Chapter Fifteen.
Among the Bulbs.
By noon next day all Chumley was ringing with the story of Grizel Beverley’s first dinner party, for each feminine guest, anxious to have the privilege of telling the news, had hurried out of the house at the first possible moment, and betaken herself to the High Street.
“My dear! you never knew anything so awful.—I never enjoyed anything so much in my life,” said Miss Hunter, the doctor’s sister, to her dearest friend, and, linking arms, proceeded to give a detailed account of the night’s adventure. How being herself the first to arrive at the house, the door had opened to reveal the tableau of the dishevelled mistress and maids, standing at the end of the hall, like figures of snow, and through an open door a vista of the dining-room, with a table heaped high with plaster. A gruesome spectacle it had been; the gleam of glass and silver serving but to accentuate the general ruin.
For the first moment Mrs Beverley had gaped at her guests as if not realising the meaning of their presence; then suddenly she had begun to laugh, to peal with laughter, and to explain the nature of the sudden catastrophe. Then Miss Hunter and her brother had said that of course they would return home, and she had stamped her foot, and said—nothing of the kind! the dinner was cooked,—and pray, who was to eat the dinner? They were to stay; everyone was to stay; she would arrange everything in a twinkling! It would be first-rate fun.
And it was fun! At a word from their mistress the maids disappeared to change their gowns, while Grizel herself picked her way carefully up the staircase. Then her French maid spread a sheet over the floor in the dressing-room, and Mrs Beverley stepped out of her dress. She looked about eighteen in her petticoat, and as slight as an elf, yet there wasn’t a bone to be seen. “So different from my gridiron chest!” said Miss Hunter, with a sigh. And then? Well, then she rubbed the plaster off her hair, but it still looked all white and poudrée, and stayed that way all evening,—so becoming! and the maid came in with another beautiful gown—green this time, and she was all fastened up and ready, almost as soon as the guests themselves. Then the fun began.
A number of bridge tables were produced, spread with white cloths, and arranged round the drawing-room, while an oak bench from the hall did duty as sideboard. It was like a dinner in a restaurant,—much better fun than sitting round an ordinary table, and everyone was so amused and excited that the evening went with a roar. When the dessert stage was reached, two of the men volunteered for rescue service, shed their coats in the hall, and extricated the most promising dishes, the contents of which, having been carefully cleansed, were welcomed with loud cheers by the rest of the party. “I never,” concluded Miss Hunter gleefully, “was so rowdy in my life!”
“Fancy having enough spoons and forks to go round a second time!” was the Chumley maiden’s practical comment. After a moment’s pause, she asked eagerly: “And was Captain Peignton very attentive to Teresa?”
“He was not sitting at the same table.” Miss Hunter, paused in her turn, and added in a reflective voice: “I don’t remember seeing him speak to her the whole evening.”
In truth Dane was not a demonstrative lover. The fact was patent to Teresa herself, and in the depths of her heart she acknowledged a lack. Her own nature was not demonstrative; with her own family her manner was indifferent almost to callousness, but with Dane she felt capable of a great tenderness. She wished that he would be more tender to her; that when they were alone together his manner of affectionate raillery would change to something deeper. She wished above all things that he would speak of his love. Mary’s questionings on the night of her sister’s betrothal had had something to do with awakening this longing, for when Teresa came to think over what had passed, it seemed as if most of the protestations had been made by herself. He had asked if she cared, had kissed her and vowed to be true, but neither then or at any subsequent meeting had he lost his head, and said all the dear, mad, exaggerated sweetnesses which were the language of lovers. Teresa had never before had a lover, but something in her blood, an instinct stronger than theory, told her that such exaggerations were not the creations of fiction, but that they existed in very truth, and to both speaker and hearer should appear the most precious of truths. It was in her heart to lavish such protestations on Dane; to tell him of the days when she had longed to touch his lean, brown hands, to lean her head against the rough frieze of his coat, to tell him how she had loved him, how she had longed for him, how she had prayed to be made good for his sake. If she had given way to the impulse, Dane’s heart would have opened in its turn, since there are few men callous enough to remain unaffected by the love of a girl who is young, and fresh, and agreeable to the eye; but Teresa’s strong sense of propriety forbade her to offer more than she received, and she sternly repressed the impulse to be “silly.” The engaged couple met often, since in a town of the size of Chumley every gathering brings together the same people, but tête-à-têtes were less frequent. When Dane spent an evening at the Cottage, Teresa wondered if she were bold and unmaidenly because she longed to carry off her lover to the snuggery on the second floor, and felt exasperated when he sat contentedly in the drawing-room chatting with Mrs Mallison and Mary, and even volunteering to play a game with the Major. On Sunday afternoons, when they were left alone as a matter of course, he would kiss her and stroke her hair, and say pretty things about her complexion, and the pretty blue dress, but invariably, infallibly he would relapse into the old quizzical, irresponsible mood, treating her as if she were an amusing child, rather than a woman and his promised wife. Teresa’s attempts to give a serious turn to the conversation were ponderous enough to add to Dane’s amusement, and he would laugh still more, and even mimic her to her face.
Another subject that troubled Teresa was that her lover made no allusions to the date of their marriage. At least once a day Mrs Mallison would enquire curiously, “And has the Captain said anything about the date?” and it was humiliating to reply continually in the negative.
Lovers in books were always urgent in this respect; the lovers she had known in real life had been no less impetuous, and in Dane’s case there seemed no reason for delay. He was old enough; he had enough money—then why should they wait? Teresa could not bring herself to introduce such a topic, but she did tentatively mention the honeymoon one day, asking Dane where he would take her. For a moment he looked startled, but at the hint of a foreign tour he brightened, and they spent a delightful hour, discussing routes, and rival places of interest. Teresa had never yet crossed the Channel, and Dane as a world-traveller felt a prospective pleasure in the thought of introducing her to fresh scenes. To him it seemed pitiful to think of a human creature having spent twenty-four years in Chumley, with no change but an occasional month in seaside lodgings. He displayed frank pity for such a fate, but Teresa exhibited no pity for herself. She was very fond of Chumley; she was fond of the Chumley people; it was nice to travel now and then for a few weeks at a time, but she preferred a settled life. Dane realised with amusement that Rome itself would be judged from a Chumley standpoint.
The Squire was highly amused at the story of Grizel’s first dinner party, and pointed many morals thereon for his wife’s benefit. Almost it seemed that he blamed her because his own dining-room ceiling had never descended, and opened the way for such an unconventional evening.
“But you would have sent them away from the door! Given the message to Johnson, and turned them away without even seeing them yourself.”
“I should. I plead guilty, Bernard. I should have flown straight to a bath. It takes a Grizel to make herself charming with whitewashed hair, but to do me justice I should not have chosen the morning of a dinner party to drag about heavy furniture in the room overhead.”
“Did she do that?”
“She had it done. And the house being jerry built, the new ceilings are only guaranteed to stay up, if they are not pushed. She pushed, and in revenge this particular ceiling loosened itself slowly, waiting for the crucial moment... They have gone up to town for a week, while the room is put right, so Grizel will feel that the game is worth the candle.”
“Humph!” The Squire was silent, seeing that he himself had persistently refused to take his wife to town for the last eight years. He was a country man, born and bred, and had never yet succeeded in discovering a time of year when the land was sufficiently lacking in interest to make it bearable to leave, and waste the time in town. Moreover, with the extraordinary meanness which affects some rich men, he hated spending money on hotel bills, while his own house was open. His wife could run up for a day when she needed new clothes,—what more did she want? Cassandra wanted a great deal more,—she wanted to see, and to hear, to refresh her spirit with art and music, to meet people who spoke her own language, and understood her own thoughts, and get away from the stultifying influence of a little country town. She had fought persistently for years in succession, but she had failed, and now she fought no more. Bernard said she had come to her senses.
“What are you going to do for the young couple?” he asked gruffly. “Another dinner would fall flat.”
“And they were here so lately,” Cassandra agreed quickly. “Shall I fix the bulb party for next week, and ask the whole Mallison clan to lunch beforehand? I’m willing, if you are. Of course Captain Peignton would come too. It would be paying them a little extra attention, and avoid the bother of another dinner.”
“Just as you like!” The Squire was appeased by the prospect of a garden party, as his wife had intended he should be, and she heaved a sigh of relief. Another dinner with Dane and Teresa as guests would be insupportable so soon after that other evening when she had met his eyes across the banked-up flowers, and felt that strange, sweet certainty of understanding. After hearing of the engagement she had felt an intense dread of the next meeting, which must surely reveal to her her own folly in believing that this man felt any special interest in herself. He had looked pensive because he was in suspense; his appeal to her had been to a married woman who had presumably been through the mill, and whose help he was anxious to gain. She would see him radiant, glowing; his eyes would no longer linger on hers, he would no longer have the air of standing by to await her command: he would be wholly, entirely, obtrusively absorbed in Teresa!
Then suddenly the meeting came about, and nothing had been different; everything had been bewilderingly the same. They had met in a country lane, and Cassandra had made her congratulations in her most gracious and cordial manner, and he had thanked her in a few short words and stood looking—looking.—He was not radiant, he was not aglow; the subtle appeal of suffering had never been more strong: in spite of everything the strange, sweet certainty of inner sympathy and understanding once more flooded her being. They spoke only a few words, and parted, and since that day Cassandra had seen Dane only in the distance. Bernard reported him as a devoted lover, always in attendance. He shrugged his shoulders with an easy tolerance. It was a stage. It would pass!
Fortune favoured Cassandra, inasmuch as the bulb party fell on the day following that on which Mary Mallison had received the notice of her inheritance, and therefore the engagement took a second place in importance. Major Mallison excused himself from the luncheon party on the score of sciatica, which being interpreted meant a sore heart. Mary was his favourite daughter, and the discovery of her long revolt had wounded him sorely. His wife also had had her hour of bitterness, but it was temperamentally impossible for Mrs Mallison to keep up an estrangement with any creature, male or female, who was on the wave of prosperity. Mary, the dependent and helpless, would have been hard to forgive; Mary the heiress commanded respect, and could be excused a weakness. In the abundance of her satisfaction in escorting two successful daughters to luncheon at the Court, the last spark of resentment disappeared, and Mary’s determination to exploit the world on her own became a proof of spirit to be retailed with maternal pride.
The Squire laughed and rallied Mary with the superficial good-nature which he always exhibited to strangers, and Cassandra looked at her across the table with grave, wistful eyes. Poor Mary Mallison with the starved, bloodless face, and the starved, bloodless mind,—could all the money in the world bring back her wasted youth? Could all the money in the world unlock the gate of joy? Cassandra felt a sudden rush of thankfulness for her own lot. Thank God, she had lived; she had experienced; she had suffered. If the best had been denied, she had been spared the worst,—the lot of a superfluous, unwanted woman!
After lunch the three guests were taken into the garden for a personally conducted tour before the general influx began. The Squire naturally selected Teresa as his companion, but by a little manoeuvring his wife contrived that he should be saddled with Mrs Mallison also, so that she herself should be left alone with Mary.
Cassandra wanted an opportunity of talking to Mary. Hitherto she had been merely a figurehead, a dull, dun-coloured person who walked by her mother’s side, replied in monosyllables when she was directly addressed, and apparently neither had, nor wished for, any existence of her own. But now it appeared that Mary was in revolt. Cassandra was conscious of a fellow-feeling.
She led the way down the sloping gardens, purposely increasing the distance from her husband and his companions, talking lightly on impersonal subjects until she could speak without fear of interruption. Then she turned to Mary with the very winsome smile which she reserved for occasions when she had special reason for wishing to please.
“Miss Mallison, I ran off with you, because I wanted an opportunity to tell you quietly how enchanted I am at your good fortune! It always delights me when nice things happen to women, and your nice thing is going to open the door to so many more. Five hundred a year, and the world before you, and no ties to keep you at home!—Mrs Mallison is so strong and active that it seems absurd to think of her as requiring help. I’m struggling with envy, for there is nothing at this moment that I should like so much as to feel free to go where I choose, and do what I choose, and even more than either, not to do what I don’t choose! My husband hates change, and you see I have sworn to obey!... Will you have to wait very long before you get your money? Lawyers are such wretches for procrastinating. If you are like me, you will want to start at once!”
“Yes,” said Mary flatly, “I do. And I am independent of lawyers. My godmother left instructions that I was to be given two hundred pounds at once. They sent me the cheque this morning.”
“What a pattern godmother! I should have adored that woman. I don’t need to know another thing about her. That tells it all. She had imagination; and she had a heart.”
“She knew mother,” said Mary terribly. She was staring ahead in her usual unseeing fashion, and was unconscious of her companion’s involuntary start of dismay. Never before had Cassandra heard a child speak of a parent in such grimly eloquent tones, and the instinct of centuries was shocked and distressed. She froze into herself, and when she spoke again her voice had a different tone. A moment before she had spoken as a friend, full of sympathy and fellow-feeling, now she was the Lady Cassandra Raynor, entertaining an insignificant guest.
“It’s all delightful; quite delightful. So there is nothing to delay your movements! Can I give you any addresses? I know of quite a good hotel in Paris, where I stay when I run over to buy frocks. Not too fashionable, but very comfortable. Quite ideal for a woman alone. And dressmakers too.” Cassandra thawed again at the introduction of a congenial subject. “Do go to my woman! She’s the most understanding creature, and knows exactly what will suit you before you have been in the room five minutes.” She screwed up her eyes, and looked Mary over with critical gaze. “I think it will be blue for you; a deep full blue, and just a touch of white at the throat.”
“I’ve worn blue serge coats and skirts almost every day of my life since I went to school. I’m sick of blue,” Mary said, and Cassandra laughed and shuddered at the same moment. It was so preposterous to compare Mary’s blue serge with Celine’s marvellous concoctions of subtly blended shades.
“I’d make a solemn vow never to wear another! I’m a great believer in the influence of clothes. They account for many of the mysteries of human nature. You know how conventional men are,—how horrified at anything the least bit out of the ordinary rut.—It’s because they have always to wear coats and trousers cut in the same way, out of the same uninteresting cloths! They never know the complete bouleversement of feeling which a woman experiences every day of her life when she changes from one style of garment to another. You put on a blouse and skirt, and you feel active and gamy; you slip into a tea-gown, and want to talk confidences with a friend; you put on decolletée, and feel inclined to flirt, and be frivolous; you wear a tailor-made costume and—go to church! Chronic blue serge would depress a saint. Do go to Celine, Miss Mallison! Let me send you the address!”
“I’ve not decided to go to Paris,” Mary said ungraciously, but the next moment she lifted her eyes to Cassandra’s face and gave a weak little smile of apology. “I’ve not decided anything. Not even where to go first. I don’t seem to care. You talk about seeing the world, but I don’t particularly want to see it. Now that I can go where I choose, I’ve been trying to think of an interesting place—a place that interests me, I mean, but I can’t do it. I’ve hardly been outside Chumley, and every other place seems unreal. I used to long to travel when I was a girl, but I don’t care about it now. I’ve grown so used to doing nothing. Perhaps it may be different now that I have my own money.” She hesitated for a moment, then questioned tentatively: “Of course you... you have always had enough money.”
“Ye-es! Yes, I suppose I have. My father was a poor man for his position, but we had practically everything we wanted,—horses and carriages, and beautiful gardens, and change when we needed it, and pretty clothes, and—”
“And space!” concluded Mary for her. “You have never known what it was to live in a small house where you can never get more than a few yards away from other people, never get out of the sound of their voices, never have a place which you can call your own, except a cold bedroom. No place where you can cry without bringing rappings at the door... That’s why I want to go away. I want my money to bring me Space. I want to feel alone, with space to do as I like, without thinking of anyone but myself, or even having anyone to check me if I am foolish, and reckless, and mad. I expect I shall be reckless. It’s a relief sometimes to be able to be reckless, Lady Cassandra!”
“Oh, Mary Mallison, it is!” cried Cassandra. She slipped her hand through the other’s arm, and said warmly, “I won’t send you any addresses, I won’t give you any advice. Go away and be as reckless as you can! And when you come back, come and tell me about it, and I’ll rejoice, and not point a single moral. It’s in my heart to be reckless too.”
“Thank you,” said Mary, and there was a note of real gratitude in her voice. Lady Cassandra was the last person from whom she would have expected understanding, but she did understand, and had even confessed to a fellow-feeling. Mary was sufficiently under her mother’s influence to feel that sympathy from the Squire’s wife was doubly valuable, yet she was vaguely disquieted, for what was her new-found money going to procure for her, that was not already in Cassandra’s possession? If material pleasures palled, would the mere fact of liberty be sufficient to fill her heart? Was liberty in her case but another term for loneliness? Mary was silent, feeling as usual that she had nothing to say.
With arms still linked the two women turned a corner of the path, and found themselves confronted by the Squire and his companions, who were approaching from the farther side; but now there was a fourth member of the party, for Dane Peignton walked beside his fiancée, smiling down into her upturned face, and for the moment unobservant of the new-comers, who were still some distance away. Cassandra’s hand jerked on Mary’s arm, she was conscious of a rise of colour, and to cover it said quickly:
“Captain Peignton has deigned to appear at last. I asked him to lunch. Teresa should scold him... but I suppose they meet constantly. Are they to be married quite soon?”
She was glad of an opportunity of putting a question which she longed to have answered, but had shirked putting into words, but Mary’s answer was not illuminative.
“I hope not.”
Was this an expression of sisterly affection which dreaded the hour of separation? Cassandra could not decide, and it was too late to question further, for Dane had seen her and was hurrying forward to offer apologies for his non-appearance at lunch. Teresa followed and stood by his side, supplementing his explanations with a proprietary air, and Mrs Mallison beamed proudly in the background. Quite a family party! She wished certain of the Chumley matrons who were apt to be patronising in their manner, could arrive at this moment, and see her girls the centre of so distinguished a group.
Cassandra was conscious of an intense irritation.