Part 24 (1/2)
Mrs Evans looked with concern upon the small, brilliantly coloured face under the fas.h.i.+onable hat. She noticed how little flesh there was on the finely modelled cheeks, how sharp cut was the bridge of the nose.
The girl looked delicate; she was too thin; taken in conjunction with the tired eyes, that exquisite flush could not be healthy. There was a motherliness in the good woman's manner which pierced through the crust of dignity as she put her hand through Ca.s.sandra's arm, and said kindly:
”You look tired, dear! I hope you didn't feel cold standing about on the terrace. It is exposed, and the wind is chill. Are you quite well, Ca.s.sandra?”
”I think so. Why? Don't I look well?” Ca.s.sandra felt a relief in the thought that her depression might be physical. ”You know I am always unhappy at these functions. I am not a good hostess, and it worries me to know what to say. I'm so thankful I'm not a Vicar's wife! That must be even worse. Doesn't it bore you to extinction to be everlastingly two people,--yourself with your nice natural impulses--and the Vicar's wife who has no business to have impulses at all! Doesn't it bore you terribly to be always _ex officio_?”
Mrs Evans hesitated. She intensely wanted to say yes, but that highly trained article, her conscience, would not allow the deception. The colour deepened on her large, plain face as she said slowly:
”I _did_ find it a trial in early years. Of late the trial has come to me in another fas.h.i.+on. I am perhaps a little too ready to enjoy the importance of my position.”
Ca.s.sandra's laugh rang out with sudden gaiety. She gripped the large arm, and said with a charming indulgence:
”Ah, but why shouldn't you? If you _do_ manage us, it's for our own good. It's sweet of you to take the trouble... Mrs Evans, Mary Mallison has been here to lunch, and I've been talking to her. Her mother is vastly excited about this windfall, but the girl herself does not seem capable of anything but relief at the thought of getting away from home. I'm afraid she's been rather desperately unhappy. It surprises me that she could suffer so much. I thought she was one of those dull women who are contented to jog along in any rut in which they are placed, and never demand anything for themselves.”
”Do you think there are any such women, Ca.s.sandra?”
”Don't you?”
”I am quite sure there are not.”
Ca.s.sandra knitted her brows and stared intently into the face of the woman, who was a virtual father confessor to the parish. If Mrs Evans were sure, what right had she to question; but the thought held a sting.
”But--if not, there must be so horribly many who are wretched!”
”There are,” Mrs Evans said. A moment later: ”Wretched is a strong word, Ca.s.sandra,” she added, ”perhaps it would be better to say 'disappointed.' There are very few women who get to my age who are not making a fight against some sort of disappointment. They are very brave about it, for the most part, and cover it up so successfully that the world does not suspect; but the fight goes on. I get many peeps behind the scenes; it's part of my work. Sickness comes or loss, and then it is a comfort to speak out and unburden the heart. I've been amazed at the number of hidden sorrows in the places where I least expected them.
I have looked down on a woman as frivolous and commonplace, and have come away after half an hour's confidences looking up to her as a heroine.”
Ca.s.sandra turned her head and looked up and down the diverging paths.
Women everywhere, crowds of women, old and young, and heavily middle-aged, talking, smiling, bearing themselves with complacent airs.
It was a ghastly, a hideous thought that they were all suffering some inner smart! She had believed that she was an exception, but according to Mrs Evans it was not the sufferer who was the exception, but the child of the suns.h.i.+ne, who, like fortunate Grizel, was endowed with the gift of happiness.
”All of them?” cried Ca.s.sandra sharply. ”Oh, not all! They look so calm and comfortable. I couldn't bear to think that under the mask they were all suffering!”
”They are not, my dear; they are forgetting! That's the lesson so many of us have to learn,--to forget the unattainable, and make the best of what remains. And every innocent distraction that comes along, like this party to-day, to see your beautiful flowers, helps a step along the road.”
”Suppose,” said Ca.s.sandra slowly, ”one did not wish to forget?”
The Vicar's wife shook her head.
”One rarely does. It is easier to cling hold. But it's possible to ask oneself a straight question... Which is going to make life easier for myself, and the people around me,--to cling hold, or,--to let go? It saps one's vitality to grieve over the unattainable, and in most lives there _is_ an unattainable. There are not many women so fortunate as you, Ca.s.sandra!”
Mrs Evans spoke in good faith. She had a sincere liking for the Squire, who as a patron was not only generous, but delightfully free from the dreaded vice of interference. When consulted on church matters, he would shrug his shoulders, and declare that it was all one to him. So long as the music was pa.s.sable, and the sermons kept within a ten minutes' limit, he could be relied upon to give liberally, and to make no complaints. Truly a patron in a hundred! Such a man could not fail to be a kind husband. Moreover, the touch of sn.o.bbishness in Mrs Evans's nature invested Ca.s.sandra's position in the county with a most satisfying importance, while the presence of the needful heir made the picture complete. Youth, beauty, wealth, a fine position, a kindly husband, a strong young son,--what more could a woman desire? ”But you must be careful not to take cold!” she added remindfully.
Ca.s.sandra gave a short, mirthless laugh, but before she had time to speak her husband and Grizel turned the corner of the path, and Bernard, with his usual lack of ceremony, beckoned to her to approach. He looked flushed and worried, and with a word of apology to Mrs Evans, Ca.s.sandra hurried to meet him.
”Here you are at last! Been searching all over. Trust you to hide yourself out of sight. Look here! I want you at the house. There's been an accident. Peignton--”
Ca.s.sandra straightened herself hastily. The flower-beds with their blaze of colour whizzed round in kaleidoscopic fas.h.i.+on before her eyes.
She felt very cold, and faint. Grizel's voice sounded a long way off, speaking with a studied distinctness.