Mary realised at once that she was in the presence of the august head of the establishment, and felt courage ooze from every pore, and in truth she was helpless as a fly in the hands of this woman, whose work in life consisted in bullying her customers into buying what they did not desire.

Madame approached, took up her position by Mary's side, and began to speak. Her tone was honey, and her words were soft, but the meaning thereof was plain. "You don't find a hat that suits you, don't you?...

Did you imagine that you would?... Look in that gla.s.s, and see yourself as you are!--I have here the best selection of models in town, and if you are not satisfied, it is your taste that is to blame, not mine. I do not employ a staff of a.s.sistants to have their time wasted by the like of you. Out of this shop you do not go until you have paid the price! Make your choice, and be quick about it."

Mary made no attempt to rebel; she knew too well that she was beaten.

She bought the least exaggerated of the models, paid down a cool four guineas, and emerged into the freshness of the outer air with the feeling of one escaping from a noisome animal. Never in her life had she beheld a woman so repellent, so terrible. She thought of the fate of the young girls who were caged up with her all day long, and shivered. She wondered of what fibre were those other women, through whose patronage such a harpy lived and prospered. She hoped, for the credit of the s.e.x, that the majority of customers were casuals, like herself!

For the next hour Mary wandered to and fro, finding interest in the study of shop windows. At first she made her pauses in tentative fashion, for she had heard lurid stories of the dangers of London streets, and went in fear of a tall, gentlemanly-looking individual who would suddenly appear out of s.p.a.ce, and whisper in her ear, requesting to be allowed to buy her a dress, or a blouse. Such incidents had happened to girls of her acquaintance; she distinctly remembered the horror and perturbation with which they had related the details, but it appeared that there was no such molestation to be expected in her case.

She remained as unnoticed as in the dining-room of the hotel.

At four o'clock she retired into a confectioner's shop, and refreshed herself by a daintily served tea. The room was empty, but as time went on the scattered tables filled up one by one, mostly with young couples, the men tall and immaculately groomed, but far from manly in expression; the girls attractive, despite their handicap of fashionable garments, in an age when grace is a forgotten joy. They looked a different race from the girls who paced daily up and down the Chumley High Street, and Mary, beholding them, felt a dawning of interest in her four-guinea hat. It was at least a becoming colour, and the feather was a beauty,--so thick and long and gracefully curved. Reduced in height, pressed into a less noticeable shape, the hat might turn out not a discreditable purchase after all. She felt a distinct relief at the thought that after to-day she would see the reflection of that blue feather in the innumerable mirrors which lined the streets.

After tea Mary went into the Park and sat on a chair, watching the stream of fashionable life flow to and fro. She wished she had someone with her to explain who was who, and was on the whole disappointed with the appearance of the crowd, but the flowers were beautiful. She determined to come again in the morning, and enjoy the flowers undisturbed by the bustling crowd. All the chairs were occupied; the moment that they were vacated they were instantly seized by other loiterers, who appeared to have been waiting for the chance. A man and woman seated themselves by Mary's side, and fell into conversation with an absolute disregard of her presence. A few moments sufficed to prove that they were husband and wife, but they belonged to widely different types. The woman had a worn, handsome face, and a figure fashionably attenuated. She was faultlessly attired, and with a royal disregard of cost, but both voice and manner betrayed a ceaseless discontent. Every word was a grumble in disguise, reference to events past and to come were invariably supplemented by protestations of being "bored to death,"

and all the time the big, jovial-looking husband smiled, and soothed, and skilfully steered the way on to subjects new. There was no effort in his air; if there had been a time when his wife's grumblings had power to distress him, that time was past, now the tricklings of the thin voice flowed off him, like water from a duck's back. He listened, laughed, and began again. Mary realised with a thrill of surprise that this man actually loved the bundle of nerves whom he called his wife.

There was no mistaking the fact. There was love in his voice, in his face, in the sound of the deep, kindly laugh. He loved her, was proud of her, found pleasure in her society. She watched the couple move away at the end of a quarter of an hour, the wife languidly leading the way through the crowd, the man following, his eyes bent on her in proud approval, and afterwards for long minutes she sat pondering on the nature of the tie which held a man's heart faithful to such a mate. Was it the remembrance of a past, before years and gold had left their mark,--a past so sweet that it lived in undying memory? Was it that beneath an outer querulousness of manner there still lingered recurrences of tenderness, of pa.s.sion, which kept alight old fires,--was it simply that the man did not feel?

"If _I_ had a husband--If he had cared for _me_!" Mary repeated to herself for the thousandth time. The sentence never reached a conclusion, it was simply an exclamation of amazement that a woman should be blessed with love, and yet know discontent.

She sat on until the crowd began to diminish, and the rows of chairs to show empty s.p.a.ces. There was nothing else to do, and the hotel bedroom made no appeal. Already it seemed days since she had left Chumley; she calculated how much money she had already spent, multiplied it, to discover what rate of expenditure per annum was represented, and was startled by the result. Perhaps it would be wise not to take a regular dinner to-night. After such an extensive lunch she was not hungry. She decided on a cutlet in the restaurant.

Later on, on rising from her chair Mary received a severe shock. Her sunshade had disappeared. It was a new one, a birthday present from the family; navy-blue silk, with a handle topped with gold. She had rested it in all confidence against the back of her seat, and now... With flushing cheeks she recalled the different people who had occupied the chair next to her own. The jovial husband, an elderly woman in black, with a rope of pearls to match large solitaire earrings; a pretty flapper in white; a young girl, fashionably attired, with cheeks suspiciously pink; one or two young men. It was not possible, it was not conceivable, that one of the number could have stolen a modest sunshade! But the sunshade had disappeared--no trace of it was to be seen. Mary told herself that there had been a mistake. Some woman had picked it up without thinking. How sorry she would be!

When she reached the hotel the hat box was waiting in her bedroom. She opened it, and took the hat to the window to examine. The first feeling was disappointment. She had believed the feather to be much handsomer,--softer, longer, of a more delicate shade. She held it up, regarding it with puzzled eyes. How had she come by so mistaken an impression? Finally she decided that it was a question of light. She sighed patiently, and returned the hat to its box.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

ADRIFT.

Mary spent a week in the London hotel, the longest week she had ever known. She rose late, and went to bed early, nevertheless the days stretched to an interminable length, and she was driven to extraordinary devices to get through the hours. One day, attracted by a line of flaring posters, she spent the morning in a Turkish bath; another afternoon she drifted into a barber's shop and had her hair waved and coiffured, a process which so altered her appearance that she hurried to a similar establishment a few hundred yards away, and underwent a drastic shampoo. Another day, after lunching in the restaurant of a great store, she whiled away half an hour by having her nails manicured.

From morning till night no one noticed her, no one spoke to her, she herself had no need to speak, yet all around was a babel of tongues, an endless, ever-pa.s.sing stream of fellow-creatures. If she had felt herself superfluous in Chumley, the feeling was accentuated a thousand times in this metropolis of the world, wherein she walked as on a desert island. And yet, through all the desolation of soul pierced golden moments, when the sense of freedom filled her with joy. To be able to rest without comment or questioning; to rise in the morning, and retire to bed, according to preference, not rule; to choose her own food, to go out, or stay within, as fancy prompted,--such simple matters as these came as happy novelties to the woman of thirty-two.

Mary had despatched a post card announcing her arrival, and giving the address of her hotel but she received no message in reply. Mrs Mallison was on her dignity, and would wait until she had received an orthodox letter. The Major never wrote, and Teresa presumably was busy.

For a week or more the silence caused Mary no trouble, but by that time the continued silence of her life awoke the exile longing for news from home. She despatched a colourless letter, filling with difficulty three sides of a sheet, and waited the result. It came, according to her happiest hopes, in the shape of a missive from Teresa.

"Dear old Mary,

"I hope you are enjoying your liberty as much as you expected, and having a real good time. It's pretty strenuous here without you. I am running about all day long, and being instructed meantime to lie down, and take things easy! I never in my life felt so irritated and depressed. It's borne in on me, old thing, that you have been a buffer between me, and--er--shall we say _circ.u.mstances_? and that I never appreciated you properly until you had gone!

"You don't say much about your doings. Do you go to the theatres? I suppose you can go to matinees, if it isn't proper to go alone at night. Have you bought any clothes? You might look out for an evening dress for me--white or pink--not blue this time, and not more than three or four pounds. The Raynors and Beverleys have taken a house together at the sea near good links. Dane is to join them for part of the time, and I am asked for a day or two at the end of his visit, so I need a new dress. The invitation came from Mrs Beverley.

I haven't once been asked to the Court since you left. Lady Ca.s.sandra is dropping me now that she has her beloved Grizel.

Altogether I think her behaviour is rather _queer_. You would have thought, after Dane staying there over a week, and getting so intimate, as they must have done, that he would at least have been asked to tea since he left, but not once! I asked him straight out, so I know. He won't acknowledge that he thinks it odd--you know how close men are.--but I can see he does from his manner. I shall go to Gled Bay for his sake. He would be so disappointed if I refused. He has given me a gold bangle, just the sort I like: a plain, flat band.

He looks thin still. Mother thinks he worried a great deal while I was ill. Of course it was hard for him being tied by the leg (literally!), and not able to do a thing for me. Dane doesn't say much, but his feelings are awfully deep.

"I wonder if it isn't a mistake to conceal one's feelings? I'm beginning to think that it is. We have been brought up to be undemonstrative, but if I have children, I'll teach them quite differently. What's the good of thinking nice things in your heart, if the person you care for doesn't get the benefit? Mary! I'm sorry I haven't been nicer to you. I'm sorry I was selfish, and let you do so much. If it's any satisfaction to you to know it, I'm paying up now! I do hope Dane will want to be married soon. I don't think I can last out much longer. I have thought so often of what you told me the night we were engaged, about your own love story, I mean. How could you bear it, and live quietly on at home? I couldn't. If Dane treated me like that, I should--marry Mr Hunter! I'd like to see your face when you read that! But it's true. Much more sensible, too, than the river, or growing sour at home!

"Good-bye. Write soon.

"Your affectionate sister,

"Teresa."

Mary put the letter back in its envelope, and went out to look for Teresa's evening dress. She paid for it out of her own money, and decided to offer it in the shape of an advance birthday present. In any case she would have to give something in October; it might just as well be bought now. She experienced a torpid satisfaction in the transaction, but it soon faded, and left her mind empty as before.

Teresa's appreciation and affection came too late. Five years ago they might have transformed her life, but they had not been given. Of what use to offer them now when their lives lay apart? Speculations as to Lady Ca.s.sandra Raynor, even as to Peignton himself, aroused no flicker of interest. They had been mummers in a play, and she had escaped into the open air. The only person of whom she had cared to hear was her father, and concerning him Teresa was mute.

Another week pa.s.sed, and still another. Mary left the big hotel, and moved into a smaller one, of the glorified boarding-house type. Here, if she had chosen, she might have been less lonely, for there were half a dozen solitary women like herself, who would have been glad to include her in games of cards, or to exchange confidences over afternoon tea, but Mary had played a duty game of whist every week night for a dozen years, and had vowed never to touch another card. Moreover, she shrank from the furious curiosity of these women, who seemed capable of asking personal questions for hours at a time. She left the boarding-house and took furnished apartments, but the hot weather came on with a rush, and the rooms grew stuffy and breathless, so for the third time she was faced with the problem, of where to go next.

One afternoon she sat at tea at one of the little tables belonging to the outdoor restaurant near Victoria Gate, and essayed the difficult task of making up her own mind. In a limited sense the world was before her, but the very largeness of the choice made it the more difficult.

If she could but think of something which interested... something for which she really cared! No answer came to the question, yet of a certainty she was happier under some conditions than others. Looking back over the blank stretch of days, there were hours which stood out from the rest, hours in which she had felt restful,--almost content.

Mary lived those hours, trying to draw from them a conclusion. There were hours spent in the Park, not in the afternoon, but the morning, when it was comparatively empty. The rhododendrons were in full bloom in the beds near Rotten Row; she heard people say that they had never been finer than this year. There had been other hours in the Abbey, both during the services and after; there had been an afternoon on an excursion steamer plying up the river to Oxford; and a drive on the top of an omnibus on a misty night, when the lights twinkled in softened radiance, and the great buildings a.s.sumed a mysterious splendour. One by one, Mary recalled the hours, but the conclusion could not be found.

Then suddenly her ears were opened to a woman's voice talking at the table next to her own.

"Switzerland," she was saying. "Of course! As soon as I can run away.

I am longing for the time to come. I have been there every summer for the last ten years, and if it rests with me, I shall go every year till I die. I've tried Norway, I've tried the Tyrol, but I've gone back to my old love, and I shall never wander again. Switzerland gives me what I need. I go there and feed upon it. It's the tonic that braces me up for another year of hard, ugly life."

There was a moment's silence, then another voice asked:

"But what exactly _do_ you feed on? What is the name of the tonic which helps you so much?"

"Beauty!" said the woman deeply.

The blood rushed to Mary's cheeks. She had found her clue! That word showed her the secret of her heart. All her life she had fed on prose; now unconsciously she was craving the tonic of beauty. It had been beauty in one form or another, which had brought her few hours of content.

The next morning she packed her box, and took a ticket for Berne.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

BARRIERS.

The house at Gled Bay was situated at some distance from the cliff, which was the spot most desired by its female tenants, but at the very gates of the golf links, which presented the be-all of existence to the two men. It was one of the aggressively new-looking edifices, which the house-hunters of to-day regard with dismay, protesting with unnecessary violence that nothing would induce them to make so prosaic a choice.

That is stage number one. Stage number two consists in an inspection of cheerful rooms, wide windows, and sunny balconies, and a grudging admission that new houses have their points. Stage number three follows hard on the discovery of rats in the kitchen of the panelled house of dreams, and consists in a sceptical wonder if the villa could possibly "do." Stage number four marks the signing of a lease, and the planting of innumerable creepers. In the case of the villa rented by Martin and the Squire in conjunction, the creepers had already mounted to the second story, so that it was possible to pick roses out of bedroom windows, and forget the glaring brick and imitation timber hidden beneath the cl.u.s.tering leaves. Ca.s.sandra and Grizel had rooms which opened on the same balcony, and there was a covered verandah which ran the length of the south side of the house, in the shade of which they partook of tea together, what time their lords were absent on the links.

The mental att.i.tude of the two women towards the masculine absorption differed naturally. Ca.s.sandra was unfeignedly thankful to have her husband kept in good temper, and to be left alone to amuse herself.

Grizel began each morning in a mood of exemplary unselfishness, rejoiced in the prospect of healthful exercise for her student, and speeded him on his course with the sunniest of smiles, but when tea-time brought no sign of return, her eyes showed sparks of light, and her lips tightened.

_This_ meant that the men had started on a third round, and would not appear until six, at which hour they would be graciously pleased to repose themselves on the verandah, drink cooling draughts, and smile benignly upon waiting wives, until it should be time to dress for dinner. On such occasions it was Grizel's habit to leave the house shortly before six o'clock and start on an hour's walk over the country in a directly opposite direction to that of the links. If a man elected to spend the whole day apart from his wife,--if he found his pleasure in so doing... far be it from her to say him nay, but on his return she would not be found sitting in an appointed place, meekly awaiting the light of his countenance. "_That_ smacks too much of the harem for my taste!" quoth Mistress Grizel with a shrug.

These perverse excursions invariably ended in a pursuit by a tired Martin, when Grizel would be inwardly overwhelmed with remorse, and would make vows of forbearance for the future, which vows were fated to be broken with all speed. A state of mind for which no excuse is offered, but which is commended to the sympathy of the wives of golfing bridegrooms!

Sometimes Ca.s.sandra disappeared for long walks on her own account, and Grizel realised that she went forth to wrestle in solitude for a medicine of which her soul was in need. She was a restless Ca.s.sandra in these days, sometimes moody, often irritable, and anon almost obtrusively gay. For all their intimacy Grizel had a consciousness of being kept at a mental distance, or whenever their talks together took a deeper turn, Ca.s.sandra was ready with a laugh or jest to switch it back into light impersonality. So does a man with a maimed limb instinctively shield it from touch. Thus the first fortnight pa.s.sed by, and brought the day when Dane Peignton was due to make his appearance.

He arrived at tea-time, looking tired and pale beside the tanned golfers, who had shortened their day in his honour, and were not above letting him realise their generosity. They were too pleasantly engaged describing the crack strokes of the day, to allow the new-comer much chance of speaking, but he had an air of abundant content as he drank his tea, vouchsafed appreciative murmurs of admiration, and took in the charming details of the scene. Grizel, as hostess _ex officio_, presided at the tea table. The two women had discussed the question of housekeeping during the joint month's tenancy. Who should be the nominal head? Who should give orders? To whom should the servants apply? Since to possess two mistresses was anathema to everything in cap and ap.r.o.n, it was evident one must sacrifice herself for the common good. "It had better be me, then," Grizel said, shrugging, "for I shan't worry, and you will!" and Ca.s.sandra shrugged in her turn, and added, "Also if things go wrong, Bernard won't growl at you." And so the matter was arranged.

Ca.s.sandra's swing chair was drawn close enough to the rails of the verandah to allow the rays of the sun to touch her hair as she tilted gently to and fro, and give an added l.u.s.tre to the points of gold in the thick, wreath-like braid. She wore a white dress, which to masculine eyes appeared the acme of simplicity, and Peignton, watching her, believed that the style of coiffure and dress alike was the outward proof of inward simpleness of heart, and lack of feminine vanity.

Wherein he was mistaken. After the first greeting he had never directly addressed himself to Ca.s.sandra, but his eyes wandered continually towards the white, swinging figure.