It was about a week after Mrs. Walbridge's visit to Mrs. Twiss that
Griselda went to the play with old Mrs. Wick and her son. Greatly to the
girl's astonishment, Mr. Wick turned up two or three days after her
decided rejection of him, and his manner had shown nothing of the
traditional depression of the refused young man. Indeed, he seemed
particularly gay, and had brought her some sweets--sticky balls rolled
in wax paper, that he told her were the best sweets on earth.
"My mother made 'em," he said. "She's great at making things. These ones
are a sort of nougat. You try one--_you'll_ see----"
The uncouth looking sweetmeats were indeed delicious, and the two young
people sat at the top of the stairs leading to the garden (for it was
one of those odd, lost summer days that wander along through our island
winters like lonely strayed children), and munched and talked, and
talked and munched, in as friendly a way, Griselda thought, as if he had
never mentioned marriage to her.
"I don't like your frock," he said suddenly, speaking with difficulty,
for his mother's sweets were sticky. "You're too dark for blue. Makes
you look yellow."
"Well, upon my word!" The girl was full of innocent airs and graces;
little affectations blossomed all over her, and perhaps they were only
the blossom of future graces. But somehow, this odd reporter person, as
she called him to her mother, clutched at these premature flowerets
like a black frost, and she found herself being as natural as a little
boy with him.
"You are polite," she remarked.
He smiled from ear to ear.
"No, I'm not. I'm very rude, but it's true. You ought to wear green and
brown, or yellow or white. Imagine a buttercup dressed in blue serge!"
Everyone likes to talk about himself or herself, so for a moment Grisel
enjoyed herself thoroughly, as they gravely discussed the different
kinds of flowers that she might be said to resemble. Then he invited her
to go to the play, and when she refused demurely, he chuckled with
delight.
"Oh, now you think I'm the ignorant young man," he retorted. "You think
I don't know that you couldn't go with me alone. (Of course, so far as
that's concerned you _could_--all the smart girls, dukes' and earls'
daughters, do)--but I have not invited you to. My mother's coming with
us."
"Your mother?"
"Yes. Naturally she's anxious to meet you."
She looked at him innocently, her eyes like black-heart cherries with
the sun on them.
"Why should your mother wish to meet me?"
"Oh," he answered. "Don't you realise that I'm an only son?"
"What's that got to do with it?"
He looked at her gravely, his flexible lips steady as iron. "Most
mothers want to know the girl their son's going to marry, don't you
think?"
Before she could help it, she laughed. "But her sons aren't going to
marry me."
"No, but her son is. I am. Oh, yes," he went on before she could speak.
"We shan't be married this winter, of course, but in the spring we
shall. You may choose a nice month. It'll be a proud day for you, my
dear, and jolly lucky you'll be to get me!"
She rose and refused another sweet. "No thanks, we must go in now. I've
got a lot to do. My father's not very well, and I may have to go down to
Torquay to look after him if he doesn't get better."
"Miss Walbridge," he spoke in a voice that to her was quite new, and
when she turned, looking at him over her shoulder, something in the
dignity of his face forced her to turn completely round and wait.
"Don't think me a perfect fool," he said. "I can't help teasing you.
You--you're so little and so young. What I'd like to do would be to lift
you up on my shoulder and run round and round the garden with you, and
scare the life out of you, but I daren't do that, so I have to tease
you. Besides, you know," he added very gravely, "it is true that I love
you, and I mean you to marry me."
Mrs. Walbridge, who was in the dining-room packing some bottles of
home-made beef-tea to send to Torquay, could not help overhearing the
rest of this conversation. She never forgot it, or the young man's face
as he finished speaking to Griselda, who suddenly seemed more
responsible, more grown-up than her mother had ever seen her.
"Please don't say anything more about that, Mr. Wick," she said gently.
"I like you very much--we all do, even my mother, who's so
old-fashioned--but I can't possibly marry you."
The four young eyes stared into each other for what seemed a long time,
and then he drew back courteously to let her pass.
"I'll not say anything more about it for three months," he declared. "I
promise you that."
* * * * *
Thus the arrangement about going to the play had been made, and when the
evening came Mr. Wick drove up in a taxi and carried his prize off to
the box at the theatre, where he had already installed his mother.
* * * * *
When Grisel came home she went up to her mother's room, slipping out of
her frock and putting on her mother's shabby old dressing-gown, that she
declared to be a perfect disgrace, and sat on the foot of the bed
describing the adventures of the evening.
"She's a perfect old dear, Mum," the girl declared. "Very large, not
exactly fat, you know, but big. Very little hair, brushed quite flat,
and done up in a tiny bun at the back, and the most beautiful manners,
like some old-fashioned duchess. Like an old duchess in one of your
books, Mum--that kind--not like a _live_ one----"
"I see," murmured Mrs. Walbridge. "How did you like the play?"
"Oh, it was very pretty. Mary Grey looked perfectly beautiful. She's
such a dear, but I wish she had sung. _They_ liked it awfully, but
somehow I never understand Shakespeare's plays--never quite know what
they are driving at, I mean. The place was packed, and I saw lots of
people I know. The Murchisons were there, and Dickie Scotts, and that
awful Pellaby woman, _covered_ with pearls and jewels. Johnny Holden
came up just as we were leaving, and told me that he had seen Guy. He's
only just back. He said Guy's awfully fit, and has done some very good
caricatures. He says there's going to be an armistice as sure as eggs is
eggs. The Hun is a dead man according to him. And, oh, Mother, you'll
never guess--Oliver Wick went out on the 28th of August, 1914, and was
all through the Big Push and the retreat from Mons. Fancy his never
telling us! Johnny mentioned it. He was wounded there--during the
retreat. One of his fingers is quite stiff. I never noticed it, did
you?"
Mrs. Walbridge shook her head. "No, I never did. So he's been out?"
"Yes, and he only had one leave all the time. He was invalided out last
year--there's a bullet somewhere inside him still. His mother says she
thinks it must be in his brain. She _does_ adore him, Mum."
Mrs. Walbridge was silent, for she envied this other woman, not exactly
her son, but her love for her son. Her own boys were very dear to her,
but one quality was lacking in her love for them, and that was
adoration. For although she was only a fourth-rate novelist, she had the
sad gift of unswerving clear-sightedness, and no merciful delusion
blinded her when she looked at her own children.
Grisel had stopped brushing her pretty hair, which lay like two wings
over her young breast, framing her little quick face, and bringing out
its vivid whiteness. She was sitting with the silver brush on her knees,
and in her eyes brooded an unusually deep thought.
"You like him, my dear, don't you?"
The girl started. "Who? Oh, Oliver? No--I mean----" She rose and put
the brush on the dressing-table.
"How nice that you call him Oliver," commented her mother, in a
matter-of-fact voice. "I like him, too. I think he's a delightful young
fellow. So boyish, isn't he?"
Grisel came to the bed, her momentary embarrassment scattered to the
winds by the sober sense of her mother's words.
"Yes, he's a dear," she said simply, "but his mother's a perfect pet,
and she's coming to see us. You'll love her, Mum." At the door she
turned. "Good-night, Mum darling. Don't worry about your old book. It's
sure to come out all right. What did you say the name of it was?"
"'Lord Effingham.'"
The girl stepped back in surprise at her mother's tone. "Why, good
gracious, Mum, you spoke as if he were a real man and you hated him! I
hope he isn't one of the modern horrors, like that dreadful man in
'Reek.'" She ran back to the bed and gave her mother a little stroke and
shake. "I couldn't dream of allowing you to write horrid modern books
about beastly real people," she said protectingly. Then she went to bed.
* * * * *
The next morning a telegram arrived from Torquay, saying that Mr.
Walbridge was no better, and asking his wife to come down and look after
him. She had expected just such a wire (for he was one of those people
who always become ill when they are bored or lonely) and she had already
arranged to send Grisel down.
The girl liked Torquay and had two or three friends there, and it would
be a pleasant change for her. Besides, her mother thought, if things
were going to be really bad, it would be better to have the children out
of the way.
So Grisel, much pleased, and not at all worried about her father, went
off, and for several days after her departure Mrs. Walbridge worked
uninterruptedly in the deserted drawing-room. The weather had changed,
and it was intensely stormy and wet, so there was something pleasant in
the shut-in feeling of the firelit room.
Paul, now the only one at home, was, of course, at the bank all day, and
most evenings he either dined out or went out immediately after dinner.
He was a silent man, very preoccupied with his own thoughts and
possessed of the negative gift of taking no interest whatever in other
people's affairs. He scorned curiosity with all his heart, and never
suspected that curiosity is very often only an expression of human
interest.
Of late, too, his mother had noticed he had been even more silent and
absent-minded than ever, and she wondered if he was having a love
affair. She dared not ask him, however, and so the long days and longer
evenings passed in almost unending hard work for the little writing
woman, and finally she arrived at a certain amount of success with the
troublesome "Lord Effingham."
Her book was entirely changed. Such atmosphere as it had ever had she
had destroyed, and, very proud of the illegitimate baby she had
introduced into its innocent pages, she one night packed up the
manuscript and ran out to a greengrocer in the neighbourhood, where
lived an old man who sometimes did errands for her.
Old Mr. King was at home, and would be delighted to go round the next
morning at half-past nine to take the very valuable parcel safely down
to Messrs. Lubbock & Payne.
She thanked the greengrocer's wife, who was the old man's daughter, and,
putting up her umbrella, went out again into the wet.
It was a shiny black night, full of storm noises and unceasing rain, and
when she reached "Happy House" Mrs. Walbridge stood for a moment under
her umbrella, leaning against the little green gate, where the name was
now almost illegible, and looked about her, breathing more freely in the
thought that the book was done; for good or evil; that she had done her
best by it, and that if it failed, it must just fail.
She felt more cheerful now that "Lord Effingham" was off her hands.
Things _must_ improve, she thought.
The political news was much better; the armistice might be signed any
day, and perhaps when Guy came back he would, after all, be helpful to
her.
Ferdie was better. She had had a letter that morning, and little Grisel
was having a happy time with her friends. There was to be a dance, and
she had written for her new white satin frock to be sent down.
"I must go to Swan & Edgars and get her a new pair of satin slippers,"
she thought, as she went up the steps, and opened the door with her
latchkey. "Fancy the little minx dancing her last pair through the other
night!"
She went down into the kitchen and made herself a cup of extra strong
cocoa to drink in bed. Cocoa in bed with a book is a very cosy thing.
The boys had always thought her a frump, and Guy in particular hated
her old black velvet evening gown, and, now that he had been in Paris
and seen all the smart clothes, he would despise the black velvet gown
more than ever. If only she could have some kind of a new evening frock.
Grey would do. Iron grey would wear almost as well as black. She set
down her cup of cocoa with a little sigh. Ridiculous to think about that
kind of thing when she only had one hundred and eighty pounds in the
bank.
Then she read a few pages of "Thomas à Kempis," turned out her light,
and lay still in the dark waiting for sleep.