“They are not, my dear; they are forgetting! That’s the lesson so many of us have to learn,—to forget the unattainable, and make the best of what remains. And every innocent distraction that comes along, like this party to-day, to see your beautiful flowers, helps a step along the road.”
“Suppose,” said Cassandra slowly, “one did not wish to forget?”
The Vicar’s wife shook her head.
“One rarely does. It is easier to cling hold. But it’s possible to ask oneself a straight question... Which is going to make life easier for myself, and the people around me,—to cling hold, or,—to let go? It saps one’s vitality to grieve over the unattainable, and in most lives there is an unattainable. There are not many women so fortunate as you, Cassandra!”
Mrs Evans spoke in good faith. She had a sincere liking for the Squire, who as a patron was not only generous, but delightfully free from the dreaded vice of interference. When consulted on church matters, he would shrug his shoulders, and declare that it was all one to him. So long as the music was passable, and the sermons kept within a ten minutes’ limit, he could be relied upon to give liberally, and to make no complaints. Truly a patron in a hundred! Such a man could not fail to be a kind husband. Moreover, the touch of snobbishness in Mrs Evans’s nature invested Cassandra’s position in the county with a most satisfying importance, while the presence of the needful heir made the picture complete. Youth, beauty, wealth, a fine position, a kindly husband, a strong young son,—what more could a woman desire? “But you must be careful not to take cold!” she added remindfully.
Cassandra gave a short, mirthless laugh, but before she had time to speak her husband and Grizel turned the corner of the path, and Bernard, with his usual lack of ceremony, beckoned to her to approach. He looked flushed and worried, and with a word of apology to Mrs Evans, Cassandra hurried to meet him.
“Here you are at last! Been searching all over. Trust you to hide yourself out of sight. Look here! I want you at the house. There’s been an accident. Peignton—”
Cassandra straightened herself hastily. The flower-beds with their blaze of colour whizzed round in kaleidoscopic fashion before her eyes. She felt very cold, and faint. Grizel’s voice sounded a long way off, speaking with a studied distinctness.
“A slight accident! Only his ankle. He was doing something in the rockery, clambering over the big stones, and one turned over... The Squire sent for an old Bath chair in the stables, and he has been wheeled into the plant room. There is a terrific discussion going on as to what next. Can’t you come and take away some of Mrs Mallison?”
Cassandra turned homeward without a word, the Squire walking by her side, waving his hands in excitement.