Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fourteen.A Sensation.“I should like to ask Peignton and hisfiancéeto dinner,” Martin said, and Grizel nodded obediently, and said:“Then we must have roast fowl! Roast fowl, I’ve discovered, is the fatted calf of the middle classes. Whenever I tell Cook that a friend is coming, she says: ‘A fowl, I suppose, mum. Three-and-three, or three-and-six?’ I always say three-and-three, and feel virtuous for the rest of the day. If it’s three-and-three, there’s just breast enough for ‘the room’; the extra threepence leaves a picking for the kitchen. Cook says it’s cheaper ‘in the end’ to give the three-and-six, but I take no notice. Sometimes I suspect the poulterer of a dark design, and believe that there’s no difference at all! The extra threepence is just a trap for the unwary. However! ... enough of these details. Certainly we’ll ask them if you wish it. And who else? We can’t contend with them alone all night long. I adore lovers in theory, but I object to feelingde tropin my own house. If we were apartie carréethey would expect me to have an important letter to write for the early post, and you to come with me to look over my shoulder. No, you don’t! We’ll have a crowd, and let them realise from the first that there’s no chance of a quiet moment. Who else?”Martin deliberated.“The Raynors? They’ve been fairly intimate...”“Certainly not. I must reserve Cassandra to help me later on when we tackle the formidables. This shall be a lively, informal affair, got up in a hurry to wish them luck. Quite a short invitation, the shorter the better. Young people for choice—cheery, and fond of roast fowl. Mary Mallison for one.”“Because she is young and cheery?”“It doesn’t matter a bit. She is going to be asked,” maintained Grizel, with that characteristic inconsequence which she had the power to turn into the most charming of attributes. “She shall have the nicest partner, and the best place, and the merrythought all to herself. I’m sosorryfor Mary Mallisons. There are such a horde of them, and nobody wants them, and they don’t want themselves, and it’s all so wrong and wasteful and piteous, and I never see one of them, and look into her poor, starved little face that I don’t say to myself with a shudder, ‘Suppose that wasme?’”Martin smiled at her adoringly.“Oh! but it isn’t, and it never by any possibility could have been. Besides, don’t you think it’s their own fault? You were twenty-eight when we were married, and you had lived alone with a cross old aunt. You might easily have turned into a Mary Mallison yourself, if you had so little spirit as to allow yourself to be starved. Even if you had never married, can you imagine yourself sinking into a depth of apathy and indifference? There’s something contemptible about it. An unmarried woman has such wide possibilities. There is so much work waiting for her to do.”“If she is allowed to do it! But what if there is a chain around her neck, in the shape of some relation who thinks that her work is to be an understudy at home? What would Mrs Mallison have to say to wide possibilities, while she wants a daughter to run messages and arrange the flowers? What wouldyouhave said in the days when you needed Katrine, if she had talked of her life’s work? Her work was obviously to darn your socks until such time as you found someone else whom you liked better, when—pouf!”—she snapped her fingers—“enough of Katrine! Let her go out into the wilds, and see what she can find!”“Well! She very speedily found something that she liked better. Katrine was not a happy illustration, young woman! In your ever-present desire to be personal, you overlooked—”“Exceptions prove the rule,” Grizel said stubbornly. “Besides, we were not discussing Katrine, we were discussing the roast-fowl dinner. Two Mallisons, the Hunters, Captain Peignton. Who else? We might as well make it up to ten while we are about it.”Martin suggested the name of some young people whose parents had already entertained himself and his wife, and Grizel sighed, a long sigh of resignation.“What shall we do with them afterwards?”“Talk.”“They can’t talk, bless you! Don’t know how.”“Then you must talk to them.”“I can’t. A dull dinner party pumps me dry, and I simply cannot stand desultory drawls for an hour on top of it. I get fidgets, and yawn,—heavens, how I yawn! It’s not a mite of use telling me not to. Imust. If I swallow them down my nose swells, and my eyes fill. I look as if I had hay fever... Do you never get fidgets at a dull party?”“Mental?”“No. Physical. In your legs. Far worse! They won’t keep still. I’ve lived through some shocking hours.—I’d rather play puss-in-the-corner, than talk twaddle for an hour on end.”“I should thoroughly enjoy seeing Mary Mallison playing puss-in-the-corner,” Martin declared, and beat a hasty retreat. Experience had proved that it was a colossal mistake to endeavour to change Grizel’s mind. The most convincing of arguments had no power to move her; while moral axioms sent her galloping headlong in the opposite direction to that in which she was directed; moreover, it was a waste of energy to essay the task, since her rebellions were but word deep, and the passage of a short half-hour was usually sufficient to disperse them, and restore her to her usual complacent radiance.This morning the radiance returned at the prospect of Cook’s face when she heard of the impending trial. Grizel did not think of her own face as she sat at the head of her table awaiting the serving of dishes prepared by a good plain cook. She had seen that expression more than once of late on the faces of worthy Chumley hostesses. It was a compound expression, which included a smile, a determined animation of the eyes, and withal a pucker, a tightening, a tenseness of anxiety. For all their forced gaiety the eyes had a faraway expression; they were penetrating through dividing walls, peering into saucepans, anxiously regarding the preparation of sauce. Grizel had been quick to diagnose the symptoms, but her sympathy had been lacking. “Hang it all, it’s not her fault!Shedidn’t cook it!” had been the mental comment.Cook, as had been expected, folded her arms and assumed an expression of acute resignation. “Tendid you say, ’Um? Twelve with yourselves. I’m not sure that the range... How many courses were you thinking of having?”“Oh, dozens. As many as we can have. If we do it at all, Cook, we’ll do it well.”“Clear soup?”“We haven’t come to soup yet,” said Grizel cheerfully. “Lots of things before soup.”“When I lived at the Robertses we were always giving dinners, but they studied me, as well as themselves,” Cook replied poignantly. “Soup, of course, and fish, but she got in the entrées, to give me a clear hand with the joint. Fowls mostly, or a saddle of mutton. The sweets were cold, and she got in the savouries, and sometimes an ice pudding. Then there was cheese straws, and dessert. She always said I managed very well.”“You would do!” Grizel said. “Well, now you shall have a change. I won’t have anything at all like that...”It was by this time easy to make a selection of guests, as every visitable house in Chumley had made its own individual effort towards entertaining the bride. Sometimes it was dinner, more often it was tea, and, as Grizel pathetically declared, not even arealtea, a tea where you could sit quietly in a comfortable chair, and gossip, and consume rich cake. A tea as enjoyed in Chumley was a strenuous affair, when guests were bidden from four to six, and were expected to rack their brains over a number of nerve-racking problems.The first invitation of the sort that Grizel received was for a Kate Tea. She misread the first word for Cake, and thought it suitable, if a trifle ostentatious, but as she afterwards informed Cassandra, the awakening was rude.“It was ‘Kate,’ my dear, not cake,—a wretched Kate that haunted us all afternoon. Did you realise that every second word in the English language ends with Kate? Well, it does! and Mrs Morley read out a story, and we had to fill in the gaps with Kate words. Kate had an untruthful nature and was given to prevari-Kate, so she got into trouble, and engaged an advo-Kate. See?”Cassandra groaned.“Don’t! Too awful. You’ll have dozens of these preposterous invitations if you once accept. Why do you go?”“Ah!” Grizel looked thoughtful. “There was a prize.—I’d be bored for hours for the chance of gaining a prize. Why is it that the prospect of something for nothing has such a fatal lure? I might win a manicure set, or a shoe-horn, or a leather bag. I’ve thousands already; I wouldn’t know what to do with the blessed things, but I crave to win them! I racked my brains over that wretched Kate until I was quite exhausted, and came out next to the bottom. Next week there’s ‘A Florin Tea.’ What happens to a florin? Do they give us one all round? And a Photograph Tea after that. Everyone takes a photograph of herself as a baby, and you guess Who’s who. There’s going to be some scope for personal remarks. There is a Smelling Tea too, but I’m going to be ill for that. She means well, dear lady, and I accepted with pleasure, but I shall stay at home with more. I couldn’t respect myself going about smelling at little bags...”“They tried the same sort of thing with me years ago, but I steadily refused, and now they have given me up. You’ll have no peace in Chumley, Grizel, if you let yourself in for these dreadful entertainments. You’ll be asked out to tea every afternoon of your life, to meet the same people, and sit in the same rooms, and hear the same little gossip over and over again.”“But that makes them so keen to havemefor a change!” Grizel said, laughing. “My dear, they adore me. I’m asuccès fou. I wear different clothes wherever I go, and say all the maddest things that come into my head, and they hang on my every word. The Kate hostess nearly cried because I didn’t get the prize. She was trying to give me hints all the time. It was touching! And I wassostupid.”Cassandra regarded her with a puzzled air.“I believe you really enjoy it! And it’s so different from your old life, just as different as it was for me. I can’t think why you aren’t bored!”“I’m never bored,” Grizel declared. “At least, not all at a time. It’s such a funny old world, and a bit of me is interested in everything that comes along. Besides, I adore kindness, even when it disguises itself in Kate teas, and the least I can do is to be agreeable in return. But I am thankful that I have you, Cassandra. I should be lost without one real friend, who speaks my own language.”There was no procrastination in Grizel’s nature; what she had to do, must be done at once, if it were to be done at all. Straight from the kitchen she adjourned to the telephone, rang up Teresa to make sure of the guests of honour, and then proceeded to scribble half a dozen of the most informal of invitations for an unfashionably early date, which were despatched forthwith to the post. In an incredibly short space of time the answers were received, one and all accepting with pleasure, and Cook, divided between depression and elation, nerved herself to prepare the dinner of her life.And now for the first time Grizel was to have a personal experience of the momentous influence of a dinner party in an ordinary middle-class establishment! For two days beforehand “plannings ahead” enveloped the atmosphere like a cloud. The parlourmaid planned ahead in respect of extra polishing of silver and glass, and was testy in consequence, and disposed to neglect present work. Cook’s whole energies seemed engrossed in the preparation of a mysterious substance yclept “stock,” which filled the house with the most unsavoury of odours, and she plainly considered it an injury to be expected to provide the ordinary meals, while Marie lashed the troubled waters by an attitude of amused disdain.On the morning of the great day itself the very atmosphere was impregnated with strain, and the two domestics appeared to feel it a personal injury that Grizel herself remained smilingly unperturbed, and went about her way as placidly as if nothing unusual were in the air. Parsons could not decide if it was ignorance, or pure “cussedness” which made the mistress suddenly decide to move the position of the furniture in the room above the dining-room, and to insist upon its being done without delay. The gardener was called in to help, and Parsons of fell intent made the removal as noisy and cumbersome as it could be, and then discovered to her chagrin that both master and mistress had left the house, and had consequently suffered no annoyance from the noise.By four o’clock a jingle of glass and china announced the fact that Parsons had begun the preparation of “my table,” a work of exceptional responsibility, since beyond a few general directions it had been left entirely in her charge. The day before Grizel had unlocked the door of the upstairs safe-cupboard, wherein reposed some treasures from Lady Griselda’s famous collection of silver, the like of which Parsons had never before beheld. Bowls and goblets, branching candelabra, finely wrought receptacles for fruit, large and small, high and low, each one a work of art. Sufficient treasures for the adornment of a dozen dinner tables were packed away on those baize-covered shelves from which Parsons was bidden to take her choice. Something of the same sombre elation filled her veins as that with which Cook in her kitchen whipped and stirred, and mixed and tasted, resigned to suffer in the hope of glory to come.At six o’clock Mary Edwards, the hired waitress, would arrive; a young person who, for a consideration of five shillings, officiated at every dinner party in the township. No bellringer had greater facilities for advertisement than Mary Edwards. “She’d tell them the style they did things up at Beverleys’!”It was only after she was dressed for the evening that Grizel entered the dining-room to survey the completed table, while Parsons and Mary Edwards stood at attention by the sideboard. She wore a wonderful gown of a deep purplecrêpe, encrusted with heavy gold embroideries. A diamond aigrette sparkled on her head, but her beautiful white throat was bare of ornaments. She looked young and radiant and exquisite, and to both black-robed, white-aproned onlookers came a spasm of an old regret. The feminine in them revolted at the chasm between the classes... “Oh, to be a lady, and look like that!”“Quite nice!” cried Grizel graciously. “You’ve done the flowers beautifully, Parsons. Is this Edwards? How d’you do, Edwards! Sure you have everything you want? Enough spoons, and forks, and things like that? That’s all right! Then we’ll just go straight on, you know. No waiting between the courses.”“Yes, ma’m. No, ma’m,” said Edwards firmly.Parsons thought of the pandemonium now reigning in the kitchen, and remained discreetly dumb. Grizel gave another nod of approval and turned towards the door.And then, at that very moment—something happened!For the life of her during those first reeling seconds Grizel could not have told what it was. There was a creeping, crawling sound, coming from above, and mysteriously growing in force. Something was going to happen: in another second somethingwashappening! It was a dream, a nightmare, a hallucination. The clearly lighted room was suddenly filled with dust, with smoke, with floating particles of white. Down, down, they fell, thicker and thicker, in a solid, snow-like mass, covering the table, covering the carpet, scattering a powdery foam to right and to left. With more or less force certain particles fell on her own head, her own shoulders; she gasped for breath; felt on her tongue a strange dry taste and shuddered in disgust. Across a space of whirling dust clouds Parsons’s face and Mary Edwards’s confronted her, white as two clowns. Grizel shrieked, and still shrieking fled into the hall.Doors opened, voices called. At the end of the passage appeared Cook’s crimsoned face. Martin rushed down the staircase, followed by an exclaiming Marie, and all three stared petrified at the sight before them.Parsons and Edwards had followed Grizel’s lead, and were now flanking her on each side, pressing their hands to their hearts, and gasping for breath. All three were white from head to foot, and on the floor around them the carpet was whitened to match.“For mercy’s sake, Grizel,whathas happened?” cried Martin loudly. Then, lifting his eyes, he glanced through the open door of the dining-room, and beheld...Where had stretched a smooth expanse of white, there were now unsightly gaps showing glimpses of dust and timber: where the lines of the cornice had neatly bordered the room, was now a rough and jagged edge. The ceiling had fallen, gently, unostentatiously, without fuss or clamour, and deposited itself upon the floor!At that moment the door bell rang.

“I should like to ask Peignton and hisfiancéeto dinner,” Martin said, and Grizel nodded obediently, and said:

“Then we must have roast fowl! Roast fowl, I’ve discovered, is the fatted calf of the middle classes. Whenever I tell Cook that a friend is coming, she says: ‘A fowl, I suppose, mum. Three-and-three, or three-and-six?’ I always say three-and-three, and feel virtuous for the rest of the day. If it’s three-and-three, there’s just breast enough for ‘the room’; the extra threepence leaves a picking for the kitchen. Cook says it’s cheaper ‘in the end’ to give the three-and-six, but I take no notice. Sometimes I suspect the poulterer of a dark design, and believe that there’s no difference at all! The extra threepence is just a trap for the unwary. However! ... enough of these details. Certainly we’ll ask them if you wish it. And who else? We can’t contend with them alone all night long. I adore lovers in theory, but I object to feelingde tropin my own house. If we were apartie carréethey would expect me to have an important letter to write for the early post, and you to come with me to look over my shoulder. No, you don’t! We’ll have a crowd, and let them realise from the first that there’s no chance of a quiet moment. Who else?”

Martin deliberated.

“The Raynors? They’ve been fairly intimate...”

“Certainly not. I must reserve Cassandra to help me later on when we tackle the formidables. This shall be a lively, informal affair, got up in a hurry to wish them luck. Quite a short invitation, the shorter the better. Young people for choice—cheery, and fond of roast fowl. Mary Mallison for one.”

“Because she is young and cheery?”

“It doesn’t matter a bit. She is going to be asked,” maintained Grizel, with that characteristic inconsequence which she had the power to turn into the most charming of attributes. “She shall have the nicest partner, and the best place, and the merrythought all to herself. I’m sosorryfor Mary Mallisons. There are such a horde of them, and nobody wants them, and they don’t want themselves, and it’s all so wrong and wasteful and piteous, and I never see one of them, and look into her poor, starved little face that I don’t say to myself with a shudder, ‘Suppose that wasme?’”

Martin smiled at her adoringly.

“Oh! but it isn’t, and it never by any possibility could have been. Besides, don’t you think it’s their own fault? You were twenty-eight when we were married, and you had lived alone with a cross old aunt. You might easily have turned into a Mary Mallison yourself, if you had so little spirit as to allow yourself to be starved. Even if you had never married, can you imagine yourself sinking into a depth of apathy and indifference? There’s something contemptible about it. An unmarried woman has such wide possibilities. There is so much work waiting for her to do.”

“If she is allowed to do it! But what if there is a chain around her neck, in the shape of some relation who thinks that her work is to be an understudy at home? What would Mrs Mallison have to say to wide possibilities, while she wants a daughter to run messages and arrange the flowers? What wouldyouhave said in the days when you needed Katrine, if she had talked of her life’s work? Her work was obviously to darn your socks until such time as you found someone else whom you liked better, when—pouf!”—she snapped her fingers—“enough of Katrine! Let her go out into the wilds, and see what she can find!”

“Well! She very speedily found something that she liked better. Katrine was not a happy illustration, young woman! In your ever-present desire to be personal, you overlooked—”

“Exceptions prove the rule,” Grizel said stubbornly. “Besides, we were not discussing Katrine, we were discussing the roast-fowl dinner. Two Mallisons, the Hunters, Captain Peignton. Who else? We might as well make it up to ten while we are about it.”

Martin suggested the name of some young people whose parents had already entertained himself and his wife, and Grizel sighed, a long sigh of resignation.

“What shall we do with them afterwards?”

“Talk.”

“They can’t talk, bless you! Don’t know how.”

“Then you must talk to them.”

“I can’t. A dull dinner party pumps me dry, and I simply cannot stand desultory drawls for an hour on top of it. I get fidgets, and yawn,—heavens, how I yawn! It’s not a mite of use telling me not to. Imust. If I swallow them down my nose swells, and my eyes fill. I look as if I had hay fever... Do you never get fidgets at a dull party?”

“Mental?”

“No. Physical. In your legs. Far worse! They won’t keep still. I’ve lived through some shocking hours.—I’d rather play puss-in-the-corner, than talk twaddle for an hour on end.”

“I should thoroughly enjoy seeing Mary Mallison playing puss-in-the-corner,” Martin declared, and beat a hasty retreat. Experience had proved that it was a colossal mistake to endeavour to change Grizel’s mind. The most convincing of arguments had no power to move her; while moral axioms sent her galloping headlong in the opposite direction to that in which she was directed; moreover, it was a waste of energy to essay the task, since her rebellions were but word deep, and the passage of a short half-hour was usually sufficient to disperse them, and restore her to her usual complacent radiance.

This morning the radiance returned at the prospect of Cook’s face when she heard of the impending trial. Grizel did not think of her own face as she sat at the head of her table awaiting the serving of dishes prepared by a good plain cook. She had seen that expression more than once of late on the faces of worthy Chumley hostesses. It was a compound expression, which included a smile, a determined animation of the eyes, and withal a pucker, a tightening, a tenseness of anxiety. For all their forced gaiety the eyes had a faraway expression; they were penetrating through dividing walls, peering into saucepans, anxiously regarding the preparation of sauce. Grizel had been quick to diagnose the symptoms, but her sympathy had been lacking. “Hang it all, it’s not her fault!Shedidn’t cook it!” had been the mental comment.

Cook, as had been expected, folded her arms and assumed an expression of acute resignation. “Tendid you say, ’Um? Twelve with yourselves. I’m not sure that the range... How many courses were you thinking of having?”

“Oh, dozens. As many as we can have. If we do it at all, Cook, we’ll do it well.”

“Clear soup?”

“We haven’t come to soup yet,” said Grizel cheerfully. “Lots of things before soup.”

“When I lived at the Robertses we were always giving dinners, but they studied me, as well as themselves,” Cook replied poignantly. “Soup, of course, and fish, but she got in the entrées, to give me a clear hand with the joint. Fowls mostly, or a saddle of mutton. The sweets were cold, and she got in the savouries, and sometimes an ice pudding. Then there was cheese straws, and dessert. She always said I managed very well.”

“You would do!” Grizel said. “Well, now you shall have a change. I won’t have anything at all like that...”

It was by this time easy to make a selection of guests, as every visitable house in Chumley had made its own individual effort towards entertaining the bride. Sometimes it was dinner, more often it was tea, and, as Grizel pathetically declared, not even arealtea, a tea where you could sit quietly in a comfortable chair, and gossip, and consume rich cake. A tea as enjoyed in Chumley was a strenuous affair, when guests were bidden from four to six, and were expected to rack their brains over a number of nerve-racking problems.

The first invitation of the sort that Grizel received was for a Kate Tea. She misread the first word for Cake, and thought it suitable, if a trifle ostentatious, but as she afterwards informed Cassandra, the awakening was rude.

“It was ‘Kate,’ my dear, not cake,—a wretched Kate that haunted us all afternoon. Did you realise that every second word in the English language ends with Kate? Well, it does! and Mrs Morley read out a story, and we had to fill in the gaps with Kate words. Kate had an untruthful nature and was given to prevari-Kate, so she got into trouble, and engaged an advo-Kate. See?”

Cassandra groaned.

“Don’t! Too awful. You’ll have dozens of these preposterous invitations if you once accept. Why do you go?”

“Ah!” Grizel looked thoughtful. “There was a prize.—I’d be bored for hours for the chance of gaining a prize. Why is it that the prospect of something for nothing has such a fatal lure? I might win a manicure set, or a shoe-horn, or a leather bag. I’ve thousands already; I wouldn’t know what to do with the blessed things, but I crave to win them! I racked my brains over that wretched Kate until I was quite exhausted, and came out next to the bottom. Next week there’s ‘A Florin Tea.’ What happens to a florin? Do they give us one all round? And a Photograph Tea after that. Everyone takes a photograph of herself as a baby, and you guess Who’s who. There’s going to be some scope for personal remarks. There is a Smelling Tea too, but I’m going to be ill for that. She means well, dear lady, and I accepted with pleasure, but I shall stay at home with more. I couldn’t respect myself going about smelling at little bags...”

“They tried the same sort of thing with me years ago, but I steadily refused, and now they have given me up. You’ll have no peace in Chumley, Grizel, if you let yourself in for these dreadful entertainments. You’ll be asked out to tea every afternoon of your life, to meet the same people, and sit in the same rooms, and hear the same little gossip over and over again.”

“But that makes them so keen to havemefor a change!” Grizel said, laughing. “My dear, they adore me. I’m asuccès fou. I wear different clothes wherever I go, and say all the maddest things that come into my head, and they hang on my every word. The Kate hostess nearly cried because I didn’t get the prize. She was trying to give me hints all the time. It was touching! And I wassostupid.”

Cassandra regarded her with a puzzled air.

“I believe you really enjoy it! And it’s so different from your old life, just as different as it was for me. I can’t think why you aren’t bored!”

“I’m never bored,” Grizel declared. “At least, not all at a time. It’s such a funny old world, and a bit of me is interested in everything that comes along. Besides, I adore kindness, even when it disguises itself in Kate teas, and the least I can do is to be agreeable in return. But I am thankful that I have you, Cassandra. I should be lost without one real friend, who speaks my own language.”

There was no procrastination in Grizel’s nature; what she had to do, must be done at once, if it were to be done at all. Straight from the kitchen she adjourned to the telephone, rang up Teresa to make sure of the guests of honour, and then proceeded to scribble half a dozen of the most informal of invitations for an unfashionably early date, which were despatched forthwith to the post. In an incredibly short space of time the answers were received, one and all accepting with pleasure, and Cook, divided between depression and elation, nerved herself to prepare the dinner of her life.

And now for the first time Grizel was to have a personal experience of the momentous influence of a dinner party in an ordinary middle-class establishment! For two days beforehand “plannings ahead” enveloped the atmosphere like a cloud. The parlourmaid planned ahead in respect of extra polishing of silver and glass, and was testy in consequence, and disposed to neglect present work. Cook’s whole energies seemed engrossed in the preparation of a mysterious substance yclept “stock,” which filled the house with the most unsavoury of odours, and she plainly considered it an injury to be expected to provide the ordinary meals, while Marie lashed the troubled waters by an attitude of amused disdain.

On the morning of the great day itself the very atmosphere was impregnated with strain, and the two domestics appeared to feel it a personal injury that Grizel herself remained smilingly unperturbed, and went about her way as placidly as if nothing unusual were in the air. Parsons could not decide if it was ignorance, or pure “cussedness” which made the mistress suddenly decide to move the position of the furniture in the room above the dining-room, and to insist upon its being done without delay. The gardener was called in to help, and Parsons of fell intent made the removal as noisy and cumbersome as it could be, and then discovered to her chagrin that both master and mistress had left the house, and had consequently suffered no annoyance from the noise.

By four o’clock a jingle of glass and china announced the fact that Parsons had begun the preparation of “my table,” a work of exceptional responsibility, since beyond a few general directions it had been left entirely in her charge. The day before Grizel had unlocked the door of the upstairs safe-cupboard, wherein reposed some treasures from Lady Griselda’s famous collection of silver, the like of which Parsons had never before beheld. Bowls and goblets, branching candelabra, finely wrought receptacles for fruit, large and small, high and low, each one a work of art. Sufficient treasures for the adornment of a dozen dinner tables were packed away on those baize-covered shelves from which Parsons was bidden to take her choice. Something of the same sombre elation filled her veins as that with which Cook in her kitchen whipped and stirred, and mixed and tasted, resigned to suffer in the hope of glory to come.

At six o’clock Mary Edwards, the hired waitress, would arrive; a young person who, for a consideration of five shillings, officiated at every dinner party in the township. No bellringer had greater facilities for advertisement than Mary Edwards. “She’d tell them the style they did things up at Beverleys’!”

It was only after she was dressed for the evening that Grizel entered the dining-room to survey the completed table, while Parsons and Mary Edwards stood at attention by the sideboard. She wore a wonderful gown of a deep purplecrêpe, encrusted with heavy gold embroideries. A diamond aigrette sparkled on her head, but her beautiful white throat was bare of ornaments. She looked young and radiant and exquisite, and to both black-robed, white-aproned onlookers came a spasm of an old regret. The feminine in them revolted at the chasm between the classes... “Oh, to be a lady, and look like that!”

“Quite nice!” cried Grizel graciously. “You’ve done the flowers beautifully, Parsons. Is this Edwards? How d’you do, Edwards! Sure you have everything you want? Enough spoons, and forks, and things like that? That’s all right! Then we’ll just go straight on, you know. No waiting between the courses.”

“Yes, ma’m. No, ma’m,” said Edwards firmly.

Parsons thought of the pandemonium now reigning in the kitchen, and remained discreetly dumb. Grizel gave another nod of approval and turned towards the door.

And then, at that very moment—something happened!

For the life of her during those first reeling seconds Grizel could not have told what it was. There was a creeping, crawling sound, coming from above, and mysteriously growing in force. Something was going to happen: in another second somethingwashappening! It was a dream, a nightmare, a hallucination. The clearly lighted room was suddenly filled with dust, with smoke, with floating particles of white. Down, down, they fell, thicker and thicker, in a solid, snow-like mass, covering the table, covering the carpet, scattering a powdery foam to right and to left. With more or less force certain particles fell on her own head, her own shoulders; she gasped for breath; felt on her tongue a strange dry taste and shuddered in disgust. Across a space of whirling dust clouds Parsons’s face and Mary Edwards’s confronted her, white as two clowns. Grizel shrieked, and still shrieking fled into the hall.

Doors opened, voices called. At the end of the passage appeared Cook’s crimsoned face. Martin rushed down the staircase, followed by an exclaiming Marie, and all three stared petrified at the sight before them.

Parsons and Edwards had followed Grizel’s lead, and were now flanking her on each side, pressing their hands to their hearts, and gasping for breath. All three were white from head to foot, and on the floor around them the carpet was whitened to match.

“For mercy’s sake, Grizel,whathas happened?” cried Martin loudly. Then, lifting his eyes, he glanced through the open door of the dining-room, and beheld...

Where had stretched a smooth expanse of white, there were now unsightly gaps showing glimpses of dust and timber: where the lines of the cornice had neatly bordered the room, was now a rough and jagged edge. The ceiling had fallen, gently, unostentatiously, without fuss or clamour, and deposited itself upon the floor!

At that moment the door bell rang.

Chapter Fifteen.Among the Bulbs.By noon next day all Chumley was ringing with the story of Grizel Beverley’s first dinner party, for each feminine guest, anxious to have the privilege of telling the news, had hurried out of the house at the first possible moment, and betaken herself to the High Street.“My dear! you never knew anything so awful.—I never enjoyed anything so much in my life,” said Miss Hunter, the doctor’s sister, to her dearest friend, and, linking arms, proceeded to give a detailed account of the night’s adventure. How being herself the first to arrive at the house, the door had opened to reveal the tableau of the dishevelled mistress and maids, standing at the end of the hall, like figures of snow, and through an open door a vista of the dining-room, with a table heaped high with plaster. A gruesome spectacle it had been; the gleam of glass and silver serving but to accentuate the general ruin.For the first moment Mrs Beverley had gaped at her guests as if not realising the meaning of their presence; then suddenly she had begun to laugh, to peal with laughter, and to explain the nature of the sudden catastrophe. Then Miss Hunter and her brother had said that of course they would return home, and she had stamped her foot, and said—nothing of the kind! the dinner was cooked,—and pray, who was to eat the dinner? They were to stay; everyone was to stay; she would arrange everything in a twinkling! It would be first-rate fun.And itwasfun! At a word from their mistress the maids disappeared to change their gowns, while Grizel herself picked her way carefully up the staircase. Then her French maid spread a sheet over the floor in the dressing-room, and Mrs Beverley stepped out of her dress. She looked about eighteen in her petticoat, and as slight as an elf, yet there wasn’t a bone to be seen. “So different from my gridiron chest!” said Miss Hunter, with a sigh. And then? Well, then she rubbed the plaster off her hair, but it still looked all white andpoudrée, and stayed that way all evening,—so becoming! and the maid came in with another beautiful gown—green this time, and she was all fastened up and ready, almost as soon as the guests themselves. Then the fun began.A number of bridge tables were produced, spread with white cloths, and arranged round the drawing-room, while an oak bench from the hall did duty as sideboard. It was like a dinner in a restaurant,—much better fun than sitting round an ordinary table, and everyone was so amused and excited that the evening went with a roar. When the dessert stage was reached, two of the men volunteered for rescue service, shed their coats in the hall, and extricated the most promising dishes, the contents of which, having been carefully cleansed, were welcomed with loud cheers by the rest of the party. “I never,” concluded Miss Hunter gleefully, “was so rowdy in my life!”“Fancy having enough spoons and forks to go round a second time!” was the Chumley maiden’s practical comment. After a moment’s pause, she asked eagerly: “And was Captain Peignton very attentive to Teresa?”“He was not sitting at the same table.” Miss Hunter, paused in her turn, and added in a reflective voice: “I don’t remember seeing him speak to her the whole evening.”In truth Dane was not a demonstrative lover. The fact was patent to Teresa herself, and in the depths of her heart she acknowledged a lack. Her own nature was not demonstrative; with her own family her manner was indifferent almost to callousness, but with Dane she felt capable of a great tenderness. She wished that he would be more tender to her; that when they were alone together his manner of affectionate raillery would change to something deeper. She wished above all things that he would speak of his love. Mary’s questionings on the night of her sister’s betrothal had had something to do with awakening this longing, for when Teresa came to think over what had passed, it seemed as if most of the protestations had been made by herself. He had asked ifshecared, had kissed her and vowed to be true, but neither then or at any subsequent meeting had he lost his head, and said all the dear, mad, exaggerated sweetnesses which were the language of lovers. Teresa had never before had a lover, but something in her blood, an instinct stronger than theory, told her that such exaggerations were not the creations of fiction, but that they existed in very truth, and to both speaker and hearer should appear the most precious of truths. It was in her heart to lavish such protestations on Dane; to tell him of the days when she had longed to touch his lean, brown hands, to lean her head against the rough frieze of his coat, to tell him how she had loved him, how she had longed for him, how she had prayed to be made good for his sake. If she had given way to the impulse, Dane’s heart would have opened in its turn, since there are few men callous enough to remain unaffected by the love of a girl who is young, and fresh, and agreeable to the eye; but Teresa’s strong sense of propriety forbade her to offer more than she received, and she sternly repressed the impulse to be “silly.” The engaged couple met often, since in a town of the size of Chumley every gathering brings together the same people, buttête-à-têteswere less frequent. When Dane spent an evening at the Cottage, Teresa wondered if she were bold and unmaidenly because she longed to carry off her lover to the snuggery on the second floor, and felt exasperated when he sat contentedly in the drawing-room chatting with Mrs Mallison and Mary, and even volunteering to play a game with the Major. On Sunday afternoons, when they were left alone as a matter of course, he would kiss her and stroke her hair, and say pretty things about her complexion, and the pretty blue dress, but invariably, infallibly he would relapse into the old quizzical, irresponsible mood, treating her as if she were an amusing child, rather than a woman and his promised wife. Teresa’s attempts to give a serious turn to the conversation were ponderous enough to add to Dane’s amusement, and he would laugh still more, and even mimic her to her face.Another subject that troubled Teresa was that her lover made no allusions to the date of their marriage. At least once a day Mrs Mallison would enquire curiously, “And has the Captain said anything about the date?” and it was humiliating to reply continually in the negative.Lovers in books were always urgent in this respect; the lovers she had known in real life had been no less impetuous, and in Dane’s case there seemed no reason for delay. He was old enough; he had enough money—then why should they wait? Teresa could not bring herself to introduce such a topic, but she did tentatively mention the honeymoon one day, asking Dane where he would take her. For a moment he looked startled, but at the hint of a foreign tour he brightened, and they spent a delightful hour, discussing routes, and rival places of interest. Teresa had never yet crossed the Channel, and Dane as a world-traveller felt a prospective pleasure in the thought of introducing her to fresh scenes. To him it seemed pitiful to think of a human creature having spent twenty-four years in Chumley, with no change but an occasional month in seaside lodgings. He displayed frank pity for such a fate, but Teresa exhibited no pity for herself. She was very fond of Chumley; she was fond of the Chumley people; it was nice to travel now and then for a few weeks at a time, but she preferred a settled life. Dane realised with amusement that Rome itself would be judged from a Chumley standpoint.The Squire was highly amused at the story of Grizel’s first dinner party, and pointed many morals thereon for his wife’s benefit. Almost it seemed that he blamed her because his own dining-room ceiling had never descended, and opened the way for such an unconventional evening.“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 shouldnothave 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? Cassandra 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 areyougoing to do for the young couple?” he asked gruffly. “Another dinner would fall flat.”“And they were here so lately,” Cassandra 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 Cassandra 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 Cassandra 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 pass!Fortune favoured Cassandra, 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 Cassandra 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? Cassandra felt a sudden rush of thankfulness for her own lot. Thank God, 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.Cassandra 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. Cassandra 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 wishing 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,notto 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 godmother left instructions that I was to be given two hundred pounds at once. They sent me the cheque this morning.”“What a pattern godmother! 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 fashion, and was unconscious of her companion’s involuntary start of dismay. Never before had Cassandra 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 Cassandra 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 fashionable, but very comfortable. Quite ideal for a woman alone. And dressmakers too.” Cassandra thawed again at the introduction of a congenial subject. “Dogo 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 Cassandra 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 completebouleversementof 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 ondecolletée, 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!”“I’ve not decided to go to Paris,” Mary said ungraciously, but the next moment she lifted her eyes to Cassandra’s face and gave a weak little smile of apology. “I’ve not decided anything. Not even where to go first. I don’t seem to care. You talk about seeing the world, but I don’t particularly want to see it. Now that I can go where I choose, I’ve been trying to think of an interesting place—a place that interests me, I mean, but I can’t do it. I’ve hardly been outside Chumley, and every other place seems unreal. I used to long to travel when I was a girl, but I don’t care about it now. I’ve grown so used to doing nothing. Perhaps it may be different now that I have my own money.” She hesitated for a moment, then questioned tentatively: “Of course you... you have always had enough money.”“Ye-es! Yes, I suppose I have. My father was a poor man for his position, but we had practically everything we wanted,—horses and carriages, and beautiful gardens, and change when we needed it, and pretty clothes, and—”“Andspace!” concluded Mary for her. “You have never known what it was to live in a small house where you can never get more than a few yards away from other people, never get out of the sound of their voices, never have a place which you can call your own, except a cold bedroom. No place where you cancrywithout bringing rappings at the door... That’s why I want to go away. I want my money to bring me Space. I want to feel alone, with space to do as I like, without thinking of anyone but myself, or even having anyone to check me if I am foolish, and reckless, and mad. I expect I shall be reckless. It’s a relief sometimes to be able to be reckless, Lady Cassandra!”“Oh, Mary Mallison, itis!” cried Cassandra. She slipped her hand through the other’s arm, and said warmly, “I won’t send you any addresses, I won’t give you any advice. Go away and be as reckless as you can! And when you come back, come and tell me about it, and I’ll rejoice, and not point a single moral. It’s in my heart to be reckless too.”“Thank you,” said Mary, and there was a note of real gratitude in her voice. Lady Cassandra was the last person from whom she would have expected understanding, but she did understand, and had even confessed to a fellow-feeling. Mary was sufficiently under her mother’s influence to feel that sympathy from the Squire’s wife was doubly valuable, yet she was vaguely disquieted, for what was her new-found money going to procure for her, that was not already in Cassandra’s possession? If material pleasures palled, would the mere fact of liberty be sufficient to fill her heart? Was liberty in her case but another term for loneliness? Mary was silent, feeling as usual that she had nothing to say.With arms still linked the two women turned a corner of the path, and found themselves confronted by the Squire and his companions, who were approaching from the farther side; but now there was a fourth member of the party, for Dane Peignton walked beside hisfiancée, smiling down into her upturned face, and for the moment unobservant of the new-comers, who were still some distance away. Cassandra’s hand jerked on Mary’s arm, she was conscious of a rise of colour, and to cover it said quickly:“Captain Peignton has deigned to appear at last. I asked him to lunch. Teresa should scold him... but I suppose they meet constantly. Are they to be married quite soon?”She was glad of an opportunity of putting a question which she longed to have answered, but had shirked putting into words, but Mary’s answer was not illuminative.“I hope not.”Was this an expression of sisterly affection which dreaded the hour of separation? Cassandra could not decide, and it was too late to question further, for Dane had seen her and was hurrying forward to offer apologies for his non-appearance at lunch. Teresa followed and stood by his side, supplementing his explanations with a proprietary air, and Mrs Mallison beamed proudly in the background. Quite a family party! She wished certain of the Chumley matrons who were apt to be patronising in their manner, could arrive at this moment, and see her girls the centre of so distinguished a group.Cassandra was conscious of an intense irritation.

By noon next day all Chumley was ringing with the story of Grizel Beverley’s first dinner party, for each feminine guest, anxious to have the privilege of telling the news, had hurried out of the house at the first possible moment, and betaken herself to the High Street.

“My dear! you never knew anything so awful.—I never enjoyed anything so much in my life,” said Miss Hunter, the doctor’s sister, to her dearest friend, and, linking arms, proceeded to give a detailed account of the night’s adventure. How being herself the first to arrive at the house, the door had opened to reveal the tableau of the dishevelled mistress and maids, standing at the end of the hall, like figures of snow, and through an open door a vista of the dining-room, with a table heaped high with plaster. A gruesome spectacle it had been; the gleam of glass and silver serving but to accentuate the general ruin.

For the first moment Mrs Beverley had gaped at her guests as if not realising the meaning of their presence; then suddenly she had begun to laugh, to peal with laughter, and to explain the nature of the sudden catastrophe. Then Miss Hunter and her brother had said that of course they would return home, and she had stamped her foot, and said—nothing of the kind! the dinner was cooked,—and pray, who was to eat the dinner? They were to stay; everyone was to stay; she would arrange everything in a twinkling! It would be first-rate fun.

And itwasfun! At a word from their mistress the maids disappeared to change their gowns, while Grizel herself picked her way carefully up the staircase. Then her French maid spread a sheet over the floor in the dressing-room, and Mrs Beverley stepped out of her dress. She looked about eighteen in her petticoat, and as slight as an elf, yet there wasn’t a bone to be seen. “So different from my gridiron chest!” said Miss Hunter, with a sigh. And then? Well, then she rubbed the plaster off her hair, but it still looked all white andpoudrée, and stayed that way all evening,—so becoming! and the maid came in with another beautiful gown—green this time, and she was all fastened up and ready, almost as soon as the guests themselves. Then the fun began.

A number of bridge tables were produced, spread with white cloths, and arranged round the drawing-room, while an oak bench from the hall did duty as sideboard. It was like a dinner in a restaurant,—much better fun than sitting round an ordinary table, and everyone was so amused and excited that the evening went with a roar. When the dessert stage was reached, two of the men volunteered for rescue service, shed their coats in the hall, and extricated the most promising dishes, the contents of which, having been carefully cleansed, were welcomed with loud cheers by the rest of the party. “I never,” concluded Miss Hunter gleefully, “was so rowdy in my life!”

“Fancy having enough spoons and forks to go round a second time!” was the Chumley maiden’s practical comment. After a moment’s pause, she asked eagerly: “And was Captain Peignton very attentive to Teresa?”

“He was not sitting at the same table.” Miss Hunter, paused in her turn, and added in a reflective voice: “I don’t remember seeing him speak to her the whole evening.”

In truth Dane was not a demonstrative lover. The fact was patent to Teresa herself, and in the depths of her heart she acknowledged a lack. Her own nature was not demonstrative; with her own family her manner was indifferent almost to callousness, but with Dane she felt capable of a great tenderness. She wished that he would be more tender to her; that when they were alone together his manner of affectionate raillery would change to something deeper. She wished above all things that he would speak of his love. Mary’s questionings on the night of her sister’s betrothal had had something to do with awakening this longing, for when Teresa came to think over what had passed, it seemed as if most of the protestations had been made by herself. He had asked ifshecared, had kissed her and vowed to be true, but neither then or at any subsequent meeting had he lost his head, and said all the dear, mad, exaggerated sweetnesses which were the language of lovers. Teresa had never before had a lover, but something in her blood, an instinct stronger than theory, told her that such exaggerations were not the creations of fiction, but that they existed in very truth, and to both speaker and hearer should appear the most precious of truths. It was in her heart to lavish such protestations on Dane; to tell him of the days when she had longed to touch his lean, brown hands, to lean her head against the rough frieze of his coat, to tell him how she had loved him, how she had longed for him, how she had prayed to be made good for his sake. If she had given way to the impulse, Dane’s heart would have opened in its turn, since there are few men callous enough to remain unaffected by the love of a girl who is young, and fresh, and agreeable to the eye; but Teresa’s strong sense of propriety forbade her to offer more than she received, and she sternly repressed the impulse to be “silly.” The engaged couple met often, since in a town of the size of Chumley every gathering brings together the same people, buttête-à-têteswere less frequent. When Dane spent an evening at the Cottage, Teresa wondered if she were bold and unmaidenly because she longed to carry off her lover to the snuggery on the second floor, and felt exasperated when he sat contentedly in the drawing-room chatting with Mrs Mallison and Mary, and even volunteering to play a game with the Major. On Sunday afternoons, when they were left alone as a matter of course, he would kiss her and stroke her hair, and say pretty things about her complexion, and the pretty blue dress, but invariably, infallibly he would relapse into the old quizzical, irresponsible mood, treating her as if she were an amusing child, rather than a woman and his promised wife. Teresa’s attempts to give a serious turn to the conversation were ponderous enough to add to Dane’s amusement, and he would laugh still more, and even mimic her to her face.

Another subject that troubled Teresa was that her lover made no allusions to the date of their marriage. At least once a day Mrs Mallison would enquire curiously, “And has the Captain said anything about the date?” and it was humiliating to reply continually in the negative.

Lovers in books were always urgent in this respect; the lovers she had known in real life had been no less impetuous, and in Dane’s case there seemed no reason for delay. He was old enough; he had enough money—then why should they wait? Teresa could not bring herself to introduce such a topic, but she did tentatively mention the honeymoon one day, asking Dane where he would take her. For a moment he looked startled, but at the hint of a foreign tour he brightened, and they spent a delightful hour, discussing routes, and rival places of interest. Teresa had never yet crossed the Channel, and Dane as a world-traveller felt a prospective pleasure in the thought of introducing her to fresh scenes. To him it seemed pitiful to think of a human creature having spent twenty-four years in Chumley, with no change but an occasional month in seaside lodgings. He displayed frank pity for such a fate, but Teresa exhibited no pity for herself. She was very fond of Chumley; she was fond of the Chumley people; it was nice to travel now and then for a few weeks at a time, but she preferred a settled life. Dane realised with amusement that Rome itself would be judged from a Chumley standpoint.

The Squire was highly amused at the story of Grizel’s first dinner party, and pointed many morals thereon for his wife’s benefit. Almost it seemed that he blamed her because his own dining-room ceiling had never descended, and opened the way for such an unconventional evening.

“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 shouldnothave 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? Cassandra 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 areyougoing to do for the young couple?” he asked gruffly. “Another dinner would fall flat.”

“And they were here so lately,” Cassandra 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 Cassandra 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 Cassandra 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 pass!

Fortune favoured Cassandra, 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 Cassandra 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? Cassandra felt a sudden rush of thankfulness for her own lot. Thank God, 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.

Cassandra 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. Cassandra 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 wishing 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,notto 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 godmother left instructions that I was to be given two hundred pounds at once. They sent me the cheque this morning.”

“What a pattern godmother! 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 fashion, and was unconscious of her companion’s involuntary start of dismay. Never before had Cassandra 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 Cassandra 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 fashionable, but very comfortable. Quite ideal for a woman alone. And dressmakers too.” Cassandra thawed again at the introduction of a congenial subject. “Dogo 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 Cassandra 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 completebouleversementof 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 ondecolletée, 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!”

“I’ve not decided to go to Paris,” Mary said ungraciously, but the next moment she lifted her eyes to Cassandra’s face and gave a weak little smile of apology. “I’ve not decided anything. Not even where to go first. I don’t seem to care. You talk about seeing the world, but I don’t particularly want to see it. Now that I can go where I choose, I’ve been trying to think of an interesting place—a place that interests me, I mean, but I can’t do it. I’ve hardly been outside Chumley, and every other place seems unreal. I used to long to travel when I was a girl, but I don’t care about it now. I’ve grown so used to doing nothing. Perhaps it may be different now that I have my own money.” She hesitated for a moment, then questioned tentatively: “Of course you... you have always had enough money.”

“Ye-es! Yes, I suppose I have. My father was a poor man for his position, but we had practically everything we wanted,—horses and carriages, and beautiful gardens, and change when we needed it, and pretty clothes, and—”

“Andspace!” concluded Mary for her. “You have never known what it was to live in a small house where you can never get more than a few yards away from other people, never get out of the sound of their voices, never have a place which you can call your own, except a cold bedroom. No place where you cancrywithout bringing rappings at the door... That’s why I want to go away. I want my money to bring me Space. I want to feel alone, with space to do as I like, without thinking of anyone but myself, or even having anyone to check me if I am foolish, and reckless, and mad. I expect I shall be reckless. It’s a relief sometimes to be able to be reckless, Lady Cassandra!”

“Oh, Mary Mallison, itis!” cried Cassandra. She slipped her hand through the other’s arm, and said warmly, “I won’t send you any addresses, I won’t give you any advice. Go away and be as reckless as you can! And when you come back, come and tell me about it, and I’ll rejoice, and not point a single moral. It’s in my heart to be reckless too.”

“Thank you,” said Mary, and there was a note of real gratitude in her voice. Lady Cassandra was the last person from whom she would have expected understanding, but she did understand, and had even confessed to a fellow-feeling. Mary was sufficiently under her mother’s influence to feel that sympathy from the Squire’s wife was doubly valuable, yet she was vaguely disquieted, for what was her new-found money going to procure for her, that was not already in Cassandra’s possession? If material pleasures palled, would the mere fact of liberty be sufficient to fill her heart? Was liberty in her case but another term for loneliness? Mary was silent, feeling as usual that she had nothing to say.

With arms still linked the two women turned a corner of the path, and found themselves confronted by the Squire and his companions, who were approaching from the farther side; but now there was a fourth member of the party, for Dane Peignton walked beside hisfiancée, smiling down into her upturned face, and for the moment unobservant of the new-comers, who were still some distance away. Cassandra’s hand jerked on Mary’s arm, she was conscious of a rise of colour, and to cover it said quickly:

“Captain Peignton has deigned to appear at last. I asked him to lunch. Teresa should scold him... but I suppose they meet constantly. Are they to be married quite soon?”

She was glad of an opportunity of putting a question which she longed to have answered, but had shirked putting into words, but Mary’s answer was not illuminative.

“I hope not.”

Was this an expression of sisterly affection which dreaded the hour of separation? Cassandra could not decide, and it was too late to question further, for Dane had seen her and was hurrying forward to offer apologies for his non-appearance at lunch. Teresa followed and stood by his side, supplementing his explanations with a proprietary air, and Mrs Mallison beamed proudly in the background. Quite a family party! She wished certain of the Chumley matrons who were apt to be patronising in their manner, could arrive at this moment, and see her girls the centre of so distinguished a group.

Cassandra was conscious of an intense irritation.

Chapter Sixteen.A Willing Captive.The bulb party pursued its inevitable course. The guests arrived in little groups of three and and four, entered the house at the front and made their painful way along highly polished corridors, to a door leading on to the terrace, where Cassandra stood waiting to receive them. Here it was the orthodox thing to intercept greetings with ejaculatory exclamations of admiration at the beauty of the floral display, which being done the visitors descended the stone steps, and roamed to and fro, picking up other friendsen route. At times the pitiful sun shone out, and then the Chumley matrons unloosed the feather boas which were an inevitable accessory of their toilettes, and confided in one another that it was “quite balmy,” and anon it retired behind a cloud, and gave place to an east wind which came whirling round unexpected comers, sharp and keen as a knife. Then the matrons thought wistfully of the bountifully spread tea tables which they had discerned through the windows on the terrace, and consulted watch bracelets to see how soon they could hope for relief. There were at least ten women present to every man, and entirely feminine groups were to be seen wandering round from one garden to another, for an hour on end, growing ever chillier and more pinched, yet laboriously keeping up an air of enjoyment.Grizel Beverley was the latest guest to appear, having made a compromise with the weather by donning a white dress with a bodice so diaphanous that Martin had informed her he could see her “thoughts,” the which she had covered with a sable coat. When the sun shone, she threw open the coat, and looked a very incarnation of spring, so white and lacy and daintily exquisite, that coloured costumes became prosaic in contrast. When the wind blew, she turned up her big storm collar and peered out between the upstanding points, so snug and smooth and unwrinkled that the pinched faces above the feather boas appeared doubly wan and miserable. Feminine Chumley felt it a little hard to be beaten in both events, but bore it the more complacently since it was the bride who was the victor. There was no doubt about it,—Grizel was a success, and already, after but a few months’ residence, Chumley was at her feet. She was sometimes “shocking,” of course, but as she herself had predicted, the sober townspeople took a fearsome pleasure in her extravagances. They were as a dash of cayenne, which lent a flavour to the fare of daily life. Moreover, though welcomed with open arms by the county, Grizel was on most intimate terms with the town. Invitations to afternoon festivities received unfailing acceptance; she made extensive toilettes in honour of the occasion, ate appreciative teas, and groaned aloud when she failed to win a prize of the value of half a crown. Anything more “pleasant” could not be imagined!In the more serious rôle of parish work also, Grizel had made her début. The Mothers’ Meeting was still waiting time, but one afternoon she had slipped a little gold thimble and a pair of scissors with mother-of-pearl handles into a vanity-bag, and taken her way to a Dorcas meeting at the Vicarage, agreeably expectant of adding a new experience to life.The Dorcas meeting was held in the dining-room of the Vicarage, on the long table of which lay formidable piles of calico and flannel. At a second small table the churchwarden’s wife turned the handle of a particularly unmelodious sewing machine. Over a dozen women sat round the room still wearing their bonnets, but denuded of coats and mantles, and balancing upon their knees some future garment for the poor, at which they sewed with long, rhythmic stitches. They were assembled together in a holy cause, and under the more or less holy roof of the Vicar himself, yet the observant eye could have discerned as much hidden worldliness in that room as in the most fashionable assembly. At a Dorcas meeting everyone was welcome, the wives of tradesmen as well as representatives of the professional and learned classes. It was difficult to keep up the numbers, and since social engagements were less frequent in the former class, its members were able to give more regular attendance. The grocer’s wife was a cutter-out with whom no other member could compete. She stood at one end of the long table with a length of calico spread out before her, and a pair of gigantic scissors in her hand. As she cut still further and further into the material, she leant forward over the table, and automatically her left leg swung out,—a stout, merino-stockinged leg, terminating in a laced leather boot. All the members came to her for instructions, and all of them were agreeable and friendly in manner, but when the cutting process was over, she retired to a corner of the room where were congregated a few of her own friends. The two classes never mixed.Grizel took the work presented to her,—a full-sized garment of mysterious intent,—and glanced in questioning fashion round the room. The tradesmen’s wives who had been eagerly drinking in the details of her costume, immediately lowered their eyes to their seams, but from every other face beamed a message of invitation. Grizel beamed back, but continued her scrutiny, till finally in the furthermost corner she discovered the figure of that lonely parishioner who was neither fish, flesh, nor good red herring,—Miss Bruce, the retired plumber’s daughter, to whom she had introduced herself at the church decorations. She waved her bag with a smile of recognition, and carried a chair to the corner.It was not the first time that Chumley had noticed the extraordinary intimacy between Mrs Martin Beverley and “poor Miss Bruce.” They had been seen driving together in the country; Grizel’s car—a wedding present from one of the relatives who had benefited by her marriage—had been observed more than once waiting outside the cottage with the green porch, and the little maid had divulged consequentially that the lady “dropped in now and then, to play cribbage with the missis.” The Chumley matrons were not in the least inclined to follow the lead, and call upon the plumber’s daughter, neither, to tell the truth, did Miss Bruce desire their attentions. She now looked down upon the town, and cherished sneaking ambitions after the county. She gave herself airs, and bought an aigrette for her Sunday bonnet. It is doubtful whether her character was improved by being singled out for such special attention, but at least she was happy, and happiness had been a chary visitor in her life.“This is the first, the very first Dorcas meeting I have ever been to in all my life,” announced Grizel, smiling. “And d’you know I believe it’s my first introduction to calico. This is calico, isn’t it? Funny smell! I rather like the smell. Do people really use it for undies? Rather,—just a little—gritty,—don’t you think?”“Personally,” Miss Bruce said primly, “I do not use calico. Not that thread, Mrs Beverley! It’s too fine. Let me give you a length... What has Mrs Thompson given you to make?”Grizel made a feint of unrolling the calico under cover of an upraised arm.“I shouldn’t wish it mentioned in society,—but it’s a comby! A comby for a giant, or for a fat woman at a show.Lookat the waist width! and I don’t believe she’ll ever be so long from the waist to the shoulder. It will bag over her corsets, and make her back round. Couldn’t I take out a reef in the waist, and join it again with a bit of embroidery?”“We don’t put embroidery on Dorcas garments.”“Never?”“Never.”“Not the teeniest bit? Even at the top?”“Never; but the bands are feather-stitched round the neck.”Grizel adopted an air of severity.“I call it immoral. I shall speak to the Vicar. No woman can be self-respecting in a calico band!... Well! can I cut out a piece and join it to itself? Its against my principles to let it bag.”“Mrs Beverley, it won’t bag! It might with you. That’s different. Of course if it were for you—”Grizel’s eyes opened in a round-eyed stare.“Aren’t they the same shape as I am?”Miss Bruce made an unexpected answer. She looked the bride over, taking in the graceful lines of the beautiful body which had the slightness of a fay, an almost incredible slightness, but which was yet so rounded and supple that by no possibility could it have been called thin... She looked, and she shook her head.“No, Mrs Beverley,” she said firmly. “They are not.”Grizel sewed industriously all afternoon, and on departing exhibited an exquisitely neat seam for Mrs Evans’s inspection.“Never say I can’t sew!” she said complacently. “This afternoon has taken me back to my childhood, when I used to hem handkerchiefs and bits of finger at the same time.” She pointed dramatically to a small red stain in the middle of the seam. “In more ways than one. Human gore! Isn’t it piteous?”Mrs Evans threw a protesting glance.“My dear! What language!... Very nicely done; very nicely indeed! An excellent beginning!”She folded up the garment as she spoke, and with a swift movement placed it at the bottom of a pile. Not for a contribution towards the Organ Fund would she have betrayed the fact that Grizel had sewed a leg seam to a sleeve!From all sections of the community Grizel Beverley was sure of a welcome, and on the afternoon of the bulb party she had a special reason for being her most charming self, a reason which she had found in the weariness of Cassandra’s eyes. The two friends had descended the terrace steps together, but had separated at the bottom, the hostess to talk to as many of her guests as possible before they adjourned to the house for tea. Cassandra was conscious that each group stiffened into attention at her approach, and that natural manners suffered an eclipse while she was present. Invariably the same stereotyped remarks were repeated. “How large the hyacinths are this year. How charming the blue squills look against the bright yellow of the daffodils. The hepaticas are finer than ever... How very early for iris!”Cassandra sighed. Eight years had she lived among these people, yet she remained the merest acquaintance, while Grizel Beverley was already a friend. A month ago she had been proudly indifferent to her own unpopularity, but to-day it hurt. She was so overwhelmingly lonely that a craving was upon her for human companionship which in some measure might rill the void. She moved about from one group of guests to another, always skilfully turning in an opposite direction when she caught sight of a fair girl in a blue dress, accompanied by a tall man in grey; until presently, with the feeling of reaching a haven, she found herself alone with the Vicar’s wife.Mrs Evans looked with concern upon the small, brilliantly coloured face under the fashionable 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 Cassandra’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, Cassandra?”“I think so. Why? Don’t I look well?” Cassandra 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 alwaysex 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:“Ididfind it a trial in early years. Of late the trial has come to me in another fashion. I am perhaps a little too ready to enjoy the importance of my position.”Cassandra’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 youdomanage 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, Cassandra?”“Don’t you?”“I am quite sure there are not.”Cassandra 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, Cassandra,” 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.”Cassandra 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 sunshine, who, like fortunate Grizel, was endowed with the gift of happiness.“All of them?” cried Cassandra 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 Cassandra 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 thereisan unattainable. There are not many women so fortunate as you, Cassandra!”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 passable, 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 snobbishness in Mrs Evans’s nature invested Cassandra’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.Cassandra 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, Cassandra 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—”Cassandra straightened herself hastily. The flower-beds with their blaze of colour whizzed round in kaleidoscopic fashion before her eyes. She felt very cold, and faint. Grizel’s voice sounded a long way off, speaking with a studied distinctness.“Aslightaccident! Only his ankle. He was doing something in the rockery, clambering over the big stones, and one turned over... The Squire sent for an old Bath chair in the stables, and he has been wheeled into the plant room. There is a terrific discussion going on as to what next. Can’t you come and take awaysomeof Mrs Mallison?”Cassandra turned homeward without a word, the Squire walking by her side, waving his hands in excitement.“She wants to drag him home with her in that shandrydan! Says he’ll be lonely at home, and would have Teresa. Hang Teresa! There’s a time for all things,—a man can’t be bothered with love-making when his foot is giving him blue lightnings. Shake him to pieces driving over those roads! Jevons can get him to bed here, and look after him properly. I’ll wire to that Swedish fellow to come down, and he’ll have him on his feet in two or three days. We’ll put him in the blue room, next to the Den, and he can wheel in on a sofa to-morrow. Now back me up!”“What does Captain Peignton say? It is he who must decide. He may prefer—”“Oh, rats!” The Squire waved impatiently. “He won’t prefer. What man would? Teresa’s a fine girl, but that mother is the limit. She’d drive Peignton daft, mewed up in that little house. I know what I’m talking about,—what you’ve got to do is to back me up! You’re always so deuced ready with objections. He’s hurt himself here, and he’s going to stay here till he’s better. I’ve made up my mind.”The Squire stormed on, repeating the same things over and over again until the house was reached, and he led the way through a doorway level with the ground into a large, bare room furnished with a couple of chairs, a few cupboards, and a long central table. It was a room used by the gardeners for the arrangement of flowers for the house, and had been chosen on the present occasion as offering the easiest access to the Bath chair. Cassandra’s eyes darted past a group of female figures and rested on Peignton’s face, pale and drawn, though resolutely composed. The realisation that he was suffering put an end to hesitation, and she swept forward, ignoring an opening chorus of explanations, and said firmly:“His foot ought to be raised. It ought to be bathed at once. The shoe must be cut off.”Mrs Mallison was loud in assent.“I said so, Lady Cassandra; I said so! I’ve been talking to him for the last ten minutes.Follyto waste time! The trap is in the stable, and we could be home in half an hour. I want to take him home with me, Lady Cassandra. The best thing, isn’t it? So dull for a man with a sprained ankle,... but he’d have Teresa. Teresa would amuse him. Do let me order the trap!”“My dear madam, it’s madness. The poor beggar can’t stand a drive. He’d better get off to bed upstairs, and I’ll wire for the Swedish fellow who put me to rights last year. My man knows how to start operations, and he can begin right away. Marvellous how those Swedes treat sprains! I was laid up a solid six weeks with the same ankle ten years ago under a country G.P. Sprained it again last year, and called in this masseur fellow, and in four days—”The Squire was safely launched on a favourite story, staring from one feminine hearer to the other, demanding full attention. Cassandra turned her head and looked steadily at Dane. She meant that look to be a question, and the question received its answer. If ever a man’s eyes expressed appeal, Dane’s expressed it at that moment. With all the intensity which eyes could express, he threw himself at her mercy.“I think,” said Cassandra clearly, “Captain Peignton had better stay. It will be quicker in the end. Teresa must come up and amuse him here.” She laid her hand on the girl’s arm with a kindly pressure. “You will stay and look after him now, till my husband finds Jevons. There is an old carrying chair in the box-room, which will get over the difficulty of the stairs. Mrs Mallison! shall we lead the way to tea?”The next moment the room was empty save for the engaged pair. Teresa knew that the opportunity had been made, and knew that she ought to be grateful, but she was anxious and miserable, and more than a little wounded by her lover’s unwillingness to accept her mother’s invitation.“I should havelikedto nurse you, Dane!” she said reproachfully, and Dane pressed his lips in a spasm of pain, and rejoined quietly:“I know, dear. Thank you, but it’s better as it is. I’ll be confoundedly glad to get this shoe off, and try what sponging will do. You’ll come up?”“Oh, yes!” Teresa said. She leant against the side of the Bath chair, and held out a tentative hand. “I wish it had been me! I’d rather bear it myself a dozen times. Itwillhelp you, won’t it, Dane, if I come and sit beside you? If I were ill, I’d want more than anything else just to see your face!”“Bless you, Teresa! You’re a dear girl,” Dane said, smiling, but his eyes wandered wistfully to the doorway. The Squire was right. A man in pain has no zest for love-making. A woman would welcome it with her dying breath.

The bulb party pursued its inevitable course. The guests arrived in little groups of three and and four, entered the house at the front and made their painful way along highly polished corridors, to a door leading on to the terrace, where Cassandra stood waiting to receive them. Here it was the orthodox thing to intercept greetings with ejaculatory exclamations of admiration at the beauty of the floral display, which being done the visitors descended the stone steps, and roamed to and fro, picking up other friendsen route. At times the pitiful sun shone out, and then the Chumley matrons unloosed the feather boas which were an inevitable accessory of their toilettes, and confided in one another that it was “quite balmy,” and anon it retired behind a cloud, and gave place to an east wind which came whirling round unexpected comers, sharp and keen as a knife. Then the matrons thought wistfully of the bountifully spread tea tables which they had discerned through the windows on the terrace, and consulted watch bracelets to see how soon they could hope for relief. There were at least ten women present to every man, and entirely feminine groups were to be seen wandering round from one garden to another, for an hour on end, growing ever chillier and more pinched, yet laboriously keeping up an air of enjoyment.

Grizel Beverley was the latest guest to appear, having made a compromise with the weather by donning a white dress with a bodice so diaphanous that Martin had informed her he could see her “thoughts,” the which she had covered with a sable coat. When the sun shone, she threw open the coat, and looked a very incarnation of spring, so white and lacy and daintily exquisite, that coloured costumes became prosaic in contrast. When the wind blew, she turned up her big storm collar and peered out between the upstanding points, so snug and smooth and unwrinkled that the pinched faces above the feather boas appeared doubly wan and miserable. Feminine Chumley felt it a little hard to be beaten in both events, but bore it the more complacently since it was the bride who was the victor. There was no doubt about it,—Grizel was a success, and already, after but a few months’ residence, Chumley was at her feet. She was sometimes “shocking,” of course, but as she herself had predicted, the sober townspeople took a fearsome pleasure in her extravagances. They were as a dash of cayenne, which lent a flavour to the fare of daily life. Moreover, though welcomed with open arms by the county, Grizel was on most intimate terms with the town. Invitations to afternoon festivities received unfailing acceptance; she made extensive toilettes in honour of the occasion, ate appreciative teas, and groaned aloud when she failed to win a prize of the value of half a crown. Anything more “pleasant” could not be imagined!

In the more serious rôle of parish work also, Grizel had made her début. The Mothers’ Meeting was still waiting time, but one afternoon she had slipped a little gold thimble and a pair of scissors with mother-of-pearl handles into a vanity-bag, and taken her way to a Dorcas meeting at the Vicarage, agreeably expectant of adding a new experience to life.

The Dorcas meeting was held in the dining-room of the Vicarage, on the long table of which lay formidable piles of calico and flannel. At a second small table the churchwarden’s wife turned the handle of a particularly unmelodious sewing machine. Over a dozen women sat round the room still wearing their bonnets, but denuded of coats and mantles, and balancing upon their knees some future garment for the poor, at which they sewed with long, rhythmic stitches. They were assembled together in a holy cause, and under the more or less holy roof of the Vicar himself, yet the observant eye could have discerned as much hidden worldliness in that room as in the most fashionable assembly. At a Dorcas meeting everyone was welcome, the wives of tradesmen as well as representatives of the professional and learned classes. It was difficult to keep up the numbers, and since social engagements were less frequent in the former class, its members were able to give more regular attendance. The grocer’s wife was a cutter-out with whom no other member could compete. She stood at one end of the long table with a length of calico spread out before her, and a pair of gigantic scissors in her hand. As she cut still further and further into the material, she leant forward over the table, and automatically her left leg swung out,—a stout, merino-stockinged leg, terminating in a laced leather boot. All the members came to her for instructions, and all of them were agreeable and friendly in manner, but when the cutting process was over, she retired to a corner of the room where were congregated a few of her own friends. The two classes never mixed.

Grizel took the work presented to her,—a full-sized garment of mysterious intent,—and glanced in questioning fashion round the room. The tradesmen’s wives who had been eagerly drinking in the details of her costume, immediately lowered their eyes to their seams, but from every other face beamed a message of invitation. Grizel beamed back, but continued her scrutiny, till finally in the furthermost corner she discovered the figure of that lonely parishioner who was neither fish, flesh, nor good red herring,—Miss Bruce, the retired plumber’s daughter, to whom she had introduced herself at the church decorations. She waved her bag with a smile of recognition, and carried a chair to the corner.

It was not the first time that Chumley had noticed the extraordinary intimacy between Mrs Martin Beverley and “poor Miss Bruce.” They had been seen driving together in the country; Grizel’s car—a wedding present from one of the relatives who had benefited by her marriage—had been observed more than once waiting outside the cottage with the green porch, and the little maid had divulged consequentially that the lady “dropped in now and then, to play cribbage with the missis.” The Chumley matrons were not in the least inclined to follow the lead, and call upon the plumber’s daughter, neither, to tell the truth, did Miss Bruce desire their attentions. She now looked down upon the town, and cherished sneaking ambitions after the county. She gave herself airs, and bought an aigrette for her Sunday bonnet. It is doubtful whether her character was improved by being singled out for such special attention, but at least she was happy, and happiness had been a chary visitor in her life.

“This is the first, the very first Dorcas meeting I have ever been to in all my life,” announced Grizel, smiling. “And d’you know I believe it’s my first introduction to calico. This is calico, isn’t it? Funny smell! I rather like the smell. Do people really use it for undies? Rather,—just a little—gritty,—don’t you think?”

“Personally,” Miss Bruce said primly, “I do not use calico. Not that thread, Mrs Beverley! It’s too fine. Let me give you a length... What has Mrs Thompson given you to make?”

Grizel made a feint of unrolling the calico under cover of an upraised arm.

“I shouldn’t wish it mentioned in society,—but it’s a comby! A comby for a giant, or for a fat woman at a show.Lookat the waist width! and I don’t believe she’ll ever be so long from the waist to the shoulder. It will bag over her corsets, and make her back round. Couldn’t I take out a reef in the waist, and join it again with a bit of embroidery?”

“We don’t put embroidery on Dorcas garments.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“Not the teeniest bit? Even at the top?”

“Never; but the bands are feather-stitched round the neck.”

Grizel adopted an air of severity.

“I call it immoral. I shall speak to the Vicar. No woman can be self-respecting in a calico band!... Well! can I cut out a piece and join it to itself? Its against my principles to let it bag.”

“Mrs Beverley, it won’t bag! It might with you. That’s different. Of course if it were for you—”

Grizel’s eyes opened in a round-eyed stare.

“Aren’t they the same shape as I am?”

Miss Bruce made an unexpected answer. She looked the bride over, taking in the graceful lines of the beautiful body which had the slightness of a fay, an almost incredible slightness, but which was yet so rounded and supple that by no possibility could it have been called thin... She looked, and she shook her head.

“No, Mrs Beverley,” she said firmly. “They are not.”

Grizel sewed industriously all afternoon, and on departing exhibited an exquisitely neat seam for Mrs Evans’s inspection.

“Never say I can’t sew!” she said complacently. “This afternoon has taken me back to my childhood, when I used to hem handkerchiefs and bits of finger at the same time.” She pointed dramatically to a small red stain in the middle of the seam. “In more ways than one. Human gore! Isn’t it piteous?”

Mrs Evans threw a protesting glance.

“My dear! What language!... Very nicely done; very nicely indeed! An excellent beginning!”

She folded up the garment as she spoke, and with a swift movement placed it at the bottom of a pile. Not for a contribution towards the Organ Fund would she have betrayed the fact that Grizel had sewed a leg seam to a sleeve!

From all sections of the community Grizel Beverley was sure of a welcome, and on the afternoon of the bulb party she had a special reason for being her most charming self, a reason which she had found in the weariness of Cassandra’s eyes. The two friends had descended the terrace steps together, but had separated at the bottom, the hostess to talk to as many of her guests as possible before they adjourned to the house for tea. Cassandra was conscious that each group stiffened into attention at her approach, and that natural manners suffered an eclipse while she was present. Invariably the same stereotyped remarks were repeated. “How large the hyacinths are this year. How charming the blue squills look against the bright yellow of the daffodils. The hepaticas are finer than ever... How very early for iris!”

Cassandra sighed. Eight years had she lived among these people, yet she remained the merest acquaintance, while Grizel Beverley was already a friend. A month ago she had been proudly indifferent to her own unpopularity, but to-day it hurt. She was so overwhelmingly lonely that a craving was upon her for human companionship which in some measure might rill the void. She moved about from one group of guests to another, always skilfully turning in an opposite direction when she caught sight of a fair girl in a blue dress, accompanied by a tall man in grey; until presently, with the feeling of reaching a haven, she found herself alone with the Vicar’s wife.

Mrs Evans looked with concern upon the small, brilliantly coloured face under the fashionable 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 Cassandra’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, Cassandra?”

“I think so. Why? Don’t I look well?” Cassandra 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 alwaysex 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:

“Ididfind it a trial in early years. Of late the trial has come to me in another fashion. I am perhaps a little too ready to enjoy the importance of my position.”

Cassandra’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 youdomanage 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, Cassandra?”

“Don’t you?”

“I am quite sure there are not.”

Cassandra 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, Cassandra,” 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.”

Cassandra 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 sunshine, who, like fortunate Grizel, was endowed with the gift of happiness.

“All of them?” cried Cassandra 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 Cassandra 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 thereisan unattainable. There are not many women so fortunate as you, Cassandra!”

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 passable, 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 snobbishness in Mrs Evans’s nature invested Cassandra’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.

Cassandra 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, Cassandra 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—”

Cassandra straightened herself hastily. The flower-beds with their blaze of colour whizzed round in kaleidoscopic fashion before her eyes. She felt very cold, and faint. Grizel’s voice sounded a long way off, speaking with a studied distinctness.

“Aslightaccident! Only his ankle. He was doing something in the rockery, clambering over the big stones, and one turned over... The Squire sent for an old Bath chair in the stables, and he has been wheeled into the plant room. There is a terrific discussion going on as to what next. Can’t you come and take awaysomeof Mrs Mallison?”

Cassandra turned homeward without a word, the Squire walking by her side, waving his hands in excitement.

“She wants to drag him home with her in that shandrydan! Says he’ll be lonely at home, and would have Teresa. Hang Teresa! There’s a time for all things,—a man can’t be bothered with love-making when his foot is giving him blue lightnings. Shake him to pieces driving over those roads! Jevons can get him to bed here, and look after him properly. I’ll wire to that Swedish fellow to come down, and he’ll have him on his feet in two or three days. We’ll put him in the blue room, next to the Den, and he can wheel in on a sofa to-morrow. Now back me up!”

“What does Captain Peignton say? It is he who must decide. He may prefer—”

“Oh, rats!” The Squire waved impatiently. “He won’t prefer. What man would? Teresa’s a fine girl, but that mother is the limit. She’d drive Peignton daft, mewed up in that little house. I know what I’m talking about,—what you’ve got to do is to back me up! You’re always so deuced ready with objections. He’s hurt himself here, and he’s going to stay here till he’s better. I’ve made up my mind.”

The Squire stormed on, repeating the same things over and over again until the house was reached, and he led the way through a doorway level with the ground into a large, bare room furnished with a couple of chairs, a few cupboards, and a long central table. It was a room used by the gardeners for the arrangement of flowers for the house, and had been chosen on the present occasion as offering the easiest access to the Bath chair. Cassandra’s eyes darted past a group of female figures and rested on Peignton’s face, pale and drawn, though resolutely composed. The realisation that he was suffering put an end to hesitation, and she swept forward, ignoring an opening chorus of explanations, and said firmly:

“His foot ought to be raised. It ought to be bathed at once. The shoe must be cut off.”

Mrs Mallison was loud in assent.

“I said so, Lady Cassandra; I said so! I’ve been talking to him for the last ten minutes.Follyto waste time! The trap is in the stable, and we could be home in half an hour. I want to take him home with me, Lady Cassandra. The best thing, isn’t it? So dull for a man with a sprained ankle,... but he’d have Teresa. Teresa would amuse him. Do let me order the trap!”

“My dear madam, it’s madness. The poor beggar can’t stand a drive. He’d better get off to bed upstairs, and I’ll wire for the Swedish fellow who put me to rights last year. My man knows how to start operations, and he can begin right away. Marvellous how those Swedes treat sprains! I was laid up a solid six weeks with the same ankle ten years ago under a country G.P. Sprained it again last year, and called in this masseur fellow, and in four days—”

The Squire was safely launched on a favourite story, staring from one feminine hearer to the other, demanding full attention. Cassandra turned her head and looked steadily at Dane. She meant that look to be a question, and the question received its answer. If ever a man’s eyes expressed appeal, Dane’s expressed it at that moment. With all the intensity which eyes could express, he threw himself at her mercy.

“I think,” said Cassandra clearly, “Captain Peignton had better stay. It will be quicker in the end. Teresa must come up and amuse him here.” She laid her hand on the girl’s arm with a kindly pressure. “You will stay and look after him now, till my husband finds Jevons. There is an old carrying chair in the box-room, which will get over the difficulty of the stairs. Mrs Mallison! shall we lead the way to tea?”

The next moment the room was empty save for the engaged pair. Teresa knew that the opportunity had been made, and knew that she ought to be grateful, but she was anxious and miserable, and more than a little wounded by her lover’s unwillingness to accept her mother’s invitation.

“I should havelikedto nurse you, Dane!” she said reproachfully, and Dane pressed his lips in a spasm of pain, and rejoined quietly:

“I know, dear. Thank you, but it’s better as it is. I’ll be confoundedly glad to get this shoe off, and try what sponging will do. You’ll come up?”

“Oh, yes!” Teresa said. She leant against the side of the Bath chair, and held out a tentative hand. “I wish it had been me! I’d rather bear it myself a dozen times. Itwillhelp you, won’t it, Dane, if I come and sit beside you? If I were ill, I’d want more than anything else just to see your face!”

“Bless you, Teresa! You’re a dear girl,” Dane said, smiling, but his eyes wandered wistfully to the doorway. The Squire was right. A man in pain has no zest for love-making. A woman would welcome it with her dying breath.

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