The Squire and Martin looked uncomfortable, but said nothing. Plainly they also thought that the lovers would be better away, so Teresa excused herself and went upstairs to pack her box, an operation which she could not be persuaded to leave to a maid. With care and contrivance she could contrive to give the effect of a wardrobe that was sufficient, though not in any degree to be compared to those of her two hostesses, but the gimlet-like eyes of a lady’s maid would speedily discover and despise the little contrivances inevitable to small means. Teresa had the true middle-class dread of what servants would “think.” She had discussed with other Chumley girls the horror of staying in houses where a maid “poked about.” One friend in especial had recounted a thrilling incident which had befallen her on a recent visit. For the purpose of impressing the maid she had borrowed from a married sister her very smartest “nightie,” a cobweb confection of lawn and lace, which, discreetly crumpled, was hung over a chair in the morning, the while the utility flannelette was locked in a drawer. All went well, until one fateful morning, when, on the arrival of early tea, drowsiness overcame discretion, and the flanneletted figure had reared upright in the bed.
“My dear,” concluded the sufferer tragically, “I could have died!... After that her manner entirely changed.”
It was a sorry task, refilling that box which had been packed with such high hopes. As she folded ribbons, and stuffed tissue paper into the sleeves of dresses, Teresa could recall the exact sentiments which had been in her mind as she had gone through the same process a few days before. Dane liked blue, so she had decided to wear the new blue dress on the first evening. The new sports coat was green, which suited her fairness almost as well as blue. She would wear that when they went out walking together, and he would slip his hand through her arm. There was a filmy white scarf which she had intended to throw over her shoulders when they escaped together into the garden after dinner. That scarf had never been taken out of its wrappings. It had never been required. The visit to which she had looked forward, as she had looked forward to nothing else in her life, had ended in tragedy and upheaval.
An ordinary girl would have assuredly shed tears over such a packing, but Teresa was not given to tears; moreover, in another hour she would be starting on a tête-à-tête journey with Dane, and a disfigured face would not help her cause. She recognised the fact, and set her lips, refusing to give way to the choky sensation in her throat, to the pricking at the back of her eyes. Tears were for those who had lost hope, and she had not yet come to that pass. If much was lost, a great deal remained. She would go on fighting.
Downstairs Teresa made her adieux with smiling composure. It was Grizel who cried, crumpling her tiny handkerchief into a ball, and dabbing at her eyes without an effort at concealment. The curse of a vivid imagination was presenting to her the inner tragedy of the journey ahead, when the two who were supposedly lovers were left alone together for leaden hours which should have been winged with joy. She envisaged the home-coming too, the flood of maternal questionings, the blankness of spirit which would descend upon the girl when she attempted to settle down. While Teresa had been packing her trunk Grizel had been with her in spirit, feeling the reflex of every pang, and now as the carriage drove from the door she cried unrestrainedly, to her husband’s mingled bewilderment and concern.
“Are you sorry they are gone? You said you would have no time...”
“I haven’t. I’m glad; but, oh, Martin, I am Teresa at this moment, and it hurts! I know exactly how she suffers...”
“That’s impossible. Teresa could never feel in your way, and besides, dearest, why should she suffer? She’s not such a baby as to grouse over a few days’ visit. Especially when she has her man.”
Martin knew nothing of the awkwardness of the position, and Grizel realised that she must appear hysterical in his eyes, and longed to pour out the whole tale, but it would not do; for everyone’s sake it would not do. There might come a time when his unconsciousness would be the greatest boon to all concerned.
“It’s all the fault of my beastly imagination!” she sniffed ruefully. “I’m always living through other people’s dramas, and tearing my heart to fiddle-strings imagining how I should agonise and despair if I were in the same place. You said one day that it was easy to be philosophical about a neighbour’s toothache, but it isn’t easy to me. I feel the horrid thing leaping inside my own mouth, and stabbing up to my own ear, and taste the nasty chlorodyney cotton-wool in my own mouth. I’m such a sensitive little thing!”