Grizel at Home.
It was the afternoon of Grizel Beverley’s first “At Home” celebration. The drawing-room had been made ready for the occasion with the aid of what seemed to Martin a very army of workmen, and, as Grizel pointed out triumphantly, it looked as if it had been lived in for generations. Not a single new object marred the mellowed perfection of the whole. Old cabinets stood outlined against white walls, the floor was bare of the superfluity of little tables and flower-stands which characterise so many bride’s apartments; with one striking exception the general effect was austere in tone. The exception was found in a deep recess, on one side of the fire-place, the walls of which were hung with a gorgeous Chinese embroidery which made a feast of colour against the surrounding white and brown, and proclaimed to an understanding eye that the mistress of the house had appropriated the favoured niche for her own use.
Against the wall stood a huge old sofa, showing delicate touches of brass on the carved woodwork, and piled with a profusion of cushions to match the tapestries in tone. There was a table also of carved Chinese wood, littered with books, and a surprising number of odds and ends considering the very short period in which it had been in use; a bureau of dull red lacquer, littered to match, and a great blue enamel bowl containing a few, but only a few, spring flowers.
When Grizel did a thing at all she did it thoroughly, and when the drawing-room was finished to a thread, she herself dressed to match it in a cream lace robe of fallacious simplicity, caught together with a clasp of turquoise and diamonds, and a blue snood tied about her head. When the crucial moment arrived, she intended to seat herself sultana-like on her couch and burst in full splendour upon the admiring throngs. Martin was convinced that no living thing could fail to be subjugated by that gown, but he was equally convinced that Chumley would disapprove of the snood, which it would call a bandage, and consider theatrical and out of place. He knew his business better than to say so, however, and was at the moment abundantly occupied in trying to lure his wife from the window, where she had taken up her position, field-glasses in hand, to watch the approach of the first group of visitors up the lane leading to the gate.
“The Campbells are coming. Hurrah! Hurrah! Three of ’em. One stout person in green, one thin person in black, one girl with large feet. Girl with feet has fair hair. Who do you know, Martin, with fair hair and large feet?”
“Dozens of ’em.” Martin threw a quick look over his wife’s shoulder and recognised the group at a glance. “Mrs Mallison, wife of Major Mallison, retired Army man—the Seaforths. Eldest daughter Mary, dull and domestic. Second daughter Teresa, sporting. They are quite near the gate now, dearest. Don’t, please, let them see...”
Grizel put down the field-glasses, crossed to the couch, and seated herself thereon in an attitude of prunes and prisms propriety. The bell rang, and the three ladies were shown into the room. There was an air of diffidence, almost of shyness in their demeanour, for this was not an ordinary afternoon call, upon an ordinary bride. This bride had been a well-known personage in society, her marriage had been a subject of almost international interest, and the fleeting glimpses which Chumley had had of her, on previous visits to Martin’s sister Katrine, had confirmed all that rumour had to say touching the puzzling variability of her nature. It was impossible for these first callers to restrain a thrill of nervousness as to the nature of the reception before them. When the door opened to give a momentary glimpse of a white figure sitting outlined against a background of Oriental splendour, the nervousness deepened still more. They advanced tentatively, cautious of the polished floor, so tentatively that Grizel met them more than half-way, sailing gracefully forward with an infinity of assurance which had the unexpected result of daunting them still further. They were requested to sit down; they sat down, and stared...
“So good of you to come to see me! You are my very first callers.”
“I trust—not too early.” Mrs Mallison felt a pang of disquietude. “We were so anxious to meet you. You are feeling quite settled down, I hope. How do you like Chumley?”
“Oh, thank you, so much! I adore everything. You do, don’t you, when you are newly married?”