. Chills are depressing things, but they are dangerous
only when they are allowed to settle. This old house of yours has its
back to the sun."
"I can read your parable, Grizel, but circumstances--like houses--are
not easily turned round. Life has made chains for me from which I
cannot escape. Katrine--"
"I rather--suspect," interrupted Grizel drawling, "that Katrine's chains
are slackening! Some one, or something, has been supplying the oil.
Another creak or two and she will be breaking loose, and going off at a
tangent which will surprise your innocent mind!"
"Symbols again! I don't follow so easily this time, but if the signs
are good, I am uncommonly thankful. I can talk openly to you, Grizel,
for you won't misunderstand. Katrine is--on my mind! Perhaps it would
be more honest if I said on my _nerves_! I've a suspicion that I'm on
her nerves also, and the mischief of it is, that things are growing
worse. There's nothing definitely wrong, and yet there's--everything!
I feel an utter brute."
To his astonishment, to his relief, Grizel laughed; a blithe and
comfortable laugh. They had reached the summit of the orchard by this
time, and had paused to look down at the twinkling lights of the village
before turning back to the house.
"Poor, dear, conventional brute! Am I expected to be shocked? I'm not
one bit, and I can't pretend to be. It's not your fault, and it's not
Katrine's. You have both done your laborious bests to accomplish
something that has never been accomplished by effort since the world
began, and you are both overcome with Remorse because it has failed.
I'd like to present you with a putty medal apiece to the memory of a
successful failure. You have lived together, two utter strangers, who
happen to have been born brother and sister, for eight long years
without once descending to violence. It's magnificent, it's incredible!
You ought to be intoxicated with pride! It's the most unique quality
on earth which enables two people to live in happiness and
understanding, and what constitutes it, the dickens only knows. We've
got it,--my old Buddy and I. We are at opposite ends of the poles, we
can on occasions quarrel like cats, but in the main we understand; we
_fit_! You and Katrine don't touch within miles. There's no credit,
there's no blame. Fate placed us together, not choice. I have
succeeded because--please realise this!--I didn't need _to try_. You,
poor lambs, have tried away what little chance you had. It is
affectation to pretend that it is your fault. The only blame would be
to go on living in a false condition."
"I know it, I know it! I've been feeling it more and more strongly.
It's not fair to Katrine; it's not fair to me or to my work. But what
can I do? I brought her here, she has given up her youth to looking
after me, there's no other home open, to her--I don't pretend that her
happiness is bound up in mine, but she _thinks_ that it is, and that's
virtually the same thing. She would feel desperately aggrieved--"
"Oh, you unselfish people, there's no dealing with you!" Grizel
shrugged impatiently. "_Let_ her feel aggrieved! If it's a case of
smarting for a week, or freezing for life, then let her _smart_! Can't
you make up your mind just for once in your life to speak the bold,
blatant truth? `Katrine, my dear, we are getting sick of each other--
let's cut it, and part! I'll give you an allowance--go off and pay
visits, or set up a crib of your own, enjoy yourself in your own way,
but for Heaven's sake let me be happy too!'"
Martin shook his head.
"I couldn't, Grizel; I couldn't! It may be the right thing to do, but
I'm a coward. I can't face it. Not that way!"
Grizel looked at him whimsically. Men--the best of men, were so apt to
believe that so long as the words were not actually spoken, their
feelings remained concealed. And woman,--the pity of it!--could read
the meaning of a sign. This woman already had read the signs.
Undoubtedly, inevitably, a change was at hand!