Cassandra had known nothing of babies; Mrs Mason, the head nurse, knew everything, and Bernard was tenacious of the safety of his heir. He thought it a pity for his wife to “interfere,” and said as much with his usual frankness. He did not approve of young children being in evidence, and discouraged the boy’s appearance downstairs. At an unusually early age also he selected a preparatory school at the far end of the county, and henceforth Bernard the younger visited home for the holidays only, and was no longer a member of the household proper. Cassandra loved him, but,—she had wanted to love him so much more! In those first hours she had imagined a bond of union so strong and tender that the commonplaces of the reality could not fail to be a disappointment. Bernard was a dutiful boy, a sensible boy, a boy who brought home satisfactory reports; he considered the Mater a good sort, and appreciated her generosity. Her affection he endured, her tenderness he would have abhorred, but it was as difficult to be tender to Bernard the son, as to Bernard the father. Cassandra had abandoned the attempt.
And, socially speaking, the Court was situated in a hopeless part of the county. The other two big places in the neighbourhood were occupied, the one by an objectionable nouveau riche, and the other by an elderly couple of such strong evangelical tendencies that they disapproved of everything which other people enjoyed. There were, it is true, a few pleasant families at the other side of the county, but though they could be counted upon for state occasions, the intervening miles forbade anything like easy, everyday intimacy. In autumn the Raynors entertained a succession of guests for the shooting, but for the rest of the year Bernard discouraged house parties. He was bored by Cassandra’s friends, she was bored by his, the guests were mutually bored by each other, what then was the use of going to trouble and expense?
As for Chumley, the nearest small township, a mile or less from the nearest gate of the Court, from Cassandra’s point of view “No-one” lived there—literally no one, but a few dull, suburban families who gave afternoon tea parties, gossiped about their neighbours, and wore impossible clothes. Cassandra maintained that there was not a creature in Chumley worth knowing, but Bernard said that was nonsense, there must be some decent women among them, if she would only be decent in return! Cassandra maintained that she was decent; she called on them sometimes, and she asked them to garden parties. One could do no more.
Cassandra had been married ten years, and would be thirty on her next birthday. When one was a girl it had seemed so impossibly dull to be thirty. And it was; Cassandra thought it would be vastly more agreeable to be forty, at once, and be done with it. At forty, one began to grow stout and grey, to lie down in the afternoon, and feel interested in committee meetings, and societies, and other people’s business. At thirty, one was still so painfully interested in oneself!
At forty, one was old, looked it, felt it, acknowledged it with body and mind... but at thirty, it was difficult to be consistently discreet. At thirty, one knew one was old; with the brain one knew it, but it was impossible to live consistently up to the knowledge. There were moments when one felt so extraordinarily, so incredibly young, moments when the mirror, instead of crying shame on such folly, backed one up in delusion, and gave back the reflection of a girl!
Cassandra thanked Providence daily for her eyes, her hair, her straight back, and the dimple in her chin. Viewed in full, her face was a charming oval; taken in halves it supplied two admirable profiles. The nose leant a trifle to the left, so that was the side on which she chose to be photographed and on which she bestowed the prettiest side of her hats. Cassandra and the mirror enjoyed the hats, and Chumley disapproved. That was all the satisfaction she got out of their purchase. Bernard took no notice of clothes during the enchanting period of their youth, but just when his wife was feeling tired to death of a garment, he would awake to a consciousness of its existence and cry: “Holloa, what’s this? You are mighty smart. Another new frock?” Cassandra wished to goodness as he was not more observant, he would not be observant at all. It made it so awkward to order new things.
Cassandra seated herself in a deep cushioned chair, folded her hands in her lap, and began one of the animated conversations with her inner self which were the resource of her idle hours. It was so comfortable talking to oneself,—one could be honest, could say precisely what one meant, need have no tiresome fears for other people’s susceptibilities.
“What’s the matter with me that I feel so restless and dull? I ought to be contented and happy, but I’m not. I’m bored to death, and the trouble of it is,—I can’t think why! I’ve everything I could wish for, and I’m as unsatisfied as if I’d nothing. In the name of fortune, my dear, what do you want?—It comes to this—I’m either a morbid, introspective, weak-minded fool or else I’m noble and fine, and am stretching out for higher things. I’d like to think it was the last, but I’m not at all sure! I don’t long to be great or noble, or superior in any way—only just to be happy, and at rest... I wonder if by chance I’m unhappily married? That would account for so much. I wonder if I ruined my life when I gave in, and said ‘yes’ to Bernard! If I did, it was with the best intentions. I was fond of him. When a dull, quiet man gets really worked up, there’s something extraordinarily compelling. And I expected he’d stay worked up. At eighteen any girl would. There ought to be a Bureau of Matrimonial Intelligence to prevent them from making such mistakes. I’d be the secretary, and say: ‘My dear, he won’t! This is only a passing conflagration. It will die out, and he’ll revert to the normal. You’ll have to live with the normal till death do you part. It doesn’t follow that you’ll quarrel... Ah! my dear girl, there are so many worse things! It’s deplorable, of course, to quarrel with one’s husband, but the reconciliation might be worth the pain. You might put your head on his shoulder, and say: “It was every bit your fault, and the rest was mine. Kiss me! and we’ll never do it again!” and he’d choose the prettiest dimple, and kiss you there, and do it so nicely, you’d long to quarrel again. Oh, yes, there are points about quarrelling, but it’s so hopelessly uningratiating to be—bored. The worse you feel, the less you can say. Imagine telling a man that he bored you to extinction, and expecting to be kissed in return! Being bored goes on and on, and never works itself off’... Bernard is good and loyal, and honourable, and just,—and I’m so tired of him. I am; and I can’t pretend any longer. We’ve lived together in peace and boredom for ten long years, and something within me seems wearing out—
“I wonder how many married people come up against this hurdle? Its name is satiety, and it is bristling with difficulties. I’ve a suspicion that if one could get cleanly over, it would be a safe trot home. But it blocks the way. I’m up against it now—”
Cassandra rested an elbow on the arm of her chair, and leant her head on the uplifted hand. A thrill of something like fear ran through her veins. The simile of the hurdle had leapt into her mind subconsciously, as such things will, but the conscious mind recognised its face. Along the quiet path lay no chance for the reforming of life; it must necessarily be some shock, some upheaval, which would either open out new fields, or gild the old with some of the vanished splendour. Even if one failed to reach the goal without a toss, a toss was preferable to an eternal jog-trot.