Mrs George de Horne Vaizey

"Lady Cassandra"

Chapter One.

A Matrimonial Hurdle.

Cassandra Raynor stood on the terrace of her great house, looking over the sweep of country stretching to right and left, and in her heart was the deadliest of all weariness,—the weariness of repletion. It seemed at that moment the bitterest cross that she had nothing left for which to wish, that everything good which the world could give was hers already, and had left her cold.

The stately old house was hers, with its treasures of old-world furnishings, the same furnishings which had ministered to generations dead and gone, and would minister to others yet to come. It would have been considered sacrilege to stamp the individuality of the chatelaine of an hour on those historic halls. The distant stretch of country was part of her estate, but the sight of it brought no thrill to Cassandra’s veins. Her jaded eyes had wearied of the familiar landscape, as they had wearied of the interior of the house, in which she seemed more a tenant than a mistress.

Cassandra wandered idly to and fro, obsequiously shadowed by obsequious servants, and wondered what it would feel like to live in a semi-detached villa, and arrange one’s own rooms in one’s own way, and frill pink silk curtains, and festoon lamp shades, and run to the door to meet a husband returning from the City. She herself had never run to meet Bernard. If she had once begun that sort of thing, she might have been running all day long, for he was always in and out. She wondered what it would feel like to have a husband who disappeared regularly at nine a.m., and returned at seven. One might be quite glad to see him!

Cassandra had done her duty to the family by producing a healthy male child within eighteen months of her marriage. So sorely had she suffered in giving birth to her son that there was no hope of a second child to bear him company, but there had been no regret nor self-pity in her mother’s heart during those first hours in which he lay, red and crumpled, within her arms. Never while she lived could Cassandra forget the rest, the thankfulness, the deep, uplifted joy of those hours. It had seemed to her then that with the coming of the child all gaps must be filled, and all the poverty of life be turned into gold. But... was it her own fault, or the fault of circumstances which had brought about the disillusionment? It had been difficult to believe that the stolid, well-behaved young person, who walked abroad between two white-robed nurses, spoke when he was spoken to, and tucked his feeder carefully beneath his chin, was really her own child, bone of her bone, flesh of her flesh; the wonder child of whom she had dreamt such dreams.

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.

Cassandra narrowed her eyes, and stared into space, but no man’s face pictured itself in her mind; for ten long years Bernard had, for good or ill, filled the foreground of her life, not the mildest of flirtations had been hers. She was a pure-minded woman, bred on conventional lines, and the idea of a lover would have outraged her delicacy. In considering the events which might possibly vitalise the future, her mind dwelt on strictly legitimate happenings. A serious illness,—her own,—Bernard’s,—the boy’s; the loss of money; a lengthened separation, which would revive joys staled by custom. Regarded dispassionately the prospects were not cheerful, nevertheless she found herself cheered by the contemplation. She saw herself occupied, engrossed, with something to do, a real object in life. It might be a reviving experience to have one of the Bernards—not dangerously so, of course, but just enough ill to feel dependent on the one woman in the family. Even to be ill oneself would have points. She would sit propped up against her best pillow covers, wearing a distracting bed jacket and cap, and Bernard would come in, and look at her, and say,—What would he say? Cassandra’s smile was twisted with a pathetic humour. “Holloa, old girl. Got ’em all on! Bucking up a bit, ain’t you? I’m off for a ride...” Rather a tame dénouement to which to look forward as the reward for weeks of suffering! Cassandra determined on the whole that she would rather keep well.

And the two Bernards,—what sort of convalescents would they make? Cassandra drew a mental picture of the sick room, with the older patient stretched on a couch, and herself seated by his side, a devoted and assiduous nurse, but there was an obstinate commonplaceness about father and son which refused to adapt itself to the scene. Bernard would have no reflections to make on the wonder of life restored; he would want to hear the Sporting Times read aloud, and the latest news of the crops. His tenderest acknowledgment of her care would be a, “Looking a bit peaked, old girl! What’s the sense of paying a nurse and doing the work yourself?” As for the boy, he would talk cricket, be politely bored, and surreptitiously wipe off kisses. Cassandra determined that on the whole the two Bernards had better keep well also!

As for poverty—one would certainly have enough to do to run a house on a few hundreds a year, but though viewed generally the prospect sounded picturesque, a definite narrowing down to a comparison with one of the many Chumley homesteads, brought a quick shudder of distaste. The narrow rooms, the inferior servants, the infinitesimal gardens,—Cassandra thrust out her hands in horror of the thought, and laughed a soft, full-throated laugh.

“If I am bound to be dissatisfied, let me at least have room to be dissatisfied in! I could bear being stinted in almost anything rather than space. If Bernard loses his money, we’ll go abroad and live on a prairie,—anything rather than a stifling villa.”

She turned her head as the door opened, and her husband entered, and crossed the room to a bureau in the far corner. He wore the usual tweed suit, the Norfolk jacket accentuating his increasing width, the loose knickerbockers revealing large, well-shaped legs. His skin was tanned to a rich brown, his eyes were a clear hard blue, his teeth strong and white, his moustache was cut in a straight harsh line along the upper lip. His cool gaze included his wife with the rest of the furnishings, but he gave no acknowledgment of her presence; not a flicker of expression passed over his face.

There came to Cassandra suddenly, irrepressibly, the necessity of shocking him into life. She was not a woman who indulged in scenes; it came naturally to her to hide her feelings, and act a part before the world. If Bernard had not entered at just that psychological moment, if he had looked one bit less sleek, and satisfied, and dense, she could have gone on acting, as she had done for years past; as it was, a desire for expression rose with giant force, and would not be gainsaid. Very well! So be it. For once she would speak out, and Bernard should hear. She had an acute, a devastating curiosity to hear what he would say.

“Bernard, are you busy? I want to speak to you.”

He turned his head. The clear tints of his skin looked startlingly healthy as seen in the light of the great open window.

“All right! Fire ahead.”

“Bernard, do you love me?”

“Good Lord!” The utter stupefaction on Raynor’s face proved that this was the last of all questions which he had expected to hear. He came across the room, and stood staring down into his wife’s face. “What the dickens is up?”

“Nothing is up. I asked you a simple question. What should be up?”

“I thought you’d taken offence at something I’d done!”

“You have done nothing in the least unusual that I know of. I rather wish you had. Do you, Bernard?”

“Do I what?”

“You know quite well, but I’ll ask you again, if you prefer it. Do you love me, Bernard?”

The man’s ruddy face took a deeper tinge.

“I say, Cass, what rot is this? That was settled and done with years ago. I married you. You’re my wife. If you are not sure of me by this time, you never will be.”

“You are quite sure of yourself?”

“Of course I am. What d’you mean? I’m not the sort to er—er—”

Cassandra turned her head over her shoulder and flung him a challenging glance, her blue eyes bright with defiance.

“Then you had better understand, Bernard, once for all, that—I am not sure of myself! I’m not at all sure that I love you!”

She had said it. The words rang like a clarion call through the silent room. After years of self-deception, and careful covering up, a moment’s impulse had laid bare the skeleton. It stood between them, a naked horror, grinning with fleshless lips. Cassandra saw it and shuddered at the sight, but it was too late to draw back. She caught her breath, and sat tremblingly waiting for what should come.

What came was a burst of hearty, good-natured laughter. Bernard’s eyes twinkled, his white teeth gleamed. He stretched out a freckled hand and laid it on his wife’s arm.

“That’s all right, old girl! Don’t you worry about that. You’re fond of me all right, and a rattling good wife. We’ve been married a dozen years, and never had a row. If all couples got along as well as we do, things would be a sight better. What’s the use of bothering about love at this time of day. I’m not a sentimental fellow. I’m satisfied with things as they are. So are you too, as a rule. Got a fit of the blues, that’s all!—I say, Cass, Peignton’s coming to tea, and I met that girl of the Mallison’s,—Teresa, isn’t it?—and asked her to come along too, and make up a game afterwards. She plays a good hand, and Peignton’s engaged to her they say, or going to be. So we will do them a good turn, as well as ourselves.”

Cassandra rose slowly, straightening her shoulders as if throwing off a weight. Standing there her head was on a level with her husband’s, and for a moment their eyes met, his calm and unperturbed, hers sparkling and defiant. She had spoken. He had heard the truth, and had laughed at her for her pains. Now let the Fates bring what they might. He had been warned...

“Very well, Bernard. I’ll have tea early. Shall I order the car to take her home?”

“Er—no. They’ll send. Pony cart or some contraption of the kind. Peignton’ll look after her all right.”

He chuckled, aroused to interest in a prospective romance, though his own had faded. He turned, softly whistling, and fumbled in the bureau, while Cassandra beat a retreat to her own room.

Now she was angry with herself, sore with the humiliation of an unnecessary rebuff. “How futile of me! How superfluous to bring it on my own head! What did I expect?” she asked herself bitterly. She stood staring out of the window at the landscape, already darkening in the short February light, while the thoughts chased themselves in her brain. Her youth,—Bernard,—her marriage,—the birth of her child,—ennui,—disappointment,—emptiness. The different stages seemed to follow one after another in relentless sequence; they merged together in nebulous confusion. Then suddenly her thoughts switched to another topic.

“Teresa!” she found herself repeating, “Teresa Mallison!” With critical accuracy she was conjuring up the picture of a tall, thickly built girl, with fair hair, fresh complexion, and a narrow, long-chinned face. In Chumley circles Teresa Mallison was considered a pretty girl, and pretty she was, and would be, so long as the glow of youth disguised the harshness of her features. Cassandra acknowledged as much with the generosity which most women show towards the attractions of their sisters, difficult as masculine incredulity finds it to credit the fact. Teresa Mallison was quite a pleasant sort of girl, amiable and unaffected, and quite angelic about accepting eleventh-hour invitations to fill a vacant place. One way and another she had been a fairly frequent visitor at the Court, during the last year, but imagine choosing to live all one’s life with such a companion! Imagine breakfasting throughout the years with Teresa Mallison as a vis-à-vis; being sad with Teresa, glad with Teresa, living day after day with Teresa; growing old, dying, always, always with Teresa; watching her heavy form grow heavier, her long face longer, seeing the wrinkles gather round the light blue eyes, listening always, for ever, to the thin, toneless voice, the recurrent spasms of laughter. Dane Peignton too; Peignton of all men! Not one of the ordinary, uninteresting Chumley natives, but the most attractive bachelor in the neighbourhood! That made the mystery deeper.

Dane Peignton was a comparatively new-comer to the neighbourhood; was in fact only a bird of passage, being a temporary tenant of a small place a few miles distant from the Court, during its owner’s sojourn abroad. Peignton had retired from the Army after a serious breakdown in health, and being not overburdened with this world’s goods, had been delighted to accept from old friends the loan of a house for a couple of years, the responsibility of superintending the up-keep of the estate being taken as a quid pro quo against rent. Being country-bred, he had little difficulty in fitting into his new duties, and in envisaging the future, felt that after Vernon’s return, he would like nothing better than to secure a land agency, live quietly in the country, and take up country sports. Given a few congenial neighbours, and a library of books, he would feel no hankerings for town.

An hour later Cassandra descended the great staircase, and made her way to the drawing-room to await her guests. She had discarded her morning dress, and moved by some subtle impulse of coquetry had decked herself in a new creation, which was pleased to call itself a bridge gown. Even she herself would have been puzzled to give an accurate explanation of her own motives in so doing; so many elements entered, and intermingled. Bernard had repulsed her,—let him see what manner of woman he had repulsed! The remembrance of the girl, rich in youth and love, came also as a spur to the woman to whom the years had brought disillusion. Teresa Mallison had placed her on a pinnacle, and worshipped her as a marvel of grace and beauty,—she wished to retain the girl’s admiration, wished for her own sake to feel conscious of looking her best. She dressed for Bernard’s benefit, for Teresa’s, for her own; the only person of whom she took no account was Dane Peignton himself. He stood outside her life.

The great drawing-room with its white panelled walls looked somewhat cold and austere, but round the log fire was a little haven of comfort, where four Spanish leather screens formed a background for deeply cushioned sofas. The firelight played on the rich colouring of the old leather work, on the dainty equipments of the tea table; on Cassandra herself in her rose-red draperies, on the face, that was so young and vivid, on the eyes which were so tired.

Dane Peignton approaching from the further end of the room had a moment to take in the details of the scene, before she saw him in her turn, and the picture stayed in his mind.

Cassandra on her part regarded Peignton with the added curiosity which every woman feels towards an embryo lover, seeing him in a new light, as a central figure in the eternal drama. She saw a tall man with a military bearing, somewhat at variance with bowed shoulders, a clean-shaven face, not handsome, not plain, the features large and roughly hewn, the eyes a dark steel grey. Yet he was attractive. Why was he so attractive? Cassandra pondered the question while keeping up a light flow of conversation, and arrived at varying conclusions. It was his eyes. It was his mouth. It was his mobility of expression. It was an air of weakness underlying strength, which evoked sympathy and interest. He was attractive, that was the end of the matter; and he cared for Teresa Mallison!

The door opened, and Teresa was announced. She had discarded her coat and appeared in a short dark skirt, and a white blouse, transparent at the neck, and displaying a goodly length of bare brown arms. Her feet looked disproportionately large in walking shoes, and there was a hint of the provincial in her gait. One descried at a glance that it was not often her lot to make an entrance into so stately a room. Cassandra rose to greet her with an involuntary feeling of commiseration. A few minutes before she had come near grudging the girl her good fortune, now at the sight of her, her heart melted with pity. So gauche, so raw! The heavy looks, the reddened arms. Cassandra’s fastidious eye took in the blemishes at a glance, and the feminine in her rose on the girl’s behalf. She placed her on the corner of the sofa, nearest the softly tinted light, moved a table to her side, with a deft hand twitched away a dark cushion and substituted one of a vivid blue. The effect was transforming, for once the dark skirt was hidden from sight the filmy blouse became at once dainty and appropriate, while the softened light showed to advantage the gleam in the fair, coiled hair, the youthful pink and white of the complexion. Cassandra glanced at Peignton to see if he appreciated the picture; and discovered him leaning forward, looking into the girl’s face with pleasure and admiration. Teresa was smiling back, and showing her large white teeth. Cassandra squeezed her lips into a tight little knot, and told herself she was very pleased. But how foolish they looked!

Bernard came in, and sat himself down with deliberation. He enjoyed afternoon tea, insisted on having a table to himself, and a supply of hot buttered toast. Hardly a day passed that he did not ask for a second supply, and give instructions as to liberality with the butter. He drank three cups of tea, and helped himself largely to cream. And then he wondered that he grew stout! Cassandra nibbled daintily at minute wafers of bread, and the girl on the sofa ate sweet cakes with youthful relish.

“What’s the news, Miss Mallison?” Bernard asked between his mouthfuls of toast. It was a question which he never failed to ask, and Teresa Mallison’s replies never failed to evoke the expected amusement. She believed so implicitly that he was interested in the doings of that dead-alive little hole, and brought out her little items with such an air of importance.

“The Vicar has asked me to decorate the chancel for Easter.”

“Don’t you do it! Lots of trouble, and nobody pleased. Let someone else take that job.”

“Oh, but”—Teresa looked shocked—“I want to! It’s an honour. I’ve only done the finials before. But it needs lots of flowers. I wondered if...”

“I’ll bet you did! They always do.” Bernard laughed good-naturedly. “All right, Miss Teresa; you shall have them. Someone has them every year, and I’d sooner give them to you than most. Tell Dawes what you want, and I’ll see that he remembers. And if you want him to help—”

“Oh, thanks!” Teresa’s cheeks showed a deeper colour. “I have some helpers. Mr Peignton has promised.”

“That’s right, Peignton! Make yourself useful.” Bernard’s smile was so significant, that Teresa made haste to give the conversation a turn.

“The Martin Beverleys have come home.”

“They have, have they? That’s the author fellow who married the heiress, who was not an heiress, because she gave it all up to marry him. Chucked away,—how much was it? Fifty thousand a year?”

“Thirty!”

“Ah well, thirty’s good enough! He didn’t seem to me, the few times I’ve met him, exactly cheap at the price. Good-looking enough in a fashion, and plays a fair game, but a stiff, reserved kind of beggar. Takes himself too seriously for my taste. They tell me he writes good books.”

Teresa waxed eloquent in favour of the local celebrity.

“Oh, beautiful! He is one of the best authors. The last one was the best of all. It’s run through several editions. You ought to read it, Mr Raynor.”

“Can’t stick novels!” declared Bernard, who was never known to read a line beyond the morning papers. “Can’t understand how anyone can when they’ve passed the cub stage. And as to writing them—Good Lord! Fancy that old solemn sides Beverley writing an impassioned love scene! Beats me how he manages to do it.”

“It wouldn’t, if you knew Mrs Beverley!” Teresa said sagely. Her blue eyes brightened, she drew a long, eloquent breath. “She is—adorable!”

The men laughed. Cassandra looked up with a dawning of interest.

“She was Grizel Dundas, niece of that terrible old woman. I’ve heard of her often, but we never met. I’ve met Mr Beverley and his sister, that handsome girl who went to India: they have been here to several garden parties. He is certainly rather stiff, but one feels from his books that he must be worth knowing. It’s interesting to know a man for whom a woman has given up so much, but still more interesting to meet the woman. Tell us, Teresa, what she is like!”

But Teresa wrinkled her brows, and looked vague and perplexed. She could enthuse, but it appeared that she could not describe.

“Er—it’s so difficult! She’s like no one else. I’ve never met anyone in the least like her.”

Cassandra put the invariable question:

“Is she pretty?”

“Oh, lovely!” Teresa cried. “At least—sometimes! She changes. I’ve heard people call her plain. But you hardly think of her looks. She’s so—” Again she hesitated, and became lost in confusion. Cassandra probed once more.

“So—what? Teresa, do please be definite! I’m interested in this Mrs Beverley. If she’s really plain, it’s so clever of her to look lovely. If she is lovely, it’s so stupid of her to look plain. What is she so—?”

“Funny!” gasped Teresa, and giggled triumphantly. “Yes, she is funny! She says funny things. In a funny way. She is not a bit like—”

“Teresa—what?”

“Chumley,” said Teresa, and involuntarily Cassandra heaved a sigh of relief.

“Lovely. Plain. Funny. Not a bit like Chumley.” Cassandra noted each point with an infinitesimal nod; into her eyes there danced a spark of light. “This sounds exciting! I shall call upon Mrs Beverley.”

“Thankful to hear it!” Raynor grumbled. “You ought to call a lot more. People expect it. It would please ’em, and be good for you. You shut yourself up, and get hipped. A woman needs gossip, to let off steam.”

Cassandra’s light laugh carried off the personality of the remark, but after the laugh came a sigh, a ghost of a sigh of whose passing her husband and Teresa remained serenely unconscious. Only Peignton heard it, and his eyes turned to rest upon her face.

There was in his glance an intentness, an understanding which gave the impression of barriers thrust aside. Cassandra was startled by it, and discomposed. She had reached the stage when she did not expect to be understood. That such a stranger as this man should have read her thoughts seemed at the moment a deliberate offence. She lowered her lids with an impulse of self-defence.

“It is five o’clock,” she said shortly. “Bernard, if you can tear yourself from buttered toast, shall we begin bridge?”

Chapter Two.

Wanted—A Wife.

It was a pretty sight to see Cassandra Raynor play bridge. When dummy fell to her turn, she had a trick of stretching out her right hand, and softly tapping the table, during a moment’s deliberation, which gave the onlookers an opportunity of admiring what is certainly one of the most beautiful of created objects, an exquisitely made, exquisitely tended, woman’s hand. There was but one ring on the hand, a square-cut emerald, surrounded by diamonds, and the milky whiteness of the skin, the flash of the emerald against the dull green of the baize, were charming things to behold. Peignton sent a keen glance of enquiry into Cassandra’s face, and felt relieved to behold its absorption. She was thinking entirely of the game; the beauty of her hand was to her an accepted fact; the gesture was actuated by no promptings of vanity. A few minutes later when Teresa imitated the gesture, as she had fallen into the habit of imitating Cassandra in a dozen small ways, Peignton stared assiduously at his cards, but there was an extra empressment in the voice in which he congratulated the girl at the end of the game. He felt the same tender commiseration which a parent knows at the sight of a blemish on a child. Rough luck on a girl to have such ugly hands! Subconsciously his mind registered a vow never to give her emeralds.

During a term of service abroad Peignton had met few women, and those of an uncongenial type, but now he wished to marry, and for some time past had been consciously regarding every girl he met in the light of a future wife. He was not romantic in his requirements—few men are, when they deliberately set about such a search. He wanted a wife because he was thirty-five, and not too strong, and if he ever settled down it was time he did it, and a fellow felt lonely having no one to think of but himself. He wanted a girl about twenty-five—not younger than that,—healthy and cheerful, and fond of a country life, and, after eight months’ residence in Chumley, it appeared to him that Teresa Mallison filled the bill. She was the prettiest and most sporting girl in the neighbourhood; he met her on one excuse or another several times a week, and considered complacently that he was falling in love. Teresa did not consider at all,—she would have been hanged and quartered for him at any moment of any day; she was prepared to do, what is far more difficult—marry him on a minute income, keep house with insufficient help, and rear a large family. Teresa’s tastes were modern, but her heart was Victorian. She looked up to Peignton as a god and hero, and prayed daily to be permitted to serve him on her knees. Also, being Victorian in modesty, she prayed with scarcely less fervour that “unless he asked her” he might never suspect her love, and comported herself in the spirit of that prayer. Therefore Peignton considered that she was ignorant of his designs, and told himself that there was no hurry,—no hurry. It was better to go slow.

This was the first informal occasion on which Peignton had visited the Court and seen Cassandra in the intimacy of a partie carrée, and before the first hour was over he had found it necessary to readjust many impressions concerning his hostess. First, she was younger than he imagined. When she smiled, or made little grimaces of disgust at incidents in the play, or lifted her eyebrows at him appealingly on the commission of a fault, she was not a great lady any more, she was a girl, like the girl by her side. Secondly, she was less beautiful. He had seen her at stately dinner parties, gorgeously gowned, a tiara flashing on her dark head, and had believed her to be faultless of feature; but she was not faultless, her nose deviated noticeably from the straight, her mouth was too large; on a nearer view the classical beauty disappeared, but her place was taken by a woman infinitely more alluring. He admired in especial the poise of the little head, and the way in which she dressed her hair. It was parted in the middle, dipped low on the forehead, and then swept upwards, and in some mysterious fashion became a thick plait which encircled her head, like a victor’s crown. There seemed no beginning or end to that plait, so deftly was it woven, and to the onlooker it appeared as if a Midas finger had laid a gentle touch on each entwining braid, so brightly shone out the golden tints in the brown, burnished hair. Peignton had never seen dark hair show such brilliant lights; he thought that wreath-like plait with the golden lights more beautiful than a hundred tiaras. Why did not all women wear their hair like that?

And her figure too—there was something beguiling about her figure. The softly swathed folds of silk suggested neither dressmaker nor corsetière, but a warm, living woman. Her neck was as white as her hand...

“Steam ahead, Peignton. We’re waiting for your declaration. What are you dreaming about, man?”

“Don’t ask me. I couldn’t tell you,” Peignton replied, truthfully enough. He had been wondering how the deuce a woman like that had come to marry Bernard Raynor!

Teresa played a good steady game, and forbore to chatter, a fact duly appreciated by her host. Cassandra was alternately brilliant and careless. At times looking across the table Peignton could see her eyes grow absent and misty, and suspected thoughts far removed from the play. Then he would wait with anticipated pleasure the deprecatory grimace, the penitent, appealing glance.

At seven o’clock Miss Mallison’s carriage was announced, and Teresa exhibited a dutiful daughter’s unwillingness “to keep the horse waiting.” In the great hall she slid her arms into a Burberry coat, pulled a knitted cap over her head, and passing out of the porch sprang lightly to the front seat of a shabby dog-cart. The coachman, shabby to match, stood at the horse’s head, and as Peignton took his place, looked on with an impenetrability which denoted that this was not the first time he had been superseded. Then he in his turn climbed to a back seat, and the horse trotted off down the dark avenue.

Teresa had looked forward with keenest anticipation to this moment when she and Dane would sit quietly together in the friendly dark. There was no expectation of love-making in her mind, far less of a formal declaration; she was content just to sit by his side, and leaning back in her seat be able to gaze her fill at the strong, dark form. On a previous occasion he had given her the reins to hold while he lit a cigarette, and the picture of his face illumined by the tiny flame of the match would remain for life in her mental gallery. She hoped he would light a cigarette to-night.

If the inchoate thoughts of the girl’s mind could have been translated into words at that moment, they would have made a poem, but Teresa had not the gift of expression. She asked herself several times what she should “talk about,” before at last she broke the silence.

“You see it did pay to discard from strength!”

Peignton laughed. The point had been disputed between the two times and again, but he felt an amused admiration of the manner in which the girl held to her point. To-night his remembrance of the game was hazy, but Teresa as the victor was entitled to complaisance.

“You played rattling well. You always do. I never knew a woman less miserly of trumps. Do you know Lady Cassandra well?”

“I—think so!” Doubt lingered in Teresa’s voice. “They ask me fairly often. She’s very kind. Of course, we’re not—intimate. She’s so much older.”

“Is she?” Peignton asked, and was happily unaware of his companion’s flush of displeasure. “She looks very young. It must be lonely for her in that big place. I’m glad she has you for a friend.” His voice softened as he spoke the last, words. He turned his head to cast a smiling glance at the girl’s figure, and the thought came to his mind that just in this simple, unpretentious fashion would they drive back to their joint home during the years to come. It would not run to more than a cart, but she had not been used to luxury, and was quite content in her Burberry and cap. It was not like marrying a society woman. Heaven knows what fallals Lady Cassandra would don for a like occasion. Peignton admired “fallals,” meaning by the term dainty, feminine accessories, as all men do, apart from the question of price. He could not for his life have described Cassandra’s costume that evening, but it had left its impression as a mysterious floating thing, infinitely removed from the garments of men. Teresa was essentially tailor-made. A good thing too, for the wife of a poor man!

“I wonder what on earth made her many him!”

“Made her—” Teresa’s blue eyes widened in astonishment. “Lady Cassandra? Because she loved him, of course.”

“Is it of course? Are there no other reasons for marriage, Miss Teresa?”

“There ought not to be. There are not... in Chumley. But of course we are not smart.”

“No.” Peignton was once more unconscious of offence. “Still, it’s sometimes difficult to fit the theory to individual cases! Do you never look at the couples around you, and wonder how on earth they came to fancy each other? I believe many of them wonder themselves before a year is past. I can’t imagine Lady Cassandra choosing Raynor!”

“Mr Raynor is very nice. He is a good landlord. People like him very much.”

“I like him myself. He’s a very excellent specimen of his type. I’m not depreciating Raynor as a man—only as a husband for one particular wife. She’s everything that is vivid and alive, he’s everything that’s—slow! It’s a mystery how she took him!”

“Perhaps,” Teresa said shrewdly, “he wasn’t so slow then! He was in love with her, you see.”

She used the past tense in placid acceptance of an obvious fact; Peignton accepted it also, his curiosity concerning the Raynors eclipsed by a tinge of jealousy aroused by the girl’s words. She seemed to understand a good deal of the behaviour of a man in love! How did she come by her knowledge? He had thought the coast clear, but was it possible that one of those local fellows—? Man-like, his interest was quickened by the suspicion, and Teresa gained in value at the thought of another man’s admiration. There was unmistakable inflection in the tone of his next words:

“When I am married, I shall hope to remain in love with my wife!”

Teresa straightened herself, and forced a cough. She was in terror lest the shabby groom might overhear the words, and repeat them for the benefit of the maids in the kitchen.

“Oh, yes, of course!” she said lightly. “That is so nice... Then you will come, and help with the decorations? One needs a man to reach the high places. The Vicar won’t allow a single nail.”

“Yes, I’ll come. I’d like to!” Peignton said. He smiled to himself in the dusk at the thought of standing before the altar in the old church, side by side with Teresa Mallison, her hands heaped with white flowers. He wondered if to her, as to him, would come the thought that there might come another occasion when they would stand there for another purpose. As the horse trotted up to the door of Major Mallison’s house, he was mentally seeing a picture of Teresa in her wedding robes, a gauzy veil covering her head.

A moment later as they bade each other goodnight, the light through the opened door fell full upon the face of the real Teresa in her Burberry and knitted cap, and looking at her, Peignton felt a sudden stab of disappointment. The familiar features seemed in mysterious fashion other than those he had expected. Faults of which he had been happily unconscious, obtruded themselves upon his notice. It was almost as if he looked upon the face of a stranger. He walked down the deserted street pondering the mystery, and like other unimaginative men, failed to find an explanation.

How could it have been possible that he had dreamed of another face?

Chapter Three.

Household Words.

Marten Beverley and his wife Grizel confronted each other across the breakfast table. Only the night before they had returned from a protracted, wedding tour, to take possession of their new home. Each was superbly, gloriously happy, but there was a difference in their happiness. Martin was not tired of play, but the zest for work was making itself felt, and he looked forward with joy to the hours at his desk which would give extra delight to the play to follow. Grizel faced work also, but faced it with a grimace. How in the world to settle down, and to be practical, and keep house?

“Here beginneth the second volume!” she chanted dolefully across the breakfast table. “The happy couple return from their honeymoon, and settle down! ... Martin! I don’t want to settle down. Why should one? It’s out of date, anyhow, to have a second volume. Nowadays people live at full pressure, and get it over in one. Let’s go on being foolish, and irresponsible, and taking no thought for our dinner. It’s the only sensible plan. And it would prevent so much disappointment! I’m a daisy as a honeymoon wife, but I’m not a typical British Matron.”

“You don’t look it!” said Martin, and thrusting his hands in his pockets, tilted back in his chair and sat staring across the table, his eyes alight with admiration. A fire blazed in the grate, but Grizel’s morning robe suggested the height of summer. It was composed of some sort of white woollen material, which showed glimpses of a delicate pink lining. She wore a boudoir cap too, a concoction of lace and pink ribbon at once rakish and demure. Martin was certain that she looked a duck, what he was uncertain about was the suitability of such plumage for the mistress of a small ménage. Had he not kept house for eight years with a sister who had visited the larder every morning, and kept a stern eye on stock-pot and bread-pan, clad in the triggest of blouses, and the shortest of plain serge skirts! His eyes twinkled with amusement.

“Is it your intention to visit the scullery in those garments, may I ask?”

Grizel tilted in her turn, and returned his stare with an enchanting smile. She looked young and fresh, and adorably dainty; an ideal bride deluxe.

“In the first place,” she said, dimpling, “what precisely is, and does—a scullery?”

“A scullery, my child, is an apartment approximate to, and an accessory of, a kitchen. It is equipped with a sink, and is designed for the accommodation of pots and pans, brushes and brooms. Likewise boots, and er—uncooked vegetables. Every mistress of a small establishment visits the kitchen and scullery at least once in the twenty-four hours.” Grizel considered the subject, thoughtfully rubbing her nose.

“Why vegetables?”

“Why not?”

“With brushes and boots?”

“It seems unsuitable, I grant. But they do. I’ve seen them when I’ve been locking up. On the floor. In a wooden box. Carrots and turnips, and potatoes in their skins.”

Grizel straightened herself determinedly, and attacked her breakfast.

“I shall never visit the scullery!” she said firmly. “It would spoil my appetite. Thank you so much for warning me, ducky doo!”

“Not at all. It was an exhortation. The cook will expect it of you. So shall I. You must kindly remember the sink.”

“I take your word for it. Suppose there is? What in the name of fortune has it to do with me?”

“It’s your sink, Madam. Part of your new-found responsibilities. I don’t wish to harrow your susceptibilities, but it might not be kept clean. It is for you to see that it is.”

“You should have told me that afore, Laddie!” warbled Grizel reproachfully. “Nobody never warned me I should have to poke about sinks! And I won’t neither. It’s a waste of skilled labour. Aren’t there lots of sanitary kind of people who make their living by that sort of work? Let’s have one to look after ours!”

“Every morning?”

“Why not? Every evening too, if you like.”

Martin burst into a roar of laughter, and stretched a hand across the table.

“You’re a goose, Grizel; an impracticable little goose. I’m afraid we shall never make a Martha of you.” Then suddenly his face fell, and the caressing touch strengthened into a grasp. “You shouldn’t have to do it,” he cried sharply. “It isn’t fair. You’ve been a miracle of generosity to me, darling, but when it comes to facing the stern realities of life, I wonder if I ought to have let you do it.”

“You couldn’t help yourself,” Grizel said calmly. “I asked you, and you couldn’t for shame say no. Give me back my hand, dear. I want it, to go on eating. I do love having breakfast with you in our very own house, and I must make it last as long as possible, as I shan’t see you again for four whole hours. ... What shall we do after lunch?”

“Er—generally—if I’m in the mood—I go on writing till five o’clock.”

Martin spoke with hesitation, as though fearing a reproach, and Grizel narrowed her eyes, and smiled; a slow, enigmatical smile, but spoke not one rude word. She had quite decided that Martin should not be in the mood!

“On Wednesday and Thursday I’m to be At Home!” was her next irrelevant remark. “We put fifteenth and sixteenth on our cards, and now that we’ve stayed away a week longer than we intended, the fell date is upon us before we can breathe. Do you suppose many people will come?”

Martin’s shrug was eloquent.

“Every adult feminine creature who can crawl on two legs from a radius of five miles around, will crawl to the door. Hundreds of ’em! And with luck three or four males.”

“I could find it in my heart to wish it were t’other way round! However! never say die... There’ll be no time to finish the drawing-room! I’ll have to receive the surging mobs in the sitting-room upstairs. Let’s pray the chairs will go round!”

“Couldn’t the drawing-room be got ready with a rush?”

“Why in the world should we bother to rush?”

“They’ll be disappointed if you don’t. The drawing-room is part of the show. The whole neighbourhood is speculating about it now, and wondering if it’s blue or pink. A house with a closed drawing-room is like a play without the star. Do you realise, darling, that they’ll expect to be shown all over the house?”

“Let them expect, if it pleases them to do it, but they won’t! Let me catch anyone trying it on!” cried Grizel sharply, and the gay eyes sent out a flash of fire. “My own little home!—it shall not be turned into a peep-show for a flock of curious women to criticise and quiz. I’ll give them tea, and I’ll give them cake, I’ll talk pretty, and put on a tea-gown which will scare ’em into fits, but show them over the house—I will not! Let’s pretend the sitting-room is the drawing-room, and all will be peace and joy.”

“It would leak out afterwards, and they’d feel defrauded. Half of them will never enter the house again, darling; you won’t care to pursue the acquaintance, and it will end with an exchange of calls; but you’re rather an exceptional kind of bride, remember, and these good ladies don’t get too much amusement out of life. It would be kind of you to give them an afternoon out! Not, of course, if it bothers you, but surely the maids—”

Grizel crossed the room to the fire, and stretched a small pink, silk-quilted shoe towards the blaze.

“If you’re going to be moral, and appeal to my better feelings, you’d better be off to your work! I detest people who air their principles at breakfast... For two straws I’ll stay in bed, and say I’m over-tired with my journey, and can’t see anyone at all. I will, too, if you hector me any more, or I’ll show ’em into the dining-room, and have a sit-down tea, round the big table, with shrimps, and cold ham, and potted beef...”

“They’d put it down as the latest society craze, and adopt it when they wished to be smart... You will be one of the fashion leaders of the neighbourhood, whether you like it or not, so you’d better take heed to your ways. You and Lady Cassandra.”

“Humph!” Grizel’s eyes showed their most impish gleam. “Yes! I’m building great hopes on Cassandra. It’s dull keeping all the fun to oneself. With her help, if she’s the right sort, I’ll make things hum!”

Martin told himself that it was waste of time to say any more for the moment. Whatever he said, Grizel would contradict; whatever he proposed, she would reject; and as what she said would have no bearing whatever on her future conduct, the wisest plan seemed to be to kiss her several times over, talk delicious nonsense for a couple of minutes, and then to retire precipitately to his study. The which he proceeded to do.

Left to herself, Grizel strolled into the half-furnished drawing-room and seated herself on a packing box to survey the scene. Two rooms had been thrown into one, and the windows lowered, to allow a wide view of the garden, and so increase the feeling of space. The furniture was a selection from the collection of antiques which she had inherited from her aunt. Several old cabinets stood ranged along the wall ready to be put into position, and filled with treasures still unpacked. In a corner were rolled the old Persian rugs which would be spread over the parquet floor. At the end of five minutes’ scrutiny Grizel’s quick brain had put every article into its place, and her quick eye had seen the completed whole, and found it good. She decided to get it finished before lunch, and give Martin a surprise, and rang the bell to summon the staff to her aid.

The parlourmaid appeared with alacrity. It was like living in a novelette, to attend a bride who wore pink and white fineries in the morning, and looked as if she had never done a hand’s turn in her life. She entered on the day’s duties with a refreshing feeling of excitement.

“Please ’Um, the fish-man’s called.”

“Oh! has he? I can’t attend to him now. Parsons!—your name is Parsons, isn’t it?—would you kindly remember that my name is not ‘’Um.’ It is just as easy to say Madam, and sounds far better. I want you and Marie, and cook, to come here at once, and I’ll tell you what I want done to this room.”

“At—at once, Madam?”

“Certainly, at once.”

“Before I clear away?”

“What do you want to clear away?”

“The breakfast things, Madam. And,—and the fish-man can’t wait.”

“Tell him to call again then, later on.”

“He’s on his rounds, Madam. He only calls the once.”

“The fishmonger be—” Grizel coughed audibly, remindful of responsibilities towards the young. It was borne in upon her that the moment which she had dreaded was upon her, and could no longer be escaped. The fish-man was waiting, could not wait, could not return; it therefore behoved the mistress of the household to repair to the kitchen and interview the cook. She rose from the packing case, gathered her skirts around her, and turned to the door.

“Kindly go and tell Mrs Mason that I am coming!”

Mrs Mason was on duty beside the kitchen table. Having heard from Parsons’ lips a bated account of her lady’s splendour, she also was setting forth on the day’s duties with a flavour of excitement. Spread out neatly in rows were the remains of last evening’s repast. Cold fish, cold cutlets, dishevelled chicken, half-eaten sweets. Grizel, who had never before been called upon to interview food in déshabillé, turned from the sight with a shudder.

“You can use those up in the kitchen.” The cook acquiesced, and concealed her complaisance.

“And what would you like for the room?”

“In future,” said Grizel firmly, “I should like the menu for the day drawn out, ready to be submitted to me every morning.”

“I have never been uzed—” began the cook, then her eyes met those of her mistress, and to her own amazement she found herself concluding lamely, “Of course if you wish it, ’Um, I must try! ... The fish-man is waiting for horders.”

“Au diable avec le poissonnier!” ejaculated Grizel sotto voce. She leant back against the corner of the dresser, the tail of her white robe folded round in front, displaying the small pink shoes to cook’s appraising eyes. Her eyes roamed here and there over the kitchen, but studiously avoided the provisions on the table. From the region of the back door sounded a whistle, impatient and peremptory. The cook glanced around, glanced back at the pink and white figure standing with head on one side, leisurely regarding the arrangement of brass on the mantelpiece, and was goaded into the extreme course of making a suggestion.

“P’raps... soles!”

“Oh, certainly!” cried Grizel swiftly. “Soles.”

The cook ambled slowly towards the back door. Returning a moment later, she folded her arms, and continued tentatively: “The grocer’ll be next. I ordered in the usuals yesterday—but there’ll be a few extras.—I wanted to ask, ’Um, if you allowed lard?”

“Madam,” corrected Grizel sweetly, and pursed her lips, as though in deliberation. To herself she was declaiming desperately: “Now may the powers preserve me, ... one slip, and I am undid! What on earth does she mean by cornering me like this? I must temporise, and lure her on.” ... She stroked her nose, and said judicially:

“Of course—it depends!”

“Most ladies do,” affirmed the cook. “If they’re particular. It’s difficult to get it the same with dripping.”

Grizel had a flash of inspiration. Lard was the superlative, dripping the positive; naturally, then, all plain cooks angled for the former, and all British Matrons insisted on the latter. She put on a severe air and said firmly:

“Not if your pans are perfectly clean!” and was so overjoyed at her own aptness, that she was ready to allow anything under the sun. Nevertheless, the detective instinct having been born in her heart, she was resolved, as she mentally phrased it, to track lard to the death.

Cook was staring open-eyed, a faint misgiving mingled with the former complaisance. When a mistress began talking of keeping pans clean, she was not so green as had been expected! Her lips set in obstinate fashion.

“Some ladies,” she said, “are so fussy about the colour. You can’t help getting it darker with dripping.”

Grizel felt hopelessly that she had lost the scent. It was a desperate position, face to face with her enemy, defenceless, yet aware that an instant’s failure must lead to wholesale debacle. “I can’t tackle her alone,” she told herself desperately. “I must—I must have a confederate!” and throwing principle to the winds, in a flash of thought she created a fictitious Emily, and wove around her a suitable family history. Faithful servant, perfect cook, expert dripping-er, rent by marriage from a sorrowing mistress, now slumbering in a village grave! With a voice imbued with the sacredness of the remembrance, she pronounced firmly: “Emily did! She always got it white.”

“Oh, rolled!” cried the cook. The corners of her lips gave a slight expressive twitch before she added in automatic fashion. “Yes, ’Um—Madam,—I quite understand.” She crossed the floor and took down a slate from its nail, while Grizel made a mental note. “Lard.—Its Use and Abuse.—Differentiate from dripping.—Why darker? Under what circumstances should it be forbidden or allowed?”

“Soles,” said the cook firmly. “And soup?”

“Oh, certainly. Certainly soup. Mr Beverley likes quite a simple dinner—soup, fish, an entrée, one solid course, sweets—lots of cream, please! and dessert. See that there is always plenty of fruit. And of course, salad. Did I say savories? Of course you’ll arrange all that. That is all for to-day? I think. To-morrow you will have the menu ready.”

The cook, who was a superior plain cook, reflected that she would require a “rise,” if they expected a party dinner every night. If Grizel had been attired in an ordinary coat and skirt she would have rebelled forthwith, but the sheer glamour of pink and white kept her dumb.

“Soles,” she repeated stolidly. “And soup. What kind of soup?”

“Clear!” said Grizel, and felt a glow of triumph. Really and truly she had done better than she had expected. So well that it seemed diplomatic to beat a retreat before she fell from grace. She hitched her skirts still further, and stepped daintily towards the door, but cook cut short her retreat.

“Entrée, you said, Ma’am. What kind of entrée? And there’s lunch. And breakfast. To-morrow’s breakfast. Would it be bacon?”

Grizel waved an impatient hand.

“Bacon certainly. And er—omelette! Kidneys. Cold dishes. The usual things one does have for breakfast. And lunch at one. A hot dish, please, and several cold, and some sweets. And always fruit. Plenty of fruit. That will do nicely for to-day, Mrs Mason. We’ve discussed everything, I think.” She turned a beneficent smile upon the bewildered face. “And I’m sure,” she added daringly, “you’ll manage splendidly with dripping!”

In the dining-room Parsons was still busy clearing away. Upstairs Marie the maid was unpacking endless boxes of clothes, and hanging them up in a spare room fitted to do duty as an immense wardrobe. At the end of a passage stood the baize door which gave entrance to Martin’s sanctum. Grizel approached it stealthily, and pressed her lips to the keyhole.

“Martin!”

A voice from within answered with would-be sternness:

“Go away!”

“Martin... I’m sorry! Just one moment... Something I must ask you.—Most important...”

“Go on, then... What is it?”

“What—Is—Lard?”

The door flew open, and Martin stood laughing on the threshold.

“You goose! What on earth are you talking about?”

“That’s just it. I don’t know. And how on earth am I to find out! I’ve been interviewing cook, and she asked if I allowed it. Do I, or don’t I, and why should I not, and for goodness’ sake how does it differ from dripping? I prevaricated, and looked economical, and middle-aged. I saw my face in the dish covers, and it aged me horribly. I thought I’d better find out at once.”

“Yes, but you mustn’t come running to me for such information. I’ve got to buy the lard, remember, and I shan’t be able to afford it, if I’m interrupted. For all you know I might have been killing my heroine...”

“Then she’d have a reprieve, and I’d have done a good deed. You can’t seriously have begun yet, and this is so deadly important. You might spare five minutes to instruct your poor wife.”

Grizel perched herself on the corner of the table, and tilted the boudoir cap at a beguiling angle. Martin stood with his back to the fire and adopted a professorial air.

“Lard,” he said sententiously, “is a substance compounded of a whitey grease, contained for the purposes of trade in balloons or bladders of skins—”

Grizel’s face showed a network of horrified lines.

“How exceedingly disagreeable! I shall certainly not allow it... And what is dripping?”

“Dripping is, er—brown! So called because it drips from the meat in the process of cooking. It is inferior to lard, and aspires to no bladder, but lives in odd receptacles, such as jam jars. It is supposed to supply an unconquerable temptation to a plain cook, and there are fiends in the shape of men, who are said to spend their life tempting cooks to sell the dripping. Katrine used to see dripping in the eye of every unknown man who opened the gate. I never heard her make any allegations about lard. Does that distinction afford you any illumination?”

Grizel sighed, and turned to the door with an air of resignation.

“Well, good-bye, my loved one! Be very good to me, for you won’t have me long. If I’ve got to order meals, I shall never be able to eat them. I foresee that. I never heard so much about grease in my life. Is there nothing decent one could use instead?”

Martin hesitated.

“I believe—sometimes—butter!”

Grizel waved a triumphant hand.

“Of course! Butter! Why couldn’t you have said that before? Nice, clean, fresh butter. I’ll tell her I allow nothing else. What a fuss over nothing! ... Martin, you’re wearing a green tie. I’ve never seen you in green before... Darling! you’re adorable in green...”

Chapter Four.

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?”

Mrs Mallison and her eldest daughter looked indulgent, but shocked. It was quite natural, quite desirable indeed that a bride should entertain such sentiments, but to express them so openly and to absolute strangers, savoured almost of indelicacy. Teresa was occupied in taking in the details of Grizel’s costume, in condemning the blue snood, and determining to try the effect on her own hair immediately on her return home. She found time, however, to give a quick glance at Martin as Grizel made her pronouncement, and noted the quiver of feeling which passed over his face. The understanding which comes of fellow-feeling revealed the meaning of that quiver. She understood why the man lowered his eyes and gave no glance of response. He was afraid that he might reveal too much!

After that, other visitors arrived quick and fast. Bells rang, doors were opened, and in twos and threes the representatives of Chumley society were announced, and made their bow. They had come together for the sake of companionships or the sake also of being able to compare notes on the way home. They all wore their new spring costumes, and looked—the majority at least—personable enough, yet Martin realised with mingled pain and pride the gulf of difference which yawned between them and his wife. They were practical, commonplace women, leading practical, commonplace lives; to call them ill-bred or uncultivated would have been untrue. They came of good stock, had cultivated their brains and turned them to account, but there was one side of their nature which had not been developed, and that was the side which, in Grizel’s set, had been considered all-important. They had been brought up to discount appearances, and to view with suspicion any person of marked personal charm. They worshipped the god of convention, and its priestess Mrs Grundy. Grizel considered that a woman’s first duty was to charm, and her second,—if a second remained, worth speaking about,—to defy convention, and be a law unto oneself.

Seated in her niche of glowing colour, she looked as much out of place as an orchid in a field of wild flowers, and Martin watching the face of each new-comer, saw reflected upon it the same surprise, the same disapproval, the same unease. He realised that Chumley was a little shocked by the unconventionality of the drawing-room, and still more by the unconventionality of the bride herself. In the last ten years of his life he had remained supremely indifferent of what his neighbours might say or think, but—these good women would be Grizel’s neighbours, out of love for himself she had cast her lot among them; he was almost painfully anxious that she should have such small compensations as would result from liking, and being liked in return. Surely among them all must be found some congenial spirit!

“And are you happily settled with your maids, Mrs Beverley?” enquired Mrs Ritchards, wife of a City lawyer, who might almost be called retired, since he went up to town only two or three times a week. Mrs Ritchards had two subjects of conversation—her garden, and her servants, and had already unsuccessfully tackled the bride on the former topic. To her relief the second venture proved a decided draw, for Grizel leant her elbows on the table, cupped her chin in her hands, and puckered her face into a network of lines.

“Oh, yes, do let’s talk about servants! I’m so interested. I’m making all sorts of horrible discoveries. My cook wants to go out! A night out every week. She told me so to-day. She said she’d always been used to it. I said if it came to that, I’d always been used to having my dinner. I never knew that cooks expected to go out! Who is to cook one’s dinner if the cook goes out? She said she was accustomed to prepare a stew, and cold shapes. ‘Cold Shapes’!” Grizel’s voice dropped to a thrilling note, she lifted her chin, her outstretched fingers curved and wriggled in expressive distaste. “Cold Shapes! Gruesome sound! It makes one think of the Morgue!”

A shudder passed through the room, followed by a diffident laugh. Teresa Mallison and a few of the younger women giggled, the elders forbore on principle to smile at such an allusion, and the Vicar’s wife entered on a forbearing explanation.

“They are human creatures like ourselves, Mrs Beverley, and the fire is so trying! I encourage my cook to go out, as a matter of health. You are not limited to shapes, of course. There are so many nice cold sweets.”

Grizel shook her head. “Grace has not been given to me to eat cold sweets. Not on those nights! I should have a carnal craving for omelettes. We must keep two cooks!” Her little nod waved aside the subject as settled and done with, and the matrons of Chumley exchanged stealthy glances of condemnation. Mrs Ritchards, however, warmed to the attack.

“Why not a kitchen-maid, who could make herself useful upstairs in the morning? There is a young girl in my daughter’s Sunday School Class who might suit you. Very respectable, but short. Of course, if she were expected to wait when the housemaid is out, that might be an objection.”

She paused enquiringly, and Grizel’s face fell.

“The parlourmaid too! Do they all go out? Then how can one possibly be fed? There will be nothing for it, Martin, but to go up to town two nights a week.” The suggestion would appear to have had a cheering effect, for she flashed once more into smiles, looking round the circle of watching faces with eyes a-sparkle with mischief. “It’s such fun trying to keep house when one knows nothing whatever about it! Like starting out on a voyage of adventure! I have the most thrilling experiences...”

Mrs Ritchards smiled with friendly encouragement.

“You will find it much more interesting when you do understand! I always say that to run a household, economically and well, is as satisfactory work as a woman need ask. It’s like everything else, Mrs Beverley, the more you study it, the more interesting it becomes. I have been at it for years, and I pride myself that there is very little that I do not know.”

“Ah!” cried Grizel deeply. She leant her elbow on her knee and bent forward, her expression one of breathless eagerness. “Then you are the very person I’ve been looking for! You can tell me something I’ve been dying to know... What is your opinion about Lard?”

Mrs Ritchards gasped, the other listeners gasped also. Martin choked, turned the choke into a cough, and became suddenly engrossed in the china on the mantelpiece.

“Lard! Lard!” Mrs Ritchards struggled with the inevitable disability to define a well-known article. “But surely... surely... In what respect did you want my opinion?”

“About allowing it, of course, and if one should. Cook asked if I did, and it seemed such a complex question, and there was an implication about dripping—and the colour of something,—dark versus light. I got hopelessly confused!”

Mrs Ritchards did not allow lard. “It’s a question of sufficient heat,” she maintained. “If they get the dripping hot enough, it does perfectly well. It must boil till you see a blue smoke...”

Grizel seized an ivory tablet, and made a hurried note. “Till you see a blue smoke...! I’ll bring that in to-morrow, and confound her with my knowledge. Thank you so much. That’s quite a relief.” She pushed aside the tablet, straightened her back and looked around with a bright, challenging glance. The subject of lard was exhausted, and she was ready to pass on to pastures new.

“Are you fond of games, Mrs Beverley?” Teresa asked, eager to secure another member for her various clubs, and feeling that the moment was a convenient one for introducing the subject. “We have a good tennis club, and ladies can play golf every day but Saturday, on the Links. It would be so nice if you would join. We have tea every afternoon. The members take it in turns to provide the cakes.”

“How nice!” cried Grizel with a gush. “I adore cakes. I’ll join certainly, if you’ll promise I need never play. It bores me so to run about after balls. I never can catch them, and I don’t want to, so why should I try? Really”—she dropped her chin sententiously—“it’s a waste of time!”

The Vicar’s wife saw her opportunity, and grasped it.

“I agree with you, Mrs Beverley. The tendency of the age is to spend far too much time over games. My husband considers that it is a national danger. There are so many other things better worth doing!”

“Oh, yes,” cried Grizel promptly. “There’s bridge.” The strain of the conversation was beginning to tell, and she told herself impatiently that she would not be “preached.”

“Bridge is so comfy; you can sit still, and have a cushion to your back, and smoke, and talk between the deals. It’s quite a good way of getting through the afternoon. What stakes do you play for here?”

The women in the company who played for money looked at the Vicar’s wife and were silent. Those who did not, felt virtuous, and looked it.

“At our house we make a point of playing for love,” Mrs Ritchards announced. “My husband disapproves of anything in the nature of gambling. Of course, when one has young people coming in and out, there is a responsibility. Personally I should object very strongly to taking another person’s money. Don’t you feel an awkwardness, Mrs Beverley—from your own guests?”

“Not a bit. I love it!” declared Grizel naughtily. “But I hate to lose. I hope someone will be wicked enough to play for money with me. I suppose there are some wicked people in the neighbourhood?”

“They do at the Court. I go up there sometimes. Lady Cassandra loves bridge,” Teresa said with a pride which overcame shyness. Was she not the only girl in Chumley who could boast of anything like intimacy with the big house? She watched her hostess’ face for a brightening of interest, and felt aggrieved when it failed to appear.

“That’s good. I’m glad there’s someone. I must ask her about it,” said Grizel nonchalantly, taking a future acquaintance for granted with a calmness which at once irritated and impressed her hearer. At the bottom of her heart Teresa felt the birth of a jealous dread; and found herself hoping that Cassandra would not call, would at any rate delay doing so for months to come, as was her custom with Chumley acquaintances. And then once again the door was thrown open, and with an accent of satisfaction the parlourmaid announced—Lady Cassandra Raynor.

She had come already! On the very first day on which Mrs Beverley was at home,—as quickly, as eagerly, as the humblest among them! Every woman in the room felt the same sense of amaze, the same rankling remembrance of the different manner in which she herself had been treated. Their eyes turned as on one pivot towards the door.

Cassandra entered, a vision of delight in grey velvet and chinchilla furs, her face with its delicately vivid bloom half hidden by the latest eccentricity in hats. Her dress was very tight, her hat was very large; from an artistic point of view the lines of both were abominable, but Cassandra considered them ravishing, and, being one of the happy people who look well despite their clothes, succeeded in mesmerising her audience into a like belief. She advanced, walking with short, mincing footsteps, while her eyes swept the room. Grizel rose from the sofa to greet her, and a glance was exchanged between them, a swift, appraising glance. The lookers-on heard the exchange of a few society phrases, pronounced, it appeared to them, with an unnecessary amount of “gush,” but in the moment in which the two hands clasped, and the hazel eyes looked into the blue, the two women realised that for them there need be no intermediate stage; they were not strangers, they were already friends.

Martin came forward and shook hands in his turn, and Cassandra seated herself, bending her head in a smiling greeting, intended to embrace the whole room. She had timed her visit in the hope that most of the guests would be ready to depart, and noticed with satisfaction the empty teacups, but every woman in the room with one exception, was at that moment forming a mental resolution to stay and listen to what passed between this interesting pair.

“Your house looks so beautifully settled, Mrs Beverley. I hope you haven’t been bored over the upset. It’s so impossible to get things done in the country!”

“Oh, thanks. I’m not on speaking terms with a workman in the neighbourhood, but I did get things done as I wished! I always do. We parted on the worst of terms, and I gave them a heart-to-heart talk, and told them I hoped the Germans would come soon, and drill them into something like intelligence. It would really be an admirable thing for the country!”

The Vicar’s wife arose with heavy dignity. With a whole parish waiting on her ministrations she had no time to waste listening to such nonsense. Unpatriotic into the bargain. Yet despite her disapproval, there was an indefinable something in the bride’s personality which touched her heart. Perhaps it was the radiant happiness of her mien, perhaps it was that deep musical note which at times softened her voice, suggesting depths below the surface; perhaps it was simply her fragility and charm. Hannah Evans did not trouble to analyse her feelings, she merely held out a plump gloved hand, and smiled kindly into Grizel’s face.

“I must be running away, Mrs Beverley. My husband is hoping to call upon you very soon. This afternoon he has a class for confirmation. I must hurry home to give him tea. He comes in so tired. Good afternoon. So pleased to welcome you among us! I hope we may often meet.”

Her voice rang true, there was a kindliness written on the large, plain face to which Grizel’s heart made instant response. She brought her own left hand to join the right, clasping the grey glove with an affectionate pressure, and smiled back the while with a winsome friendliness. There was silence in the room while the onlookers looked with critical eyes at the two figures, so typical of youth and age. The bulky woman, with her jet bonnet and capacious black silk coat, the nymph-like form of the bride. Every ear listened for the response.

“Oh, you will; indeed you will! I shall often be running over to the Vicarage to see you.”

“That will be very nice.” Mrs Evans smiled complacently. “I hope you will. And I must not forget—I made a note to ask you before I left.—It would give us great pleasure if you could see your way to take up a little work. We are sadly in need of helpers. I was going to ask if you would join our Mothers’ Meeting?”

“Oh, give me time!” cried Grizel reproachfully. “Give me time!”

In answer to after reprisals she justified herself by the assertion that she had spoken on the impulse of the moment, and in absolute good faith. Besides, what else could the old thing have meant? And even if she didn’t, why need the silly creatures be shocked? She did not attempt to deny that they were shocked, the flutter of dismay had indeed been so real a thing as to obtrude itself on ears, as well as eyes. Gasps of astonishment, of horror, of dismay, sounded to right and left; rustling of silk; hasty, inoperative coughs. Grizel still saw in remembrance the petrifaction on the large kind face looking down into her own, the scarlet mounting swiftly into Teresa’s cheeks. Only one person laughed, and that laugh had had the effect of heightening the general condemnation. It was Cassandra Raynor who laughed.

Chapter Five.

“Two of a Kind.”

Mrs Evans’s departure gave the start to what was virtually a general stampede. As one woman rose to make her adieux, another hastily joined her, offering a seat in a carriage, or companionship on the walk home. Mrs Mallison collected her daughters with the flutter of an agitated hen. Mrs Ritchards forgot even to refer to the kitchen-maid. Grizel beamed upon them with her most childlike smiles, but there was no staying the flight: feebly, obstinately, as a flock of sheep each one followed her leader. In three minutes Cassandra alone was left, and Martin having escorted the last sheep to the door, took the opportunity to escape to his study, and shut himself in with a sigh of relief.

Alone in the drawing-room the two women confronted each other in eloquent silence. Cassandra’s eyes were dancing, her cheeks were flushed to their brightest carmine; Grizel was pale, and a trifle perturbed. “Now I’ve been and gone and done it!”

“You have indeed!” Cassandra laughed. It was delightful to be able to laugh, to feel absolutely at home, and in sympathy with another woman. There was reproach in her words, but none in her tone. “How could you say it?”

“Because I thought she meant it,—honestly I did, for the first second, and I always act on the first second. And why need the silly things be shocked? They’ve all got dozens. What is the old Meeting, anyway?”

“I think it’s... Mothers!” volunteered Cassandra illuminatingly. “Poor ones. They have plain sewing and coal clubs. I subscribe. You were invited to join the Committee. In the parish room. They—I believe they cut out the plain clothes.”

“Fancy me cutting out plain clothes!” cried Grizel, and gave a complacent pat to her lace gown. “I’ll subscribe too, and stay at home, but I’ll apologise to the dear old thing. She meant to be kind, and I’m sorry I shocked her. I’m going to ring for fresh tea, and we can have a nice talk, and shock each other comfortably. Have you any children?”

“I have a son,” said Cassandra. The brilliance of her smile faded as she spoke. She was conscious of it herself and laboriously endeavoured to keep her voice unchanged. “He is nine years old. At a preparatory school. Quite a big person.”

Grizel also ceased to smile. There was an expression akin to reverence in the hazel eyes as they dwelt on the other’s face. The deep note was in her voice.

“You look so young, just a girl, and you have a son nearly ten! Old enough to be a companion,—to talk with you, and to understand. How wonderful it must be!”

There was a moment of silence during which Cassandra’s thoughts flew back to those never-to-be-forgotten days when a tiny form lay elapsed to a heart overflowing with the glory of motherhood, and then reproduced before her a stocky figure in an Eton suit, with a stolid, freckled face. She smiled with stiff lips.

“He is a dear thing, quite clever too, which is satisfactory. You must see him in the holidays, but unless you can talk cricket I’m afraid he may bore you. It is not, of course, a responsive age.”

“It will come! It will come! It’s storing up. These undemonstrative natures are the richest deep down,” Grizel said softly.

The maid came in with the tea at that moment, and she said no more, but it was enough. Cassandra felt an amazed conviction that if she had spoken for hours, the situation could not have been more accurately understood.

Grizel poured out tea, talking easily the while.