"I've not decided to go to Paris," Mary said ungraciously, but the next moment she lifted her eyes to Ca.s.sandra'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--"

"And _s.p.a.ce_!" 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 can _cry_ without bringing rappings at the door... That's why I want to go away. I want my money to bring me s.p.a.ce. I want to feel alone, with s.p.a.ce 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 Ca.s.sandra!"

"Oh, Mary Mallison, it _is_!" cried Ca.s.sandra. 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 grat.i.tude in her voice. Lady Ca.s.sandra 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 Ca.s.sandra'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 his _fiancee_, smiling down into her upturned face, and for the moment un.o.bservant of the new-comers, who were still some distance away. Ca.s.sandra'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? Ca.s.sandra 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.

Ca.s.sandra 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 Ca.s.sandra 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 friends _en 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 role of parish work also, Grizel had made her debut.

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 st.i.tches. They were a.s.sembled 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 a.s.sembly. At a Dorcas meeting everyone was welcome, the wives of tradesmen as well as representatives of the professional and learned cla.s.ses. It was difficult to keep up the numbers, and since social engagements were less frequent in the former cla.s.s, 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 cla.s.ses 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. _Look_ at 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-st.i.tched 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 Ca.s.sandra'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. Ca.s.sandra 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!"

Ca.s.sandra 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.