Lady Cassandra Part 12

"But your conscience? The Nonconformist conscience? Are you sure you could enjoy--?"

"She's your visitor, not mine. I have no scruples. Only give me the chance!"

"On your head be it!" cried Ca.s.sandra, and bending low, darted between the shrubs towards a winding path which led in the opposite direction from the house. Peignton followed with eager steps.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

THE SKIRTS OF CHANCE.

Now that Lent was over dinner parties came on with a rush, started, as was only discreet, with a state gathering at the Court, when the county was invited to welcome the bride. The Vicar and his wife were the sole representatives of Chumley proper, but Dane Peignton was in request, as an odd man is bound to be in the countryside.

"It will be deadly dull," Ca.s.sandra had warned her friend, "but it has to be done. Brace up, and go through it bravely, and if you don't like it you need never try again."

"I won't," Grizel said frankly. "A duty is a duty, and has to be done whether you like it or not, but I choose my pleasures to suit myself.

If I'm amused I'll go,--if I'm not, all the saddles of mutton in the world won't tempt me. It always amuses me to be with you, my dear, but judging from the specimens I've already seen, it's a very, very heavy county. The women are heavy in the afternoon. I tremble to think of what they must be in the drawing-room after dinner. Could I do anything to jolt them up? Put on a black gown, or do a little skirt dancing, or tell stories? I could tell some awakening stories!"

But Ca.s.sandra shook her head and issued her orders.

"You are to wear your wedding dress, and behave yourself like a sweet young bride, and do credit to yourself, and to me, and to your husband's books! When you go to Rome, do as the Romans do."

When the night of the dinner arrived the sweet young bride repaired to her husband's dressing-room _en route_ from the bathroom to her own apartment, and squatted on the floor to watch _him_ shave, with her white gown wrapped around a foam of lacey under-garments, and her white shoes kicked off on to the rug. She looked young, and fresh, and blooming, and brought with her a delicious odour of violets, and it appeared to afford her intense satisfaction to watch Martin lather his chin, and twist it from side to side for the convenience of the safety razor.

"Darling, you _do_ look plain! I love you dreadfully when I see you shave. All that trouble to spare me a beard! ... Don't cut yourself, like a precious. I do so object to bits of cotton-wool... Doesn't it feel nice and married to have me sitting here, watching you, in my bare tootsies, and knowing that even the Vicaress herself could not object?

She'll be there to-night, you know. What will she wear?--A black satin, cut in a V, with a pendant of agate, and a cap with an aigrette. Dear thing! I must remember to enquire for the Mothers' Meeting."

Martin, his chin violently undulating, murmured a word which was evidently of a warning nature, but Grizel took no notice. Her hands were clasped round her knees, she was smiling, in a soft reflective fas.h.i.+on.

"No," she said slowly, "no! this first year must be just for ourselves.--I am so thankful that Katrine is away and so happy, for our own sakes, as well as her own. I am thankful there are no other near relatives to trouble about. I don't want _Anyone_ to come between us this first year, not even--that! A year or two alone together we must have, and then,--we'll pray for twins!"

Martin's sureness of hand alone saved him from the necessity of cotton-wool. He turned round, smiling, lathered, twinkling with humour.

"Why be so greedy? Surely _one_--"

"No, no--two would be twice as nice. You get on so slowly with one at a time." She bent her head still lower, so that her chin rested upon her knees; her golden eyes stared into s.p.a.ce, her shoulders heaved with a regretful sigh. "No," she said at last, "no! I suppose it would not do. Triplets _are_ vulgar, but oh, Martin, think of it!--_three_ ducks, all in a row, each with its long white tail, and its little ribbons round its wrists, and its little gold sovereign hanging round its neck... The Queen's Bounty! And oh, Martin, think, think! what an advertis.e.m.e.nt for your books... It would be in all the papers. 'Mrs Martin Beverley, wife of the well-known novelist, yesterday became the mother of three daughters. (They must be daughters!) Later enquiries at the house elicited the news that the mother and family were all doing well.'"

"Really, Grizel! really!" cried Martin, protesting. "You make me blush."

"Oh, well!" Grizel sighed, and rose to her feet in one swift, astonis.h.i.+ngly agile movement. "Bear up. There's no use getting agitated before the time. It might be only twins!"

She strolled out of the room, and seating herself on the chair before her own mirror, gave herself into the hands of the waiting maid.

"Now then, Marie, make me look like a sweet young bride."

Marie looked complacent. It was easy to obey that order, since her mistress was radiant with beauty and happiness, and there lay waiting on the bed a gown, which looked as if it had been blown straight out of a fairy tale for her adornment. The ordinary white satin was far too dull and substantial to have a place in its concoction. It was a ma.s.s of cobweb lace of extraordinary antiquity and frailness, mounted on a lining of silver gauze. The fine folds accentuated the reed-like slimness of Grizel's figure, the misty indefiniteness of shading suited to a marvel the small face, with its white cheeks and amber eyes, that face which was at once so colourless, and so aglow. Marie looking at the reflection in the mirror, pushed aside the cases of jewels, and lifting a piece of tulle swathed it lightly round her mistress' head, allowing one long end to flow down the back. It was unconventional, it was daring, but the effect was irresistible, and Marie stood aside heaving a sigh of triumph.

"No jewels. Only the gauze. In effect--a veil!"

So it came to pa.s.s that when Mr and Mrs Beverley made their entrance into the great drawing-room of the _Court_, there came to one and all of the a.s.sembled guests the impression of a creature half human, half fairy, poised midway between heaven and earth, aglow with that absolute, unshadowed happiness, which is seldom given to mortals to see or to enjoy. It was indeed the primitive note in Grizel's temperament, which made such a condition possible. The least introspective of mortals, she accepted happiness as manna from heaven, throve on to-day's supply, and confidently expected the morrow's supply. The minor trials, which would have dimmed the rapture of another bride, p.r.i.c.ked her for the moment, and were then cast aside, and dismissed from thought, as completely as though they had never existed. There were occasions when such abstraction brought about material _contretemps_, but of the mental lightening there could be no doubt.

Everyone in the room received the same impression of radiance as the bride entered, but on the different minds the impression acted differently. The Vicar's wife, clad as had been foretold, in black satin and aigretted cap, but showing a pendant of cameo, instead of agate, on the discreet decolletage, felt a sudden unreasoning disposition towards tears, and the good man, her husband, breathed a mental "G.o.d keep her!" but the Hon. Mrs Mawson was distinctly shocked.

She was the Evangelical magnate whose religion seemed largely to consist in disapproving of other people's enjoyments, and the bride's obtrusive happiness appeared to her as a deliberate "tempting of Providence."

Moreover, she disapproved of the costume as theatrical and unusual. Why not satin, like everybody else? And no jewels! The niece of Lady Griselda Dundas must possess jewels of price. Then why that bare neck?

Mrs Mawson was wearing her own rubies, and took it as a personal slight that the bride had come to meet her unadorned.

Midway between the two extremes flowed the general verdict, but Grizel was blissfully unconscious of criticism. She went through the necessary greetings of acquaintances, among whom she was surprised to recognise Teresa Mallison, and then exchanged a few words with her hostess before leading the way to dinner on the Squire's arm.

Ca.s.sandra looked as usual, both tired and vivid; she gave a caressing pressure to her friend's elbow, and murmured softly:

"Exquisite. About eighteen! ... Talk hard, Grizel, for pity's sake-- talk hard! The atmosphere is freezing. At the last moment Mona Fenchurch sent a wire. Flue. I had to send for Teresa. She's so good about filling gaps."

"Oh, well!" Grizel said significantly. Of course Teresa was delighted to come, especially when by good luck it was Peignton's predestined partner who had fallen out! She stood by his side now--flushed, silent, a trifle gauche, for it was something of an ordeal to meet the people who politely ignored her existence in the life of the neighbourhood.

Grizel divined something of the cause of the girl's embarra.s.sment, and sent her a smile of beaming friendliness. Well! all had turned out for the best. n.o.body wanted Mona Fenchurch for the pleasure of her company, and her absence had paved the way to a lovers' meeting. Captain Peignton looked supremely content, and how sensible of the girl to stick to blue!

Teresa, however, was not at all self-congratulatory on the subject of her gown. If she had had a day's notice,--even half a day, she could have dashed up to town, and equipped herself in something newer, and more worthy of the occasion. She was miserably conscious that the blue dress was past its freshness, and had already paid several visits to the Court.

The dinner which followed was lengthy and stately. It was also undeniably dull! At one end of the table Grizel chatted and leant her elbows on the table, and kept the Squire in complacent chuckles of laughter, but their gaiety, instead of spreading, seemed to throw into greater contrast the forced conversations of the other guests. With the exception of Teresa Mallison they were all elderly people, who had driven over many miles of country to perform a social duty, and neither expected nor received any pleasure in its execution. They all knew each other, met at intervals, and discoursed together on the same well-worn topics. Lady Rose talked garden, and was an expert on bulbs. Sir George Everley, her partner, described all bulbs vaguely as daffodils, lived simply and solely for "huntin'," and would in all probability die for it another day. The Vicar's partner lived for bridge, and his wife had fallen to the share of an old general who looked upon food and drink as the events of the moment, and had no intention of losing a good chance. Long years of dining out had made him an expert at the game of starting his partner on a hobby during an interval between courses, and then giving her her head until the next stop. "Well! and what is the latest good work in the parish, Mrs Evans, eh, what?" he enquired genially, as he waited the advent of fish, and then with the help of a, "Did you though? G.o.d bless my soul! Pine work! fine work!" he was left free to enjoy his fare, and make mental notes on the flavouring of the sauce, until such time as he had leisure to give Mrs Evans another lead on the vexed question of the choir.

Lord Kew sat on Ca.s.sandra's left side, and threw depressed crumbs of conversation to his companion, the stout wife of the huntin' squire. It was said of Lord Kew that he could not talk for five minutes together without bringing in the German invasion, and his conviction that England was galloping headlong to the dogs. He prophesied as much to the squire's wife in less than the prescribed time, and she said that "something ought to be done," and seizing on the word "dog" introduced to his notice her two pet Chows. From time to time also Ca.s.sandra helped her along with a few words, leaving Martin to make the acquaintance of his right-hand neighbour, who had heard of his books, and really must get them from the library. "Do you write under your own name?"

Teresa sat like a poker, still and silent, vouchsafing monosyllabic replies to the formalities of a county magnate, about whom she knew everything, but who had got it firmly impressed into his sluggish brain that she was someone else, and accordingly insisted upon referring to people and incidents of whom she had never heard. Now and then came a happy moment when Peignton gave her his attention, and smiled encouragement into her eyes, but he was working hard to rouse a chilly lady to animation, and even on occasion throwing an occasional bold challenge across the table, where a couple seemed settling down into permanent silence.

Teresa had the impression that Dane was putting aside his own amus.e.m.e.nt as something entirely subservient to the general good. It was almost as though he felt a responsibility, and was working for a reward. She never suspected that the reward came more than once in a glance from Ca.s.sandra's eyes, and a smile of appreciation flashed down the length of table. Ca.s.sandra's head and neck rose above the banked-up flowers, her cheeks were flushed, the stars of emeralds on her throat sent out green flames of light, she looked brilliant and beautiful, a fitting chatelaine for the stately old house, but it was not her beauty which appealed to Peignton's heart; it was the subtle _want_ which mysteriously he felt able to supply. He did not trouble himself to enquire into the nature of this strong mutual sympathy, for he was a practical man accustomed to do the next thing, and not trouble about the future.

To-night Ca.s.sandra was a hostess struggling with an unusually depressing set of guests, and he expended himself to help her. Looking up the length of table, Grizel's face was like a flowering shrub in an avenue of cedars. Peignton looked at her and felt a pang of something like anger. _She_ was content enough! She had everything she wanted.

Things were cursedly unfair...

In the drawing-room Grizel as the bride was handed round for five-minute conversations, and being in an amiable mood exerted herself to be all things to all women. She talked "huntin'" and she talked bridge, she asked advice concerning her garden, she listened sweetly to details of May Meetings, and vouchsafed copious and entirely untrue descriptions of an author at home; only with the Vicar's wife did she allow herself the privilege of being natural, and saying what she really meant.

Mrs Evans was elderly and stout, parochial and intensely proper.

Grizel was young and unconventional to an extreme, yet beneath the dissimilarity there existed a sympathy between the two women which both divined, and both failed equally to understand.

Grizel knew that Mrs Evans's brain viewed her with suspicion, but she was complacently aware that Mrs Evans's heart was not in sympathy with her brain. Was it not exactly the same in her own case? Mentally she had p.r.o.nounced the Vicar's wife a parochial bore, the type of middle-aged orthodox, prudish woman whom her soul abhorred, but, as a matter of fact, she did not abhor her at all, for the eyes of the soul saw down beneath the stiffness and the propriety, and recognised a connecting link.

"If I were in trouble, I'd like to put my head down on her nice broad shoulder, and,--she'd like to have me there!"

"Well!" cried Grizel, sinking down in a soft little swirl of lace and silver by the side of the chair which held the portly black satin form, and resting one little hand on its arm with a gesture of half-caressing intimacy. "Well! Are the Mothers still meeting?"

Mrs Evans preened herself, and did her honest best to look distressed.

"My dear, I am afraid you _mean_ to be naughty!"

Grizel nodded cheerily.

"I do... Aren't you glad? It's no use pretending to be shocked. You have a whole parish-full of proper people who do what they ought, and say what they should, and I come in as a refres.h.i.+ng change. Besides, I really mean quite well! Who knows,--after half a dozen years of Chumley influence, I may be as douce and staid as any one of them!"

At this point the obvious thing for Mrs Evans to do was plainly to express a hope such might be the case; she knew it, and opened her mouth to utter the aspiration, but as she did so she inclined her head to look down into the dimpling radiance of the bride's face, and once again her heart softened, and she felt that mysterious p.r.i.c.king at the back of her eyes.