"Men," said Grizel sententiously, "are stupid, dense, prosaic brutes."

She gave a tilt to her one-sided hat, and added in a tone of the utmost nonchalance: "By the way, I _did_ hear some gossip. Captain Peignton is engaged to that fair girl he took in to dinner at the Court. Teresa-- don't you call her?--Teresa Mallison."

"By Jove, is he? That _is_ good!" Martin said. "I'm awfully pleased to hear that. They'll make an ideal pair."

Grizel glared at him, with the eyes of a fury.

"Oh, go to your study!" she cried vindictively. "Go to your study--and write books!"

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

THE VEIL FALLS.

The Squire heard the news of Peignton's engagement at the County Club, and carried it to his wife on his return to lunch. He found Ca.s.sandra on the terrace, where she had spent what was perhaps one of the happiest hours of her life. An hour before she had opened one of the long windows of the morning room, and had stepped bareheaded, in her white morning dress, into a bath of sunshine and warmth. Hitherto though the sun had shone, east winds had prevailed--making it necessary to put on wrappings for even the shortest excursion, but this morning the "nip"

had departed; what wind there was blew balmily from the south, and the temperature without was warmer than that in the house. There is always a special thrill attendant on the first breath of summer, a special consciousness of freedom and escape, when for the first time it becomes possible to leave the house and wander bareheaded under the skies, but never, as it seemed to Ca.s.sandra, had a springtide been so wonderful as this.

She looked downwards over the terraced gardens, and everywhere the world seemed new. Green branches on the larches, shimmers of green on oak and ash, swelling of buds on the great chestnuts, and through the bare brown of the earth the shooting of living things. Everything was new and pregnant with joys to come, and from her own heart came an answering song of joy. It seemed in mysterious fashion as though the stateness of custom had been left behind, with other drearinesses of the long winter, and the coming spring had vivified her life. The air breathed hope and expectation, and although she could not have said to what special event she was looking forward, she knew that there was hope in her heart also, and an expectation which gilded the coming days. It was good to be alive, to wander bareheaded in the sunshine inhaling the fragrance of flowers, to behold reflected in the long windows the graceful glimpses of one's own form, to look around the fair domain lying to right and left, and be able to say, "This is mine!"

Ca.s.sandra clasped her hands behind her back and strolled to and fro, thinking the many and inconsequent thoughts that come to a woman in such hours. She wondered why she had ever been unhappy, and decided never again to "give way." She wondered what Bernard had really felt when she had declared that she did not love him. Poor Bernard! How could she have been so bold? Of course she loved him! He was a nice old dear.

She wondered if, after all, the new afternoon dress had better be grey!

Suppose it were violet for a change; just the right shade of violet, without a touch of red. She wondered if she dare wear the new French hat in Chumley, and what the boy would say of it when he came from school. He had a way of calling her hats "the Limit," and looking self-conscious in their presence. She had laughed, and worn them all the same, for the wearing of the latest eccentricity in hats had been something more than a slavish following of fashion,--it had been a virtual throwing down of the gage in the face of the prejudices of the neighbourhood. On the days when she was most oppressed by the atmosphere of Chumley and its inhabitants, it had a tonic effect to drive up and down the High Street, wearing a feather stuck at an angle never before attempted out of Paris, and to watch eyes roll from right to left. There had been a time when the church aisle was her chosen shocking-ground. Ca.s.sandra blushed when she recalled that phase, and remembered what had brought it to an end. Just an expression on Mrs Evans's face. Nothing more. She had paused outside the church gate to speak a pa.s.sing word before getting into the car, and the Vicar's wife had been kindly and affectionate as ever, had called her "Dear," and held her hand in a lengthened pressure, but there had been a shadow upon the large, plain face, and the grey eyes were rigorously averted from the marvellous headpiece topping the small, brilliant face. The silence, the kindliness, made Ca.s.sandra feel suddenly mean and small, a sensation which was intensified as the car turned from the church door, and Bernard had said with a laugh: "Give 'em a treat this time, Ca.s.s!

That hat of yours took the starch out of the Vicar's sermon." An hour later the hat was a smouldering ruin, and henceforth Ca.s.sandra took her plainest clothes to church. But the High Street remained, and here no one could interfere. As the wife of the squire and landlord she might indeed be said to have the right to shock, when it pleased her so to do.

Now that the bulbs were in bloom Bernard would agitate for the usual spring garden party. He always asked the same question: "What was the use of having the things at all, if n.o.body came to see them?" So the entire neighbourhood was invited, and frequently it rained, inevitably the wind blew from the east, and the guests made scant work of the bulbs, and huddled in the house, partaking of lengthy teas. Ca.s.sandra hated all garden parties, and spring parties most of all, but this morning the prospect seemed less distasteful. She would no longer know the feeling of loneliness in a crowd, she would have friends of her own, whose presence would transform the scene. In imagination she summoned them before her--Grizel, with her radiant smile, and merry, chattering tongue; Peignton, his head bending forward from the slightly bowed back, his eyes fixed upon her, with their questioning look, the look that said so plainly: "I am waiting. Give me your orders, and I obey!" Some men had that expression; it meant nothing, of course, but it had charm.

Decidedly it had charm. It would help her through the formalities of entertaining, to feel in the distance that waiting glance.

Ca.s.sandra turned and saw her husband ascending the stone steps of the terrace. He had entered the grounds by a side gate, and made his way across the path. His cap was pushed back from his brow, his brown face showed the flush of heat, his eyes looked astonishingly blue and clear.

There was a metallic quality about those eyes which, taken in conjunction with the strong white teeth, gave a somewhat fierce expression to the face, but to-day he was smiling, and an air of complaisance and satisfaction pervaded the whole figure. Ca.s.sandra smiled in response. It seemed fitting that to-day everyone should feel happy. She stood waiting for his approach, and together they paced slowly onward.

"Isn't it lovely? I've been out over an hour. A perfect spring day!"

"Mating time, eh?" said the Squire with a laugh. "'In the Spring a young man's fancy...' Well! it seems it is true. I've just been hearing news. You haven't heard? I thought perhaps they would ring you up."

"No," said Ca.s.sandra blankly. "No." She stared uncomprehendingly in her husband's face, and suddenly her heart gave a queer unexpected little thud, and her pulses quickened their beat. "Who did you expect would ring me up?"

"Oh, either of them. Or both. They're at the stage when they'll want to do everything in pairs. And they know you'll be interested."

"Couldn't you tell me at once what the news is?"

"I _did_ tell you. An engagement, of course. Peignton's engagement.

With the fair Teresa. For goodness' sake, don't pretend to be surprised to hear. You notice precious little, but you must have noticed that. I told you myself it was coming on."

"Of course you did. I remember perfectly. I am very--"

Ca.s.sandra paused from sheer inability to think what feeling dominated.

She felt neither glad nor sorry, interested nor surprised; nothing but a curious blankness, as if a veil had been dropped over the scene of life.

Five minutes ago, two minutes ago, she had been tingling with vitality, now she was numb, and found it an effort to collect her thoughts.

For once Bernard's lack of observation was a gain. He strode along the terrace with hands thrust into his pockets, smiling in agreeable reminiscence of club-room gossip.

"Rather a stiff thing in mothers-in-law,--Mrs Mallison, what? Don't envy him the connection. Best thing he can do to cut away to a distance. But the girl's all right. Fine buxom creature. Got her head screwed on all right. Just the wife he needs. Nice fellow, but inclined to be fanciful,--the sort of man one could imagine taking up any mad scheme, if he were left on his own. Miss Teresa will stop that nonsense. She's got a partic-u-larly keen look out for number one.

Ought to have fine children too. Just the type to go in for an annual baby without turning a hair."

Ca.s.sandra's look was frigid.

"I think we may leave that. It is hardly the time--"

"Lord bless my soul, what else is she _for_!" cried the Squire loudly.

"What is any woman for, if it comes to that? If more of them did it, there would be less talk of nerves and nonsense. The modern woman is too careful of herself to be burdened with a family, and what's the consequence? I ask you what's the consequence? Are they any healthier than their mothers before them? Are they as healthy? d.a.m.ned sight more satisfactory work looking after a nursery, than gambling in bridge clubs every afternoon. Too squeamish nowadays even to talk of 'em, it appears!"

Through the roughness of the man's voice there sounded a note of pain which pierced through the wife's torpor. He would have liked a nursery full of his own, and had grieved over the fate which made it impossible.

Ca.s.sandra knew it, and admired the reticence with which he kept his disappointment to himself, never allowing it to escape in so many words.

She was the more remorseful as the disappointment was not mutual. She had hoped so much, given so much for her son, had suffered so bitter a disappointment from his lack of response, that she had no wish for another child. But she was sorry for Bernard.

She stretched out her hand and put it through his arm, leaning against him with unusual intimacy.

"Don't shout at me, Bernard; don't be cross! Why should you? I daresay it's all quite true, but children don't always bring happiness. Think of the parents you know who have large families! They are always in trouble. Some of the brood are always miserable, or ill, or in difficulties, or poor, or unruly, or all at once, and the poor parents have to rack their brains to think how they can help, and suffer every pang with them; _worse_ pangs, because the children are young, and can shake things off, and the parents sit by the fire and think. I've seen it with my own parents. They never had a chance of being happy and restful. One or other of us was always tearing their heart-strings."

"People don't have children for the sake of happiness, my good girl,"

the Squire said bluntly. "A certain amount of happiness goes to it, no doubt, but that's not the princ.i.p.al consideration. It's a duty they owe to the race, and they must be prepared to take the rough with the smooth. You can't expect to rear any young thing without trouble."

"But they don't _care_ in return, Bernard! They care so little. That's the heart-break. Parents are everlastingly giving out, and getting so little in return. It's an empty feeling. Children give so little, in comparison with the love that is lavished on them."

"Who expects them to care?" demanded the Squire. "It's nature that the old should look after the young; it's nature that the young should fly away. It's no use bucking against nature! You are thinking of your own satisfaction, and the amount of happiness _you_ are going to get out of the business. That's where you're wrong. There's too much talk of happiness these days. I don't believe in it. It makes people soft and finicking. If they thought less about their feelings, and more about their work, it would be a d.a.m.ned sight better for all concerned. We were not put into this world to be happy."

"Weren't we, Bernard, weren't we?" Ca.s.sandra asked piteously. Five minutes ago it had seemed that happiness was the be-all and end-all of life, that in fact it was life itself, the only thing worthy of the name, but that was five minutes ago, and since then the veil had fallen.

Pacing the terrace by Bernard's side, the hard theory of work and duty seemed infinitely more applicable. And yet--life was so long! Barely thirty years behind and perhaps forty or more to come. Ca.s.sandra's heart shrank at the prospect. She could have faced death bravely, but life appalled; long, dragging-out years of duty, unillumined by love.

If it were hard now in the days of youth, and health, and beauty, what would it be in the searing of the leaf? She looked into her husband's face, so strong and wholesome in its clear, out-of-door tints, and her heart went out to him in a wave of longing. As a drowning man will cling to the first support that his arms can reach, so did she turn to the man who had vowed to give her a lifelong support. If Bernard would care! If just for once he would show that he could care. Her starving heart cried out for food. It seemed impossible to live on, without a word of love or appreciation. She pushed her hand further through his arm, and gently smoothed the sleeve of his coat. It lay just beneath his eyes, the long, beautiful hand, the tapering fingers delicately white, with a tinge of pink on the almond-shaped nails; the square-cut emerald sent out gleams of light. Ca.s.sandra knew that that hand was a lovely thing. Surely the sight of it, resting there, would bring that other strong, brown hand to meet it! Then, grasping it fast, she could speak out, and say: "Help me, Bernard. Show me your love! I am only a woman, and I am afraid..." But the strong hand did not come. Bernard slackened his arm, and turned towards the house. His ear had caught the tremor in his wife's voice, and it was his fixed decision that when women waxed emotional it was wisdom to leave them alone. He looked at his watch, announced that there was just time for a wash before lunch, and took his departure. And as he went he whistled a lively song.

Ca.s.sandra leant her arms on the stone bal.u.s.trade and looked over the sloping gardens. The shimmer of green buds was on the trees; through the brown earth were springing living things. All the world was new, but in her breast her heart lay dead.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

HER INFINITE VARIETY.

"I should like," announced Grizel to Martin over the breakfast table, "I should like to publish an apology, illuminated and framed, dedicated to middle-cla.s.s house-mistresses, to explain how I'd misjudged 'em, and say I'm sorry."

"Now that, in a manner of speaking, you have become one of them yourself."

"I don't know what you mean by 'a manner of speaking.' I _have_, wuss luck! so now I know. I always laughed before, and felt superior and forbearing, and wondered why he married her, and felt so sorry for him that he had. One of the many aggravating things about a man is that he looks so much nicer middle-aged. He is scraggy when he is young, but he fills out, and grows broad and dignified, and the little touch of grey in his hair has quite a _poudree_ effect. But his wife does not improve. Take 'em fat, or take 'em thin, there's no getting away from it, they look worse every year. It needs a lot of grace, Martin, for a woman, to watch herself growing steadily into a fright, and to keep on smiling!"

"Every woman, my vain one, is not so much occupied with her appearance as you are. When she gets middle-aged, she doesn't care."

"Then she ought to, or her last estate will be worse than the first.

Her husband and children will rise up and rend her. Her boys will blush for her when she goes to their public school; and her girls will have engagements when she wants to go out, and her husband will think thoughts, and look back and wonder '_Why_'--"