Part 22 (2/2)
”But you would have sent them away from the door! Given the message to Johnson, and turned them away without even seeing them yourself.”
”I should. I plead guilty, Bernard. I should have flown straight to a bath. It takes a Grizel to make herself charming with whitewashed hair, but to do me justice I should _not_ have chosen the morning of a dinner party to drag about heavy furniture in the room overhead.”
”Did she do that?”
”She had it done. And the house being jerry built, the new ceilings are only guaranteed to stay up, if they are not pushed. She pushed, and in revenge this particular ceiling loosened itself slowly, waiting for the crucial moment... They have gone up to town for a week, while the room is put right, so Grizel will feel that the game is worth the candle.”
”Humph!” The Squire was silent, seeing that he himself had persistently refused to take his wife to town for the last eight years. He was a country man, born and bred, and had never yet succeeded in discovering a time of year when the land was sufficiently lacking in interest to make it bearable to leave, and waste the time in town. Moreover, with the extraordinary meanness which affects some rich men, he hated spending money on hotel bills, while his own house was open. His wife could run up for a day when she needed new clothes,--what more did she want?
Ca.s.sandra wanted a great deal more,--she wanted to see, and to hear, to refresh her spirit with art and music, to meet people who spoke her own language, and understood her own thoughts, and get away from the stultifying influence of a little country town. She had fought persistently for years in succession, but she had failed, and now she fought no more. Bernard said she had come to her senses.
”What are _you_ going to do for the young couple?” he asked gruffly.
”Another dinner would fall flat.”
”And they were here so lately,” Ca.s.sandra agreed quickly. ”Shall I fix the bulb party for next week, and ask the whole Mallison clan to lunch beforehand? I'm willing, if you are. Of course Captain Peignton would come too. It would be paying them a little extra attention, and avoid the bother of another dinner.”
”Just as you like!” The Squire was appeased by the prospect of a garden party, as his wife had intended he should be, and she heaved a sigh of relief. Another dinner with Dane and Teresa as guests would be insupportable so soon after that other evening when she had met his eyes across the banked-up flowers, and felt that strange, sweet certainty of understanding. After hearing of the engagement she had felt an intense dread of the next meeting, which must surely reveal to her her own folly in believing that this man felt any special interest in herself. He had looked pensive because he was in suspense; his appeal to her had been to a married woman who had presumably been through the mill, and whose help he was anxious to gain. She would see him radiant, glowing; his eyes would no longer linger on hers, he would no longer have the air of standing by to await her command: he would be wholly, entirely, obtrusively absorbed in Teresa!
Then suddenly the meeting came about, and nothing had been different; everything had been bewilderingly the same. They had met in a country lane, and Ca.s.sandra had made her congratulations in her most gracious and cordial manner, and he had thanked her in a few short words and stood looking--looking.--He was not radiant, he was not aglow; the subtle appeal of suffering had never been more strong: in spite of everything the strange, sweet certainty of inner sympathy and understanding once more flooded her being. They spoke only a few words, and parted, and since that day Ca.s.sandra had seen Dane only in the distance. Bernard reported him as a devoted lover, always in attendance. He shrugged his shoulders with an easy tolerance. It was a stage. It would pa.s.s!
Fortune favoured Ca.s.sandra, inasmuch as the bulb party fell on the day following that on which Mary Mallison had received the notice of her inheritance, and therefore the engagement took a second place in importance. Major Mallison excused himself from the luncheon party on the score of sciatica, which being interpreted meant a sore heart. Mary was his favourite daughter, and the discovery of her long revolt had wounded him sorely. His wife also had had her hour of bitterness, but it was temperamentally impossible for Mrs Mallison to keep up an estrangement with any creature, male or female, who was on the wave of prosperity. Mary, the dependent and helpless, would have been hard to forgive; Mary the heiress commanded respect, and could be excused a weakness. In the abundance of her satisfaction in escorting two successful daughters to luncheon at the Court, the last spark of resentment disappeared, and Mary's determination to exploit the world on her own became a proof of spirit to be retailed with maternal pride.
The Squire laughed and rallied Mary with the superficial good-nature which he always exhibited to strangers, and Ca.s.sandra looked at her across the table with grave, wistful eyes. Poor Mary Mallison with the starved, bloodless face, and the starved, bloodless mind,--could all the money in the world bring back her wasted youth? Could all the money in the world unlock the gate of joy? Ca.s.sandra felt a sudden rush of thankfulness for her own lot. Thank G.o.d, she had lived; she had experienced; she had suffered. If the best had been denied, she had been spared the worst,--the lot of a superfluous, unwanted woman!
After lunch the three guests were taken into the garden for a personally conducted tour before the general influx began. The Squire naturally selected Teresa as his companion, but by a little manoeuvring his wife contrived that he should be saddled with Mrs Mallison also, so that she herself should be left alone with Mary.
Ca.s.sandra wanted an opportunity of talking to Mary. Hitherto she had been merely a figurehead, a dull, dun-coloured person who walked by her mother's side, replied in monosyllables when she was directly addressed, and apparently neither had, nor wished for, any existence of her own.
But now it appeared that Mary was in revolt. Ca.s.sandra was conscious of a fellow-feeling.
She led the way down the sloping gardens, purposely increasing the distance from her husband and his companions, talking lightly on impersonal subjects until she could speak without fear of interruption.
Then she turned to Mary with the very winsome smile which she reserved for occasions when she had special reason for wis.h.i.+ng to please.
”Miss Mallison, I ran off with you, because I wanted an opportunity to tell you quietly how enchanted I am at your good fortune! It always delights me when nice things happen to women, and your nice thing is going to open the door to so many more. Five hundred a year, and the world before you, and no ties to keep you at home!--Mrs Mallison is so strong and active that it seems absurd to think of her as requiring help. I'm struggling with envy, for there is nothing at this moment that I should like so much as to feel free to go where I choose, and do what I choose, and even more than either, _not_ to do what I don't choose! My husband hates change, and you see I have sworn to obey!...
Will you have to wait very long before you get your money? Lawyers are such wretches for procrastinating. If you are like me, you will want to start at once!”
”Yes,” said Mary flatly, ”I do. And I am independent of lawyers. My G.o.dmother left instructions that I was to be given two hundred pounds at once. They sent me the cheque this morning.”
”What a pattern G.o.dmother! I should have adored that woman. I don't need to know another thing about her. That tells it all. She had imagination; and she had a heart.”
”She knew mother,” said Mary terribly. She was staring ahead in her usual unseeing fas.h.i.+on, and was unconscious of her companion's involuntary start of dismay. Never before had Ca.s.sandra heard a child speak of a parent in such grimly eloquent tones, and the instinct of centuries was shocked and distressed. She froze into herself, and when she spoke again her voice had a different tone. A moment before she had spoken as a friend, full of sympathy and fellow-feeling, now she was the Lady Ca.s.sandra Raynor, entertaining an insignificant guest.
”It's all delightful; quite delightful. So there is nothing to delay your movements! Can I give you any addresses? I know of quite a good hotel in Paris, where I stay when I run over to buy frocks. Not too fas.h.i.+onable, but very comfortable. Quite ideal for a woman alone. And dressmakers too.” Ca.s.sandra thawed again at the introduction of a congenial subject. ”_Do_ go to my woman! She's the most understanding creature, and knows exactly what will suit you before you have been in the room five minutes.” She screwed up her eyes, and looked Mary over with critical gaze. ”I think it will be blue for you; a deep full blue, and just a touch of white at the throat.”
”I've worn blue serge coats and skirts almost every day of my life since I went to school. I'm sick of blue,” Mary said, and Ca.s.sandra laughed and shuddered at the same moment. It was so preposterous to compare Mary's blue serge with Celine's marvellous concoctions of subtly blended shades.
”I'd make a solemn vow never to wear another! I'm a great believer in the influence of clothes. They account for many of the mysteries of human nature. You know how conventional men are,--how horrified at anything the least bit out of the ordinary rut.--It's because they have always to wear coats and trousers cut in the same way, out of the same uninteresting cloths! They never know the complete _boulevers.e.m.e.nt_ of feeling which a woman experiences every day of her life when she changes from one style of garment to another. You put on a blouse and skirt, and you feel active and gamy; you slip into a tea-gown, and want to talk confidences with a friend; you put on _decolletee_, and feel inclined to flirt, and be frivolous; you wear a tailor-made costume and--go to church! Chronic blue serge would depress a saint. Do go to Celine, Miss Mallison! Let me send you the address!”
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