Cassandra’s laugh rang out with sudden gaiety. She gripped the large arm, and said with a charming indulgence:
“Ah, but why shouldn’t you? If you do manage us, it’s for our own good. It’s sweet of you to take the trouble... Mrs Evans, Mary Mallison has been here to lunch, and I’ve been talking to her. Her mother is vastly excited about this windfall, but the girl herself does not seem capable of anything but relief at the thought of getting away from home. I’m afraid she’s been rather desperately unhappy. It surprises me that she could suffer so much. I thought she was one of those dull women who are contented to jog along in any rut in which they are placed, and never demand anything for themselves.”
“Do you think there are any such women, Cassandra?”
“Don’t you?”
“I am quite sure there are not.”
Cassandra knitted her brows and stared intently into the face of the woman, who was a virtual father confessor to the parish. If Mrs Evans were sure, what right had she to question; but the thought held a sting.
“But—if not, there must be so horribly many who are wretched!”
“There are,” Mrs Evans said. A moment later: “Wretched is a strong word, Cassandra,” she added, “perhaps it would be better to say ‘disappointed.’ There are very few women who get to my age who are not making a fight against some sort of disappointment. They are very brave about it, for the most part, and cover it up so successfully that the world does not suspect; but the fight goes on. I get many peeps behind the scenes; it’s part of my work. Sickness comes or loss, and then it is a comfort to speak out and unburden the heart. I’ve been amazed at the number of hidden sorrows in the places where I least expected them. I have looked down on a woman as frivolous and commonplace, and have come away after half an hour’s confidences looking up to her as a heroine.”
Cassandra turned her head and looked up and down the diverging paths. Women everywhere, crowds of women, old and young, and heavily middle-aged, talking, smiling, bearing themselves with complacent airs. It was a ghastly, a hideous thought that they were all suffering some inner smart! She had believed that she was an exception, but according to Mrs Evans it was not the sufferer who was the exception, but the child of the sunshine, who, like fortunate Grizel, was endowed with the gift of happiness.
“All of them?” cried Cassandra sharply. “Oh, not all! They look so calm and comfortable. I couldn’t bear to think that under the mask they were all suffering!”