Lady Ca.s.sandra.

by Mrs George de Horne Vaizey.

CHAPTER ONE.

A MATRIMONIAL HURDLE.

Ca.s.sandra Raynor stood on the terrace of her great house, looking over the sweep of country stretching to right and left, and in her heart was the deadliest of all weariness,--the weariness of repletion. It seemed at that moment the bitterest cross that she had nothing left for which to wish, that everything good which the world could give was hers already, and had left her cold.

The stately old house was hers, with its treasures of old-world furnishings, the same furnishings which had ministered to generations dead and gone, and would minister to others yet to come. It would have been considered sacrilege to stamp the individuality of the chatelaine of an hour on those historic halls. The distant stretch of country was part of her estate, but the sight of it brought no thrill to Ca.s.sandra's veins. Her jaded eyes had wearied of the familiar landscape, as they had wearied of the interior of the house, in which she seemed more a tenant than a mistress.

Ca.s.sandra wandered idly to and fro, obsequiously shadowed by obsequious servants, and wondered what it would feel like to live in a semi-detached villa, and arrange one's own rooms in one's own way, and frill pink silk curtains, and festoon lamp shades, and run to the door to meet a husband returning from the City. She herself had never run to meet Bernard. If she had once begun that sort of thing, she might have been running all day long, for he was always in and out. She wondered what it would feel like to have a husband who disappeared regularly at nine a.m., and returned at seven. One might be quite glad to see him!

Ca.s.sandra had done her duty to the family by producing a healthy male child within eighteen months of her marriage. So sorely had she suffered in giving birth to her son that there was no hope of a second child to bear him company, but there had been no regret nor self-pity in her mother's heart during those first hours in which he lay, red and crumpled, within her arms. Never while she lived could Ca.s.sandra forget the rest, the thankfulness, the deep, uplifted joy of those hours. It had seemed to her then that with the coming of the child all gaps must be filled, and all the poverty of life be turned into gold. But... was it her own fault, or the fault of circ.u.mstances which had brought about the disillusionment? It had been difficult to believe that the stolid, well-behaved young person, who walked abroad between two white-robed nurses, spoke when he was spoken to, and tucked his feeder carefully beneath his chin, was really her own child, bone of her bone, flesh of her flesh; the wonder child of whom she had dreamt such dreams.

Ca.s.sandra had known nothing of babies; Mrs Mason, the head nurse, knew everything, and Bernard was tenacious of the safety of his heir. He thought it a pity for his wife to "interfere," and said as much with his usual frankness. He did not approve of young children being in evidence, and discouraged the boy's appearance downstairs. At an unusually early age also he selected a preparatory school at the far end of the county, and henceforth Bernard the younger visited home for the holidays only, and was no longer a member of the household proper.

Ca.s.sandra loved him, but,--she had wanted to love him so much more! In those first hours she had imagined a bond of union so strong and tender that the commonplaces of the reality could not fail to be a disappointment. Bernard was a dutiful boy, a sensible boy, a boy who brought home satisfactory reports; he considered the Mater a good sort, and appreciated her generosity. Her affection he endured, her tenderness he would have abhorred, but it was as difficult to be tender to Bernard the son, as to Bernard the father. Ca.s.sandra had abandoned the attempt.

And, socially speaking, the Court was situated in a hopeless part of the county. The other two big places in the neighbourhood were occupied, the one by an objectionable _nouveau riche_, and the other by an elderly couple of such strong evangelical tendencies that they disapproved of everything which other people enjoyed. There were, it is true, a few pleasant families at the other side of the county, but though they could be counted upon for state occasions, the intervening miles forbade anything like easy, everyday intimacy. In autumn the Raynors entertained a succession of guests for the shooting, but for the rest of the year Bernard discouraged house parties. He was bored by Ca.s.sandra's friends, she was bored by his, the guests were mutually bored by each other, what then was the use of going to trouble and expense?

As for Chumley, the nearest small township, a mile or less from the nearest gate of the Court, from Ca.s.sandra's point of view "No-one" lived there--literally no one, but a few dull, suburban families who gave afternoon tea parties, gossiped about their neighbours, and wore impossible clothes. Ca.s.sandra maintained that there was not a creature in Chumley worth knowing, but Bernard said that was nonsense, there must be some decent women among them, if she would only be decent in return!

Ca.s.sandra maintained that she was decent; she called on them sometimes, and she asked them to garden parties. One could do no more.

Ca.s.sandra had been married ten years, and would be thirty on her next birthday. When one was a girl it had seemed so impossibly dull to be thirty. And it was; Ca.s.sandra thought it would be vastly more agreeable to be forty, at once, and be done with it. At forty, one began to grow stout and grey, to lie down in the afternoon, and feel interested in committee meetings, and societies, and other people's business. At thirty, one was still so painfully interested in oneself!

At forty, one _was_ old, looked it, felt it, acknowledged it with body and mind... but at thirty, it was difficult to be consistently discreet.

At thirty, one _knew_ one was old; with the brain one knew it, but it was impossible to live consistently up to the knowledge. There were moments when one felt so extraordinarily, so incredibly young, moments when the mirror, instead of crying shame on such folly, backed one up in delusion, and gave back the reflection of a girl!

Ca.s.sandra thanked Providence daily for her eyes, her hair, her straight back, and the dimple in her chin. Viewed in full, her face was a charming oval; taken in halves it supplied two admirable profiles. The nose leant a trifle to the left, so that was the side on which she chose to be photographed and on which she bestowed the prettiest side of her hats. Ca.s.sandra and the mirror enjoyed the hats, and Chumley disapproved. That was all the satisfaction she got out of their purchase. Bernard took no notice of clothes during the enchanting period of their youth, but just when his wife was feeling tired to death of a garment, he would awake to a consciousness of its existence and cry: "Holloa, what's this? You are mighty smart. Another new frock?"

Ca.s.sandra wished to goodness as he was not more observant, he would not be observant at all. It made it so awkward to order new things.

Ca.s.sandra seated herself in a deep cushioned chair, folded her hands in her lap, and began one of the animated conversations with her inner self which were the resource of her idle hours. It was so comfortable talking to oneself,--one could be honest, could say precisely what one meant, need have no tiresome fears for other people's susceptibilities.

"What's the matter with me that I feel so restless and dull? I ought to be contented and happy, but I'm not. I'm bored to death, and the trouble of it is,--I can't think why! I've everything I could wish for, and I'm as unsatisfied as if I'd nothing. In the name of fortune, my dear, _what do you want_?--It comes to this--I'm either a morbid, introspective, weak-minded fool or else I'm n.o.ble and fine, and am stretching out for higher things. I'd like to think it was the last, but I'm not at all sure! I don't long to be great or n.o.ble, or superior in any way--only just to be happy, and at rest... I wonder if by chance I'm unhappily married? That would account for so much. I wonder if I ruined my life when I gave in, and said 'yes' to Bernard! If I did, it was with the best intentions. I _was_ fond of him. When a dull, quiet man gets really worked up, there's something extraordinarily compelling.

And I expected he'd _stay_ worked up. At eighteen any girl would.

There ought to be a Bureau of Matrimonial Intelligence to prevent them from making such mistakes. I'd be the secretary, and say: 'My dear, he won't! This is only a pa.s.sing conflagration. It will die out, and he'll revert to the normal. You'll have to live with the normal till death do you part. It doesn't follow that you'll quarrel... Ah! my dear girl, there are so many worse things! It's deplorable, of course, to quarrel with one's husband, but the reconciliation might be worth the pain. You might put your head on his shoulder, and say: "It was every bit your fault, and the rest was mine. Kiss me! and we'll never do it again!" and he'd choose the prettiest dimple, and kiss you there, and do it so nicely, you'd long to quarrel again. Oh, yes, there are points about quarrelling, but it's so hopelessly uningratiating to be--bored.

The worse you feel, the less you can say. Imagine telling a man that he bored you to extinction, and expecting to be kissed in return! Being bored goes on and on, and never works itself off'... Bernard is good and loyal, and honourable, and just,--and I'm _so_ tired of him. I _am_; and I can't pretend any longer. We've lived together in peace and boredom for ten long years, and something within me seems wearing out--

"I wonder how many married people come up against this hurdle? Its name is satiety, and it is bristling with difficulties. I've a suspicion that if one could get cleanly over, it would be a safe trot home. But it blocks the way. I'm up against it now--"

Ca.s.sandra rested an elbow on the arm of her chair, and leant her head on the uplifted hand. A thrill of something like fear ran through her veins. The simile of the hurdle had leapt into her mind subconsciously, as such things will, but the conscious mind recognised its face. Along the quiet path lay no chance for the reforming of life; it must necessarily be some shock, some upheaval, which would either open out new fields, or gild the old with some of the vanished splendour. Even if one failed to reach the goal without a toss, a toss was preferable to an eternal jog-trot.

Ca.s.sandra narrowed her eyes, and stared into s.p.a.ce, but no man's face pictured itself in her mind; for ten long years Bernard had, for good or ill, filled the foreground of her life, not the mildest of flirtations had been hers. She was a pure-minded woman, bred on conventional lines, and the idea of a lover would have outraged her delicacy. In considering the events which might possibly vitalise the future, her mind dwelt on strictly legitimate happenings. A serious illness,--her own,--Bernard's,--the boy's; the loss of money; a lengthened separation, which would revive joys staled by custom. Regarded dispa.s.sionately the prospects were not cheerful, nevertheless she found herself cheered by the contemplation. She saw herself occupied, engrossed, with something to do, a real object in life. It might be a reviving experience to have one of the Bernards--not dangerously so, of course, but just enough ill to feel dependent on the one woman in the family. Even to be ill oneself would have points. She would sit propped up against her best pillow covers, wearing a distracting bed jacket and cap, and Bernard would come in, and look at her, and say,--What would he say?

Ca.s.sandra's smile was twisted with a pathetic humour. "Holloa, old girl. Got 'em _all_ on! Bucking up a bit, ain't you? I'm off for a ride..." Rather a tame denouement to which to look forward as the reward for weeks of suffering! Ca.s.sandra determined on the whole that she would rather keep well.

And the two Bernards,--what sort of convalescents would they make?

Ca.s.sandra drew a mental picture of the sick room, with the older patient stretched on a couch, and herself seated by his side, a devoted and a.s.siduous nurse, but there was an obstinate commonplaceness about father and son which refused to adapt itself to the scene. Bernard would have no reflections to make on the wonder of life restored; he would want to hear the _Sporting Times_ read aloud, and the latest news of the crops.

His tenderest acknowledgment of her care would be a, "Looking a bit peaked, old girl! What's the sense of paying a nurse and doing the work yourself?" As for the boy, he would talk cricket, be politely bored, and surrept.i.tiously wipe off kisses. Ca.s.sandra determined that on the whole the two Bernards had better keep well also!

As for poverty--one would certainly have enough to do to run a house on a few hundreds a year, but though viewed generally the prospect sounded picturesque, a definite narrowing down to a comparison with one of the many Chumley homesteads, brought a quick shudder of distaste. The narrow rooms, the inferior servants, the infinitesimal gardens,-- Ca.s.sandra thrust out her hands in horror of the thought, and laughed a soft, full-throated laugh.

"If I am bound to be dissatisfied, let me at least have room to be dissatisfied in! I could bear being stinted in almost anything rather than _s.p.a.ce_. If Bernard loses his money, we'll go abroad and live on a prairie,--anything rather than a stifling villa."

She turned her head as the door opened, and her husband entered, and crossed the room to a bureau in the far corner. He wore the usual tweed suit, the Norfolk jacket accentuating his increasing width, the loose knickerbockers revealing large, well-shaped legs. His skin was tanned to a rich brown, his eyes were a clear hard blue, his teeth strong and white, his moustache was cut in a straight harsh line along the upper lip. His cool gaze included his wife with the rest of the furnishings, but he gave no acknowledgment of her presence; not a flicker of expression pa.s.sed over his face.

There came to Ca.s.sandra suddenly, irrepressibly, the necessity of shocking him into life. She was not a woman who indulged in scenes; it came naturally to her to hide her feelings, and act a part before the world. If Bernard had not entered at just that psychological moment, if he had looked one bit less sleek, and satisfied, and dense, she could have gone on acting, as she had done for years past; as it was, a desire for expression rose with giant force, and would not be gainsaid. Very well! So be it. For once she would speak out, and Bernard should hear.

She had an acute, a devastating curiosity to hear what he would say.

"Bernard, are you busy? I want to speak to you."

He turned his head. The clear tints of his skin looked startlingly healthy as seen in the light of the great open window.

"All right! Fire ahead."

"Bernard, do you love me?"

"Good Lord!" The utter stupefaction on Raynor's face proved that this was the last of all questions which he had expected to hear. He came across the room, and stood staring down into his wife's face. "What the d.i.c.kens is up?"

"Nothing is up. I asked you a simple question. What should be up?"

"I thought you'd taken offence at something I'd done!"

"You have done nothing in the least unusual that I know of. I rather wish you had. _Do_ you, Bernard?"

"Do I what?"

"You know quite well, but I'll ask you again, if you prefer it. Do you love me, Bernard?"

The man's ruddy face took a deeper tinge.

"I say, Ca.s.s, what rot is this? That was settled and done with years ago. I married you. You're my wife. If you are not sure of me by this time, you never will be."

"You are quite sure of yourself?"

"Of course I am. What d'you mean? I'm not the sort to er--er--"

Ca.s.sandra turned her head over her shoulder and flung him a challenging glance, her blue eyes bright with defiance.

"Then you had better understand, Bernard, once for all, that--I am not sure of myself! I'm not at all sure that I love _you_!"

She had said it. The words rang like a clarion call through the silent room. After years of self-deception, and careful covering up, a moment's impulse had laid bare the skeleton. It stood between them, a naked horror, grinning with fleshless lips. Ca.s.sandra saw it and shuddered at the sight, but it was too late to draw back. She caught her breath, and sat tremblingly waiting for what should come.

What came was a burst of hearty, good-natured laughter. Bernard's eyes twinkled, his white teeth gleamed. He stretched out a freckled hand and laid it on his wife's arm.

"That's all right, old girl! Don't you worry about that. You're fond of me all right, and a rattling good wife. We've been married a dozen years, and never had a row. If all couples got along as well as we do, things would be a sight better. What's the use of bothering about love at this time of day. I'm not a sentimental fellow. I'm satisfied with things as they are. So are you too, as a rule. Got a fit of the blues, that's all!--I say, Ca.s.s, Peignton's coming to tea, and I met that girl of the Mallison's,--Teresa, isn't it?--and asked her to come along too, and make up a game afterwards. She plays a good hand, and Peignton's engaged to her they say, or going to be. So we will do them a good turn, as well as ourselves."

Ca.s.sandra rose slowly, straightening her shoulders as if throwing off a weight. Standing there her head was on a level with her husband's, and for a moment their eyes met, his calm and unperturbed, hers sparkling and defiant. She had spoken. He had heard the truth, and had laughed at her for her pains. Now let the Fates bring what they might. He had been warned...