Chapter Six.
The East End.
Mrs Mallison was one of the kindest of women; she was also one of the most exasperating. She herself was complacently aware of the first fact, and referred to it frequently in conversation, enumerating her benefactions with obvious satisfaction: of the latter attribute she remained blandly, blindly unaware. The combination is frequent, the havoc wrought thereby in domestic circles widespread throughout the land. Mrs Mallison rose early from preference. Having reached a time of life when she required little sleep, she found it a relief to rise at seven, and by an exercise of logic, unanswerable to her own judgment, considered it incumbent upon the whole household to experience a similar briskness. She read a chapter of the Bible and the day’s portion of Daily Light before leaving her bedroom, and prayed sadly to be preserved throughout the trials and temptations of the day. To expect happiness she would have considered a flippant attitude, unworthy a professing Christian, the glad morning face had no justification in her eyes.
“Well, Bailey! I wonder what trials the Lord has in store for me to-day!” she would sigh meekly to the old servant who brought her early tea, and sallying forth from her bedroom, thus expectant, seldom failed to encounter several minor trials on the way downstairs: Dust; grease; marks on white paint. It was usually a chastened Mrs Mallison who took her seat behind the urn.
Mrs Mallison had an active mind and a cumbersome body. This combination is also widely known, and deplored by grown-up daughters. No sooner had an idea entered her mind, than she wished it put into instant execution—by a daughter. Whatever the daughter might be doing, however responsible might be her work, she must leave it, dismiss it from her mind, be ready with heart and will to execute her mother’s behests. Such was a daughter’s duty; to fail in it was to risk references to serpents’ teeth, and to that subsequent burden of remorse, to be borne by the delinquent, when death should have removed her mother to another sphere. Mary Mallison found it simpler to give in at once, leave a letter half-written, or a photographic plate half-toned, and adjourn upstairs to move the position of jars on the storeroom shelves, or make sure that a drawer was safely locked. She would even rise in the middle of her breakfast, and walk meekly into the drawing-room to feel if the palms needed water; but Mary was thirty-two, and anaemic into the bargain, and her axiom in life was, “For goodness’ sake, let us have peace!” It was easier to walk a dozen yards into the drawing-room, than to be talked at for the rest of the meal. Mary obeyed, swallowing a constant mental revolt, the strain of which showed in her wan bloodless face. Long ago, when she was twenty-four, she had loved a curate, and the curate had not loved her in return. No man had ever loved her; it was to the last degree unlikely that anyone ever would. Mary offered automatic thanks weekly for the gift of creation, and smothered as wicked the wonder what she had been created for? She also, like her mother, wondered drearily what troubles lay ahead.
Teresa was young, and pretty, and had been educated at a public school. She had inherited from her mother a fair skin, flaxen locks, a strong will, and a pertinacity of purpose which might in time develop to disagreeable proportions. In the meantime she was the admired youngest member of a plain and heavy family, and was by nature affectionate and appreciative. It was only on occasions that Mrs Mallison was conscious of running up against a dead rock when she opposed her will to that of her youngest daughter; only in glimmering rays of light that she realised that what Teresa desired, almost inevitably came to pass. Over and over again the same thing happened. Teresa had come forward with a proposition: consent had been withheld, Teresa had withdrawn. Weeks, even months had passed by; to all appearance Teresa had abandoned the proposition, and then suddenly it crystallised, it became fact. Quietly, placidly, Teresa had bided her time, clinging with limpet-like determination to her point, moving the pawns on the board, waiting for the right moment to make the final dash.
Teresa had left the proud position of head girl in a great school to vegetate in a dull country town, dust the drawing-room, arrange flowers, make her own blouses, and “keep up her music,” and had found the routine as unsatisfactory as does every other modern girl. The Mallisons were comfortably off—that is to say, they had a small detached house, in a good-sized garden, kept two indoor maids, and a man who looked after the garden and drove the shabby dog-cart. They were also able to pay their bills with praiseworthy regularity, and to take a yearly holiday en famille. They likewise allowed each daughter thirty pounds a year for dress and pocket money, and would have strongly resented an insinuation that they were not acting generously in so doing. Mary had “managed” on thirty for a dozen years. Teresa managed for two, and then relinquished the struggle. She made no moan, for moans would have had no avail, except to bring about her ears a harvest of precepts. Teresa informed her sister that “they must be shown,” and she proceeded to show them. She bought no new dress, she went about with her parents in aggressively shabby clothes, she walked incredible distances to save twopences, and thereby made herself late for meals; in short she demonstrated to her old-fashioned parents, that if they wished to possess a pretty, creditable daughter they must be prepared to pay for her. The allowance was increased to fifty, and Mary languished beneath a sense of injury. Thirty had been considered enough for her!
On the morning after Grizel Beverley’s reception the Mallison quartette was assembled at breakfast in the stiff, sunless morning room. Mrs Mallison poured out coffee; Major Mallison sat facing her before the silver bacon dish, the morning light streaming in on his tired, discouraged face. Mary sat on the right, opposite the toast-rack and the egg-stand. Teresa on the left, by the marmalade and honey jar. The Morning Post lay neatly folded on the sideboard. Mrs Mallison approved of sociability at meals; conversation helped digestion. When the Major declared that he loathed general conversation at breakfast, and would rather be left in peace than listen to the finest conversationalist alive, he was told that he was unamiable and selfish, and a burden of regret prophesied for him also “when he had no one to talk to!”
Mrs Mallison poured out four cups of coffee, made her usual lament re the price of bacon, and cast a disapproving eye on Teresa’s blue crêpe blouse.
“I thought, my dear, that you were going to church this morning to decorate the chancel.”
“I am, Mother.”
“In that blouse?”
“Certainly. Why not?”
“Most unsuitable. Too light. A dark flannel is the right thing for the occasion. You will have time to change it before you start. Don’t forget!”
Teresa cast down her eyes and applied herself steadily to bacon. She had not the slightest intention of wearing a dark flannel blouse. The blue crêpe had been chosen, not for its durability, but that it might look pleasant in the eyes of Dane Peignton. All the mothers in the world could not have made Teresa change it; so what was the use of discussing the point! She gave the conversation an adroit little switch.
“Don’t wait lunch for me, Mother. I shall probably go to the Vicarage. We shall need all our time.”
“We are having fried steak. If you come at all, you must be punctual. If it’s done too long, all the strength has gone. I could give you sandwiches to eat in the vestry. Or it might be stewed. If papa did not object, it could quite well be stewed. He dislikes the onions. If we had carrots instead, would you object, papa? But, of course, there’s the flavour. Carrots are not so seasoning... Perhaps it had better be sandwiches. Mary, is there a glass of that chicken and ham paste? See if there’s a glass, dear. Cook could make some nice fresh sandwiches.”
Mary moved automatically, but Teresa stopped her with a waving hand.
“I loathe sandwiches. I shall go somewhere and have a proper lunch. Don’t bother, Mother.”
“My dear,” said Mrs Mallison reproachfully, “I am your mother. When you have a tiring day before you I am naturally anxious that you should be fed. They will be busy at the Vicarage. Cold meat and salad. One could hardly expect more, but you are accustomed to a hot dish. It is the day for steak, but if papa didn’t object we might change. I don’t care for changes as a rule, it upsets the servants, but just for once.—A chicken now! You like chicken. Just run to the telephone, dear, and tell Bates to send one up. Good, roasting. Three and six. If papa doesn’t mind.”
Not a flicker of expression passed over the Major’s face. He was the Jorkins of the establishment, and knew well that, useful as he might be for purposes of quotation, he was negligible as a working factor. He continued resignedly to partake of bacon. Teresa vouchsafed an appreciative smile.
“We’ll have fowl for dinner. Plenty of time when the boy calls. I’m going out to lunch, Mother. I’d rather. It’s part of the fun.”
Mrs Mallison sighed. Here was one of the expected trials. A daughter, unappreciative, preferring to roam abroad, oblivious of the fact that after a morning’s church decorating she would be in possession of a harvest of small talk which a mother would naturally desire to hear. Who decorated the lectern; who the finials; who did the windows this year? The windows were the least coveted post. A mother whose daughter had been honoured with the east end would naturally feel agreeable sympathy for the mother of those who wrestled modestly with window-sills. Then also there were subsidiary interests. Who brought the Squire’s flowers? Did Lady Cassandra drive down? Was the Vicar tiresome about nails? Exactly what did everyone present say about Teresa’s scheme of colour? The good lady felt it hard that she should have to wait until evening to satisfy her interest on these thrilling points. She set her lips and said to herself, “Certainly not! If young people have no consideration for others, they cannot expect to be indulged. Not fowl. Roast end of the neck.”
At the side of the table Mary sighed, and stared dejectedly into space. Eight years ago she had been asked to “do” the east end, and the curate had been by her side all day helping her, reaching to high places, bending down, taking the vases from her hand. After all these years she could still see before her every line of the smooth boyish face. He had never loved her, he had gone away and married another girl, but he had been admiring and attentive; several times in the course of that day he had made her sit down to rest; at tea at the Vicarage he had placed a cushion behind her back. In Mary’s starved life such small incidents took the place of romance. She looked across the table at her sister, not so much with envy, as with pity. Poor Trissie! she also was dreaming; she also must awake. And Teresa understood the glance and set her red lips. She had not the least intention in the world of following in Mary’s footsteps. Thirty-two should never find her dragging along at home! She thought of Dane Peignton with the warm glow at the heart which always accompanied the thought. If Dane did not “care,” her dearest hope would be blasted, but it was characteristic of Teresa that she could put aside the possibility, and be assured that even Dane himself could not spoil her life, or reduce her to Mary’s apathy of indifference.
After breakfast came “Worship,” when the maids came in and sat on two chairs placed as near as possible to the door, and the mistress of the house read aloud a chapter in the Bible, followed by a long prayer from a book entitled Family Devotions. The chapter this morning was taken from Judges, and had little obvious bearing on the lives of the hearers. It is doubtful if anyone attended after the first few verses. The cook was listening for the tradesmen’s bell. If it rang in the middle of Worship it was understood that she was to rise softly and creep out. Under such circumstances it was, as she expressed it, difficult to “settle down.” The housemaid was thinking of her young man. Teresa was considering her scheme of decoration. Major Mallison and Mary were resignedly sitting it out. For the prayer everyone rose and knelt down, but the mental attitude remained unchanged. They rose once more with sighs of relief.
After breakfast Teresa dusted the drawing-room, made her own bed, and hung over the banisters listening for the moment when her mother should begin telephoning orders to the tradespeople, when she herself might leave the house without fear of further questioning as to the blue blouse. She expanded her shoulders with a sigh of relief on reaching the open air, and sped along the quiet road with the feeling of escape which every member of the Mallison household experienced when the gate was safely closed, before a shrill recall had sounded from door or window.
Teresa’s thoughts that morning were occupied as many another daughter’s have been before her, in pondering the astonishing problem of her parents’ youth. Father and Mother in love! Father ardent, Mother shy! Father and Mother exchanging love glances; engrossed in one another’s society. Could such things be? And if so—lacerating thought!—could they be again? In thirty years’ time could Teresa and Dane...
Teresa flushed violently. She had not prayed at Family Worship. She had been frankly and emphatically bored, but she prayed now, walking along the public road, in her blue coat and fashionable jam-pot hat, she lifted her eyes to the grey skies, and the voice in her heart cried earnestly: “I’ll make him happy! Help me to keep him happy! Give him to me, and make me a good wife.” A glow of tenderness softened the hard young eyes. “Make me good,” cried Teresa, “For Dane’s sake!”
She was the first to arrive at the church, before even the Vicar’s wife. Was she not the honoured young worker, to whom had been entrusted the decoration of the east end? A mass of daffodils, wallflowers, and primroses lay banked in baskets along the aisles. These were the contributions of the poorer members of the community, the villagers and owners of small gardens. Outside the chancel rails were ranged rows of growing bulbs in pots, hyacinths, narcissus, the finer variety of daffodils, great trumpet-like heads of white and cream, orange and gold. These were the first contribution from the Court; later on the carriage would bring down a hamper of flowers, freshly cut and fragrant. The sexton came forward with a box containing the tin vases and fitments provided for such occasions, and delivered the usual warning about nails. The Vicar would allow no nails. Teresa took off her long coat and placed it in a pew; the blue of her blouse seemed to take an added richness from the austerity of the surroundings. How glad she was that she had disobeyed her mother and kept it on!
Presently the Vicarage party arrived, and quickly following one after another the helpers. Teresa lifted the flower-pots one by one and placed them behind the delicate tracery of the oak screen, so that the pots themselves were hidden and the carved openings appeared to give a vista into a sweet spring garden.
All the while she worked, she kept a strained outlook for Dane’s appearance. When another helper approached, and would have loitered in conversation, she made a speedy excuse for hurrying away, lest he should come now, and their meeting be marred; when her back was turned to the aisle she listened for the sound of his footsteps. At any moment he might enter, stand by her side, call to her in his full, rich tones: “Miss Teresa!”
Eleven o’clock came, and he had not appeared; half-past eleven. All the pots were arranged. Intentionally Teresa had lingered over the work, dreading to begin the more elaborate decorations which would require aid. If she were seen mounting a stool, some of the men helpers would at once come forward to assist; and Dane entering and seeing her thus provided, might attach himself to someone else. A dull ache of disappointment filled Teresa’s heart. If he really cared; if the opportunity meant to him what it did to herself, he would not have wasted the hours. She put her last pot in its place, stood back to view the effect, and heard at last the longed-for words of welcome.
“Miss Teresa—here I am; bright and early, you see! What have you got for me to do?”
He was smiling, composed, unconscious of offence. The ache sharpened into pain at the realisation, but Teresa had a wisdom beyond her years, and allowed no sign of disappointment to become visible. To sulk and looked aggrieved was not the way to increase a man’s admiration. She smiled into his eyes, and cried readily:
“Heaps of things! I need you for all the stretchy places. You are so big. And those great palms... They have to go into the corners. Will you help me to move them?”
“Certainly not. I’ll do it myself. Just point out where they are to go. What’s the good of me if I can’t save you fatigue?”
The tenderness of his smile was as ointment of healing, but true to her principles Teresa averted her eyes, and put on her most business-like manner, so that no answering sign of tenderness might be visible. Not to the verger himself had her manner been more cool and detached, but Dane showed no sign of dissatisfaction. They had met to work, not to make love; he admired the girl for her brisk, capable ways, and found pleasure in the sight of her alert young figure clad in the short skirt, stout boots, and untrimmed hat. They worked industriously for the next half-hour, banking up comers of palms, covering the foremost pots with a velvety cushion of moss. Side by side they knelt on the marble floor, pulling apart the fragrant sods, patting them into shape. Once when a rebellious morsel refused to remain in place Teresa fumbled among her yellow locks for a hairpin to act as skewer, whereupon Dane made a quick movement to withdraw her hand.
“No, no, it’s covered with soil! ... Let me!” He covered his finger and thumb with a handkerchief, carefully extracted the nearest pin, and held it towards her. “That’s better! It’s too bad to soil your pretty hair. You’ve got loads of hair, haven’t you? I love to see a girl with good hair. How far does it come down?”
“Past my waist.” Teresa’s conscience pricked her on account of one braid which could come down as far as required, but there seemed no immediate need for confession on that score. Her cheeks were flushed, she took a long time over the last arrangement of moss, pondering uneasily. Had anyone seen? What would they think? She hoped to goodness that Miss Mason’s eyes had been averted! What Miss Mason saw at noon, was parish news by sunfall... “By the by, you’ll be interested to hear that Teresa Mallison is engaged to that young Peignton. I saw him distinctly stroking her hair.” In imagination she could hear the thin, clipped voice scattering the news broadcast. And in time it would come to Dane’s own ears...
Teresa rose and cast a searching glance round the church. No one was looking, the workers were engrossed and preoccupied. The Vicar’s wife was affixing a cross of daffodils to the front of the pulpit, the doctor’s daughters were trimming the lectern with stiff little bunches of daffodils. All down the aisle workers were twisting sprays of ivy round the tall gas standards, in the discreet background dowdy nobodies were wrestling with window-sills. The Vicar’s wife held firmly to the theory of universal brotherhood, but it would never have occurred to her to ask a wealthy parishioner to “do” the windows, or a tradesman’s wife to undertake the east end. Teresa and Dane left the chancel and stood hesitating at the head of the aisle. Now they were ready for the cut flowers, and the cut flowers had not arrived.
“The Squire promised to send down. I wrote again last night to remind him. He can’t have forgotten.”
“Oh, no. They’ll be here soon. There’s a car at the door now.” Peignton peered forward, looking down the length of the aisle into the sunlit churchyard beyond, and the girl watching him, as she loved to do at unobserved moments, saw a sudden light come into the lazy eyes. She peered in her turn, and beheld a small grey foot emerge from the door of the car, then a second foot, and finally a tall figure, grey-robed, grey-furred, which stood aside, sharply outlined against the darkness of the background, and waited for the descent of still another figure, coated in white.
Lady Cassandra! ... she had come herself, and with her Mrs Martin Beverley. They were driving about together in the morning, a sign of intimacy more eloquent than a dozen afternoon meetings. They were smiling into each other’s faces as they walked up the church path, talking with the ease of lifelong friends.
Teresa felt a pang of jealousy, not of Dane Peignton,—these women were married and could have no interest for him,—but for herself, and her position in the Raynor household. Proud as she had been of the degree of intimacy to which she had been admitted, in her heart she had acknowledged the presence of a barrier shutting her out from personal friendship. She had been a favoured acquaintance, nothing more, and now a friend had appeared, and the acquaintance must needs stand aside.
Up the church aisle came the two women, side by side, graver now as befitted their surroundings, yet bringing with them a whiff of the world of gaiety and fashion, the influence of which spread subtly over the feminine body of workers. The Vicar’s wife pulled down her cuffs, and brushed the leaves from her gown; the doctor’s daughters arranged stray locks, and placed themselves in artistic attitudes around the desk, and from the background poor Miss Bruce looked on with widened eyes.
Cassandra came forward to shake hands with Mrs Evans, the natural hostess of the occasion.
“Good morning, Mrs Evans. How busy you all are! I drove down with the flowers, and brought Mrs Beverley with me. The groom is bringing them in. We promised Miss Mallison—”
She looked around, caught sight of Teresa and Peignton standing side by side, and nodded, faintly smiling. The affair was progressing then! No need for outside help. Teresa, flushed and happy, the blue of her blouse setting off the pink and white of her complexion, looked her most attractive self. Cassandra envied her, pitied her, felt an inexplicable irritation with her, all at the same moment, but being bred in the school which considers the suppression of feeling to be the first axiom of good manners, her smile of greeting remained unchanged.
The vases for the altar had been carried into a vestry, where they stood on a table ready to be filled. The groom was directed where to carry his hamper, and the two visitors followed, talking in undertones to Teresa and Dane as they went. Inside the room itself there was a greater sense of freedom, and their voices instantly heightened in tone. They had an air of having nothing to do, and of being indifferent as to how long they stayed, which was far from welcome to one at least of the workers.
Teresa had planned exactly how the vases were to be arranged, and had anticipated a happy half-hour, alone with Dane, free from the observation of curious eyes. She was capable of carrying out her own ideas, and wished for no assistance. It was Peignton who made the unwelcome suggestion that Cassandra should remain to help.
“I’m out of this!” he said, shrugging. “Never arranged flowers in my life, and don’t know how to begin. Dragging about palms is more in my line, but that’s done now, and I’m no more use. Sorry to be such a broken reed, Miss Teresa! Perhaps Lady Cassandra—” He looked at Cassandra, and once again his eyes lightened, as if what they beheld was good in his sight. “I am sure you know how to arrange flowers!”
“Oh, yes,” Cassandra said calmly, “I’m supposed to be quite good. Well, Teresa, I am at your service. You are in command. Issue your instructions! Mrs Beverley, you won’t mind waiting a short time?”
“Oh, no,” Grizel said sweetly. “I’ll help too!” She made no motion to take off her gloves, however, but stood watching with a lazy smile while her companion threw off her furs in business-like fashion. The square emerald sparkled against the whiteness of her hand, as she turned over flowers, searching for the most perfect specimens. Once more Dane watched it with fascinated attention, once more looked from it to Teresa’s hands, reddened and stained with soil, and hastily averted his eyes. Henceforth he kept them averted. There was no disloyalty in admiring a beautiful thing. The wrong began when one stooped to invidious comparisons.
By degrees it came about that Cassandra arranged, while the others stood by, and supplied her wants. She was accustomed to the handling of delicate blooms, and possessed little coaxing tricks of propping and supporting, which added greatly to their effect. Of the first two vases completed, hers was so palpably superior, that the obvious course was to invite her to undertake all five. Teresa gave the invitation with a good grace, and stood aside handing sprays of lilies, and disentangling delicate fronds of green.
As she stood she faced a small mirror on the wall, before which the Rev. Vicar presumably concluded his clerical toilet. At the moment it gave back the reflection of herself and Cassandra, standing side by side, and the contrast stung. At home, by the same law of contrast, Teresa complacently considered herself next door to a beauty, but seen side by side with Cassandra Raynor, her image appeared of a sudden coarsened and blunted. Moreover, the inferiority was not confined to the body; mentally as well as physically she was at a disadvantage;—her words seemed halting and difficult, compared with the other’s delicate ripple of conversation. Teresa’s honesty accepted the fact, disagreeable though it was. The little ache at her heart was not caused so much by jealousy, as by regret for the hour which she had longed for, the hour which was not to be. Surreptitiously she watched Peignton to see if he shared her disappointment. His manner was quieter than when they had been alone together. He looked less at his ease, but he was interested, his eyes followed the delicate work with absorbed attention. He was more interested, rather than less. Teresa felt suddenly very tired. She had hoped he would look disappointed!
Meanwhile Grizel had strolled out of the vestry and stood viewing the scene with lazy, smiling eyes. The workers were so busy that they had not noticed her approach, and she had time to study them unawares. For the most part they worked in pairs, consulting together, the more deft-handed arranging the flowers, the less skilful acting as assistant, and executing her commands. Quietly though they worked, there was in the air a sense of camaraderie; and one divined that these workers were friends who had chosen to work together, and enjoyed the companionship. In the background a solitary black-robed figure stood straining upward from the seat of a pew, engaged in covering the sill of a window with fragments of foliage, and those inferior flowers which had been rejected for more prominent places. Grizel took a short cut through a pew, and approached this worker’s side.
“May I help you?” she asked, and Miss Bruce turned her head and stared in bewilderment. She was a middle-aged spinster, who lived in a small villa, with a small servant-girl, a fox-terrier, and a canary in a brass cage. She possessed exactly two hundred pounds a year, and felt herself rich. It was only in the matter of friends that she was poor, for the taint of trade set her apart from the people whom she wished to know, while as a lady of independent means she, in her turn, despised the class from which she had sprung. Mrs Evans considered Miss Bruce a “useful” worker, and asked her to tea regularly once a year, in addition to a summer garden party. The churchwarden’s wife was asked to meet her on these occasions. “You won’t mind, dear, I know,” the Vicar’s wife would premise. “You are so kind, and it gives her such pleasure, poor soul!” But as a matter of fact the tea party gave Miss Bruce no pleasure at all. She was keen enough to realise the exact conditions of her invitation, and instead of feeling flattered was wounded and aggrieved... “Last week she had nine people there one afternoon, the Mallisons and the Escourts, all that set. Ellen heard about it from the cook. Why couldn’t she ask me then?” she would ask herself bitterly. “Never anyone but Mrs Rose!” Every year she decided to refuse the next invitation, but when it came to the time her courage failed. In the deadly dullness of her life a change was too rare to be lightly foregone. She stepped down from her high perch now, and turned her dull eyes to stare into Grizel Beverley’s happy face.
“May I help you a little?”
“Thank you. It’s very kind, I’m sure. I shall be much obliged.”
“That’s all right!” said Grizel cordially, and promptly seated herself at the end of a pew, and extended an arm along the top of the oaken back, in an attitude of luxurious ease. Exactly what form the “help” was to take it was difficult to guess, but Miss Bruce was not thinking of such mundane considerations; her mind was occupied in grasping the astounding fact that the latest celebrity of the countryside, Mrs Martin Beverley, late Miss Grizel Dundas, had chosen to single out her insignificant self, when some of the most important ladies in the parish were present.
“It’s—not very interesting over here,” she stammered apologetically. “Window-sills are so dull. It’s impossible to get an effect.”
“They are rather muddly, aren’t they?” Grizel agreed cheerfully, casting a roving eye over the branches of greenery, scattered intermittently with daffodils which had had their day. “But I daresay no one will look... I don’t think I know your name, do I? You haven’t called on me yet?”
Miss Bruce flushed a deep brick-red. Her lips tightened in remembrance of the old grudge.
“I—don’t call!” she said bluntly. “It would not be—acceptable. I am poor.”
“Oh, so am I! There we can sympathise. Isn’t it dull?” cried Grizel gaily.
Miss Bruce looked at her in silent disclaimer. No one could look into Grizel’s face and doubt the honesty of her words, but Miss Bruce reflected tartly that there were different degrees of poverty! Why, the clothes on the bride’s back this morning must have cost a considerable portion of her own year’s income! The white coat hung in strange and wonderful folds, the outside was severely plain, just a simple, unadorned cloth garment which an ordinary woman might have worn; but as she sat, the fronts had fallen apart, and the spinster gazed with awe upon a gorgeousness of lining such as it had not entered into her brain to conceive. Ivory brocade, shot through with gold; a band of exquisite embroidery where the two fabrics met, cascades of delicate lace. Miss Bruce was fond of coining phrases to express her meaning. She coined one now, “Muffled magnificence!” It seemed an inconceivable thing that any woman could allow such richness to be hidden away beneath a cloth exterior, yet something latent within her applauded the feat. “Muffled magnificence,” she repeated to herself, her gloating eyes taking in each perfection of detail. Her lips twisted in grim realisation of the difference in degrees of poverty, but a quality of sincerity and kindliness in Grizel’s hazel eyes prompted an unwonted confidence. She heard herself saying quite simply and naturally:
“There is something besides poverty, Mrs Beverley! My father was a plumber. Quite in a big way, of course, but still,—he was in trade. He was a very good father; he educated me well and left me enough to live on. I’m grateful to him, but,—you can understand—”
Grizel gave a soft little move of appreciation.
“A good plumber.—A plumber with principles... Oh, you must be proud! I’ve travelled all over the world, but I never heard of such a thing before. All the other plumbers I’ve heard of have brought misery on everyone who knew them... You must certainly come to see me, and tell me all about him, and I’ll call on you too, and see his photograph... Had he a chin beard?”
Miss Bruce’s gratification was merged in stunned surprise.
“Chin—beard?”
“They always have. Haven’t you noticed? If your father hadn’t, that makes him more wonderful still. And where is your house, Miss—”
“Bruce. In Rose Lane. Near the Men’s Institute. A little house with a green porch. You wouldn’t have noticed—”
“I’ve just come, you see,” Grizel apologised, “and I’ve been busy about my own little house. I’ll show it to you, and you must show me yours. When will you come to tea?”
Miss Bruce stood silent, struggling between a longing to name a date, clinch the invitation, and wave a flag of triumph in the eyes of her enemies, and some softer feeling which forebade taking advantage of the ignorance of a new-comer. She looked down at the young happy face, at the slim young body in its dainty trappings, and a rare impulse of tenderness stirred in her dried heart. People said that Mrs Beverley had been born to a great fortune, had lived in luxury among the highest in the land, but she gave herself fewer airs than many upstarts in semi-detached villas. One good turn deserved another. Miss Bruce rose to unexampled heights of sacrifice.
“It is very kind of you—I appreciate it, but I’d better not! The gentlefolk don’t know me, don’t want to. If they met me sitting in your drawing-room it would be awkward for everybody concerned.”
Grizel elevated expressive eyebrows.
“I choose my own friends. No one has a right to dictate. I’ll drive over for you some day, and carry you off whether you want to or not. You could help me so much! There are thousands of things I want to know about the place, and the workpeople, and where to send, and what to do when things happen—they always are happening in a house, and I’ve a sort of conviction that you could tell me! I’m rather a lazy person, but I get things done. Providence is kind in sending along people to do them for me.”
Such was the magnetism of the dimpling smile that Miss Bruce entirely forgot that this was the person who in the present instance had volunteered to help herself, and stammered ardent promises. Anything she could do! Everything she could do. Only too pleased and proud—
“That’s all right, then. And about those daffodils! Don’t you think they’d look better massed together into little groups? They do look so plaintive fading away all on their own little lones. You’d get more effect from good-sized bunches!”
“Well, I can try!” Miss Bruce conceded amiably, and for the next ten minutes she worked diligently, carrying out the instructions given by a soft voice, and a waving hand in an exquisitely fitting glove. The result was distinctly to the good, and Grizel had no hesitation in taking her due share of praise.
“We have done them well!” she said graciously at parting, and Miss Bruce magnanimously agreed.
“Thank you so much for your help!”
Grizel made another short cut through a pew, and was intercepted by the Vicar’s wife, who had been watching the tête-à-tête with wondering eyes. Mrs Martin Beverley, and poor Miss Bruce! What on earth had they found to talk about all that time? Her keen eyes were alight with curiosity, but Grizel vouchsafed no information; she knew without hearing what the good lady would have to say, and was in no mind to hear it. Perhaps of all sins, pride is the most universal, and the most varied in the manner of its presentment. It hides itself under many disguises, obtrudes its head in the most unexpected situations. The socialist railing at society, and calling upon mankind to follow his example, is often more inflated with pride than the aristocrats against whom he inveighs: an ardent philanthropist living happily among East End roughs, will display unexpected bristles to a fellow-worker who has not known the advantages of a public school; so Grizel Beverley, looking down on the small folk of Chumley from the altitude of her past experiences, failed to grasp Infinitesimal distinctions, and saw no reason why she should be hindered thereby. She had no mind to obey instructions from the Vicar’s wife! She floated past with a nod and a smile, and joined the little group of three who were standing outside the Cancel rails, surveying the effect of the completed vases. The girl Teresa looked paler and more set in expression; tired, no doubt, with her morning’s work. Cassandra, on the contrary, looked refreshed, the interest of having work to do, and doing it well, lighting her eyes into a girlish brightness. Her face was almost as happy as Grizel’s own, as she turned to greet her.
“Here you are! I hope I’ve not kept you too long. It must be nearly time for lunch.” She cast a quick glance at the two by her side, and added tentatively; “I’m going straight back in the car; won’t you both come, too, and let me feed you after your labours? Do! I’d be so pleased.”
Without a flicker of hesitation came Teresa’s refusal.
“Thank you; I couldn’t possibly. I’ve not finished. There is always a cold lunch at the Vicarage. Mrs Evans asks anyone who likes to go. It’s so near.”
“Yes, of course.” Cassandra held out her hand in placid acceptance of the fact, spoke a few words of farewell, and turned to Peignton, taking for granted a like excuse on his part, but he was hesitating, and displaying an obvious wish to accept.
“Is there anything more that I can do to help you, Miss Teresa?—If my work is finished, there’s no need for me to stay. Of course, if there’s anything I can do—”
“No, thank you. Only a few odds and ends. Nothing serious. I can manage quite well,” said Teresa staunchly. Her heart was cramped with pain, but she made no sign. As calmly as a martyr of old, she smiled through the fire, shook hands with each of the three in turn, and accompanied them a few steps down the aisle.
Cassandra walked ahead, her head in the air. “Now why did he do that?” she asked herself uneasily. “I asked them together. I never dreamed he would come alone. Perhaps Bernard was mistaken, and there’s nothing between them, after all. She seemed absolutely detached!” The possibility brought with it a sense of relief, and her thoughts flew ahead to the afternoon. “I’ll take him to my summer-house to tea, and we can talk. There are quite a number of things I want to say...”
It was five o’clock before Teresa Mallison returned home that afternoon, for the “few odd things” stretched out to unexpected length. The day had turned out very differently from what she expected, but there was no anger in her heart against the two who had disturbed her peace. With unusual fairness of mind she realised their unconsciousness, their unwillingness to offend. Things had just happened. No one was to blame. This philosophic attitude did not prevent her from being exceedingly short and snappy with her family for the rest of the evening, or from refusing coldly to partake of the fowl which had been provided for her delectation. To some natures a scapegoat is necessary, and in nine cases out of ten they are conveniently discovered in the home circle.