Cassandra clasped her hands behind her back and strolled to and fro, thinking the many and inconsequent thoughts that come to a woman in such hours. She wondered why she had ever been unhappy, and decided never again to “give way.” She wondered what Bernard had really felt when she had declared that she did not love him. Poor Bernard! How could she have been so bold? Of course she loved him! He was a nice old dear. She wondered if, after all, the new afternoon dress had better be grey! Suppose it were violet for a change; just the right shade of violet, without a touch of red. She wondered if she dare wear the new French hat in Chumley, and what the boy would say of it when he came from school. He had a way of calling her hats “the Limit,” and looking self-conscious in their presence. She had laughed, and worn them all the same, for the wearing of the latest eccentricity in hats had been something more than a slavish following of fashion,—it had been a virtual throwing down of the gage in the face of the prejudices of the neighbourhood. On the days when she was most oppressed by the atmosphere of Chumley and its inhabitants, it had a tonic effect to drive up and down the High Street, wearing a feather stuck at an angle never before attempted out of Paris, and to watch eyes roll from right to left. There had been a time when the church aisle was her chosen shocking-ground. Cassandra blushed when she recalled that phase, and remembered what had brought it to an end. Just an expression on Mrs Evans’s face. Nothing more. She had paused outside the church gate to speak a passing word before getting into the car, and the Vicar’s wife had been kindly and affectionate as ever, had called her “Dear,” and held her hand in a lengthened pressure, but there had been a shadow upon the large, plain face, and the grey eyes were rigorously averted from the marvellous headpiece topping the small, brilliant face. The silence, the kindliness, made Cassandra feel suddenly mean and small, a sensation which was intensified as the car turned from the church door, and Bernard had said with a laugh: “Give ’em a treat this time, Cass! That hat of yours took the starch out of the Vicar’s sermon.” An hour later the hat was a smouldering ruin, and henceforth Cassandra took her plainest clothes to church. But the High Street remained, and here no one could interfere. As the wife of the squire and landlord she might indeed be said to have the right to shock, when it pleased her so to do.
Now that the bulbs were in bloom Bernard would agitate for the usual spring garden party. He always asked the same question: “What was the use of having the things at all, if nobody came to see them?” So the entire neighbourhood was invited, and frequently it rained, inevitably the wind blew from the east, and the guests made scant work of the bulbs, and huddled in the house, partaking of lengthy teas. Cassandra hated all garden parties, and spring parties most of all, but this morning the prospect seemed less distasteful. She would no longer know the feeling of loneliness in a crowd, she would have friends of her own, whose presence would transform the scene. In imagination she summoned them before her—Grizel, with her radiant smile, and merry, chattering tongue; Peignton, his head bending forward from the slightly bowed back, his eyes fixed upon her, with their questioning look, the look that said so plainly: “I am waiting. Give me your orders, and I obey!” Some men had that expression; it meant nothing, of course, but it had charm. Decidedly it had charm. It would help her through the formalities of entertaining, to feel in the distance that waiting glance.
Cassandra turned and saw her husband ascending the stone steps of the terrace. He had entered the grounds by a side gate, and made his way across the path. His cap was pushed back from his brow, his brown face showed the flush of heat, his eyes looked astonishingly blue and clear. There was a metallic quality about those eyes which, taken in conjunction with the strong white teeth, gave a somewhat fierce expression to the face, but to-day he was smiling, and an air of complaisance and satisfaction pervaded the whole figure. Cassandra smiled in response. It seemed fitting that to-day everyone should feel happy. She stood waiting for his approach, and together they paced slowly onward.
“Isn’t it lovely? I’ve been out over an hour. A perfect spring day!”
“Mating time, eh?” said the Squire with a laugh. “‘In the Spring a young man’s fancy...’ Well! it seems it is true. I’ve just been hearing news. You haven’t heard? I thought perhaps they would ring you up.”
“No,” said Cassandra blankly. “No.” She stared uncomprehendingly in her husband’s face, and suddenly her heart gave a queer unexpected little thud, and her pulses quickened their beat. “Who did you expect would ring me up?”
“Oh, either of them. Or both. They’re at the stage when they’ll want to do everything in pairs. And they know you’ll be interested.”
“Couldn’t you tell me at once what the news is?”
“I did tell you. An engagement, of course. Peignton’s engagement. With the fair Teresa. For goodness’ sake, don’t pretend to be surprised to hear. You notice precious little, but you must have noticed that. I told you myself it was coming on.”
“Of course you did. I remember perfectly. I am very—”