Part 17 (1/2)
”Men,” said Grizel sententiously, ”are stupid, dense, prosaic brutes.”
She gave a tilt to her one-sided hat, and added in a tone of the utmost nonchalance: ”By the way, I _did_ hear some gossip. Captain Peignton is engaged to that fair girl he took in to dinner at the Court. Teresa-- don't you call her?--Teresa Mallison.”
”By Jove, is he? That _is_ good!” Martin said. ”I'm awfully pleased to hear that. They'll make an ideal pair.”
Grizel glared at him, with the eyes of a fury.
”Oh, go to your study!” she cried vindictively. ”Go to your study--and write books!”
CHAPTER ELEVEN.
THE VEIL FALLS.
The Squire heard the news of Peignton's engagement at the County Club, and carried it to his wife on his return to lunch. He found Ca.s.sandra on the terrace, where she had spent what was perhaps one of the happiest hours of her life. An hour before she had opened one of the long windows of the morning room, and had stepped bareheaded, in her white morning dress, into a bath of suns.h.i.+ne and warmth. Hitherto though the sun had shone, east winds had prevailed--making it necessary to put on wrappings for even the shortest excursion, but this morning the ”nip”
had departed; what wind there was blew balmily from the south, and the temperature without was warmer than that in the house. There is always a special thrill attendant on the first breath of summer, a special consciousness of freedom and escape, when for the first time it becomes possible to leave the house and wander bareheaded under the skies, but never, as it seemed to Ca.s.sandra, had a springtide been so wonderful as this.
She looked downwards over the terraced gardens, and everywhere the world seemed new. Green branches on the larches, s.h.i.+mmers of green on oak and ash, swelling of buds on the great chestnuts, and through the bare brown of the earth the shooting of living things. Everything was new and pregnant with joys to come, and from her own heart came an answering song of joy. It seemed in mysterious fas.h.i.+on as though the stateness of custom had been left behind, with other drearinesses of the long winter, and the coming spring had vivified her life. The air breathed hope and expectation, and although she could not have said to what special event she was looking forward, she knew that there was hope in her heart also, and an expectation which gilded the coming days. It was good to be alive, to wander bareheaded in the suns.h.i.+ne inhaling the fragrance of flowers, to behold reflected in the long windows the graceful glimpses of one's own form, to look around the fair domain lying to right and left, and be able to say, ”This is mine!”
Ca.s.sandra clasped her hands behind her back and strolled to and fro, thinking the many and inconsequent thoughts that come to a woman in such hours. She wondered why she had ever been unhappy, and decided never again to ”give way.” She wondered what Bernard had really felt when she had declared that she did not love him. Poor Bernard! How could she have been so bold? Of course she loved him! He was a nice old dear.
She wondered if, after all, the new afternoon dress had better be grey!
Suppose it were violet for a change; just the right shade of violet, without a touch of red. She wondered if she dare wear the new French hat in Chumley, and what the boy would say of it when he came from school. He had a way of calling her hats ”the Limit,” and looking self-conscious in their presence. She had laughed, and worn them all the same, for the wearing of the latest eccentricity in hats had been something more than a slavish following of fas.h.i.+on,--it had been a virtual throwing down of the gage in the face of the prejudices of the neighbourhood. On the days when she was most oppressed by the atmosphere of Chumley and its inhabitants, it had a tonic effect to drive up and down the High Street, wearing a feather stuck at an angle never before attempted out of Paris, and to watch eyes roll from right to left. There had been a time when the church aisle was her chosen shocking-ground. Ca.s.sandra blushed when she recalled that phase, and remembered what had brought it to an end. Just an expression on Mrs Evans's face. Nothing more. She had paused outside the church gate to speak a pa.s.sing word before getting into the car, and the Vicar's wife had been kindly and affectionate as ever, had called her ”Dear,” and held her hand in a lengthened pressure, but there had been a shadow upon the large, plain face, and the grey eyes were rigorously averted from the marvellous headpiece topping the small, brilliant face. The silence, the kindliness, made Ca.s.sandra feel suddenly mean and small, a sensation which was intensified as the car turned from the church door, and Bernard had said with a laugh: ”Give 'em a treat this time, Ca.s.s!
That hat of yours took the starch out of the Vicar's sermon.” An hour later the hat was a smouldering ruin, and henceforth Ca.s.sandra took her plainest clothes to church. But the High Street remained, and here no one could interfere. As the wife of the squire and landlord she might indeed be said to have the right to shock, when it pleased her so to do.
Now that the bulbs were in bloom Bernard would agitate for the usual spring garden party. He always asked the same question: ”What was the use of having the things at all, if n.o.body came to see them?” So the entire neighbourhood was invited, and frequently it rained, inevitably the wind blew from the east, and the guests made scant work of the bulbs, and huddled in the house, partaking of lengthy teas. Ca.s.sandra hated all garden parties, and spring parties most of all, but this morning the prospect seemed less distasteful. She would no longer know the feeling of loneliness in a crowd, she would have friends of her own, whose presence would transform the scene. In imagination she summoned them before her--Grizel, with her radiant smile, and merry, chattering tongue; Peignton, his head bending forward from the slightly bowed back, his eyes fixed upon her, with their questioning look, the look that said so plainly: ”I am waiting. Give me your orders, and I obey!” Some men had that expression; it meant nothing, of course, but it had charm.
Decidedly it had charm. It would help her through the formalities of entertaining, to feel in the distance that waiting glance.
Ca.s.sandra turned and saw her husband ascending the stone steps of the terrace. He had entered the grounds by a side gate, and made his way across the path. His cap was pushed back from his brow, his brown face showed the flush of heat, his eyes looked astonis.h.i.+ngly blue and clear.
There was a metallic quality about those eyes which, taken in conjunction with the strong white teeth, gave a somewhat fierce expression to the face, but to-day he was smiling, and an air of complaisance and satisfaction pervaded the whole figure. Ca.s.sandra smiled in response. It seemed fitting that to-day everyone should feel happy. She stood waiting for his approach, and together they paced slowly onward.
”Isn't it lovely? I've been out over an hour. A perfect spring day!”
”Mating time, eh?” said the Squire with a laugh. ”'In the Spring a young man's fancy...' Well! it seems it is true. I've just been hearing news. You haven't heard? I thought perhaps they would ring you up.”
”No,” said Ca.s.sandra blankly. ”No.” She stared uncomprehendingly in her husband's face, and suddenly her heart gave a queer unexpected little thud, and her pulses quickened their beat. ”Who did you expect would ring me up?”
”Oh, either of them. Or both. They're at the stage when they'll want to do everything in pairs. And they know you'll be interested.”
”Couldn't you tell me at once what the news is?”
”I _did_ tell you. An engagement, of course. Peignton's engagement.
With the fair Teresa. For goodness' sake, don't pretend to be surprised to hear. You notice precious little, but you must have noticed that. I told you myself it was coming on.”
”Of course you did. I remember perfectly. I am very--”
Ca.s.sandra paused from sheer inability to think what feeling dominated.
She felt neither glad nor sorry, interested nor surprised; nothing but a curious blankness, as if a veil had been dropped over the scene of life.
Five minutes ago, two minutes ago, she had been tingling with vitality, now she was numb, and found it an effort to collect her thoughts.