Part 5 (1/2)
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 bra.s.s on the carved woodwork, and piled with a profusion of cus.h.i.+ons 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-gla.s.ses 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-gla.s.ses, crossed to the couch, and seated herself thereon in an att.i.tude 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 a.s.surance 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 p.r.o.nouncement, and noted the quiver of feeling which pa.s.sed 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 companions.h.i.+ps 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 wors.h.i.+pped the G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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 Cla.s.s 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.