"Stage of the game?" He finished the sentence for her with unruffled composure. "I think not, Lady Ca.s.sandra. To expect too much, is to invite disappointment. I'm not very young, and my experience has shown me that for most people, life resolves itself into making the most of a second best. Things _don't_ turn out as they expect. They set out to gain a certain prize, and they don't gain it, or if they do, something unexpected creeps in to rub off the bloom. Don't think I'm morbid. I'm not; I've no reason to be. There's a lot of good, steady-going happiness open to all of us, if we are sensible enough to take it, and not lose our chance by expecting too much."

"You are very philosophical. Generally speaking, I suppose you are right, but we were talking of marriage, when even the most matter-of-fact people are supposed to have illusions. There are not many girls who would accept a lover who did not believe, for the time, at least, that he would be happy ever after if he could secure her as a companion."

"Oh, well!" he said, laughing. "Oh, well!"

Ca.s.sandra was left to infer that there were occasions when exaggeration was legitimate; occasions even when a man might succeed in blindfolding himself, but the concession did not alter the inward conviction. Once more she relapsed into silence, considering his words. Peignton was one of the rare people with whom it was not necessary to carry on a continuous flow of conversation. One could be silent, pursuing one's own thoughts with a comfortable a.s.surance that he was mentally keeping touch, and that when speech came it would be to p.r.o.nounce a mutual decision.

"A second best!" Those were the words which had burned themselves on Ca.s.sandra's brain. Life for the majority of people resolved itself into making the most of a second best. There was plenty of good, steady-going happiness in store for those who were sensible enough to take it, and not waste their time straining after the unattainable. The doctrine was distinctly bracing for those who had fallen into the trough of disappointment. Ca.s.sandra made a mental note to think over its axioms at her leisure. She had come to the stage when philosophy might have its turn, but, oh, it was good to remember that there _had_ been a day when she had not philosophised, had not reasoned, had not made the best of anything, because youth and hope had already placed that best in her hands! What if it had been a delusion,--she had had her hour, and nothing that life could bring could take away its memory!

There stabbed through her heart a pa.s.sion of pity for the man who was so calmly ignoring the glory of life. She turned towards him, her eyes dark with earnestness.

"Ah, no, it's a mistake. Why be satisfied with makeshifts, when there's a chance of the best? To be too easily satisfied is as foolish as to expect too much; more foolish, for you miss the dream! If the reality fails, one can always look backward and remember the dream."

Peignton's air of absorption had no personal reference. The words had pa.s.sed over his head in so far as they applied to himself. He was looking at Ca.s.sandra and saying deep in his heart: "That woman! To grow tired of her! And Raynor! he can never have been worthy to black her boots." Peignton had a hatred of waste, and it was waste of the worst sort to find this adorable woman thrown away on a man who was quite obtrusively unappreciative. There was such unconscious commiseration in his glance, that Ca.s.sandra drew back sharply.

"Goodness, how serious we are growing! It's the rarest thing in the world for me to theorise. It must be the pernicious effect of paying calls. I'm not responsible for anything I say after being cooped up with rows of women discussing cooks, and Mothers' Meetings. Forgive me if I've bored you!"

"I'm not bored. I'll think over what you say. I expect you are right, and I'm wrong. When one is obliged to slack physically, as I've done these last years, the mind is apt to slack in sympathy. It _is_ a sort of slacking to be content with makeshifts. I must brace up, and aim at the sky, or if a makeshift is inevitable, at least one can use a little deception and pretend that it is the best."

"_Could_ you do that?"

Ca.s.sandra's eyes were incredulous, but Peignton smiled with easy a.s.surance.

"Oh, yes, certainly. If I chose. It's a question of temperament. It is always easier to me to be happy, than the other thing. One adapts oneself--"

The car stopped at the cross roads and Ca.s.sandra held out her hand in farewell. The melancholy air had disappeared, an elf of mischief danced in her eyes.

"Captain Peignton, you are hopelessly prosaic. It must be a second best after all, for the dream would be wasted upon you. The second best, and--shall I help you to it?"

"Do!" he cried, and they parted with a mutual laugh. It was only after the car had whizzed ahead and he was left alone upon the road, that it occurred to him to connect Teresa Mallison with the offer.

"Poor little girl. Too bad!" he said to himself then, and there was tenderness in his eyes, tenderness in his heart. With every conscious thought he was loyal to Teresa, yet one thing puzzled him,--when apart from her, he found it impossible to visualise the girl's face. As often as he tried to summon it, it eluded him; he could see nothing but the sweep of dark hair across a white brow, the oval of delicately flushed cheeks, a little chin nestled deep into grey furs. And Raynor was indifferent to her,--indifferent to that woman!

CHAPTER SIX.

THE EAST END.

Mrs Mallison was one of the kindest of women; she was also one of the most exasperating. She herself was complacently aware of the first fact, and referred to it frequently in conversation, enumerating her benefactions with obvious satisfaction: of the latter attribute she remained blandly, blindly unaware. The combination is frequent, the havoc wrought thereby in domestic circles widespread throughout the land. Mrs Mallison rose early from preference. Having reached a time of life when she required little sleep, she found it a relief to rise at seven, and by an exercise of logic, unanswerable to her own judgment, considered it inc.u.mbent upon the whole household to experience a similar briskness. She read a chapter of the Bible and the day's portion of Daily Light before leaving her bedroom, and prayed sadly to be preserved throughout the trials and temptations of the day. To expect happiness she would have considered a flippant att.i.tude, unworthy a professing Christian, the glad morning face had no justification in her eyes.

"Well, Bailey! I wonder what trials the Lord has in store for me to-day!" she would sigh meekly to the old servant who brought her early tea, and sallying forth from her bedroom, thus expectant, seldom failed to encounter several minor trials on the way downstairs: Dust; grease; marks on white paint. It was usually a chastened Mrs Mallison who took her seat behind the urn.

Mrs Mallison had an active mind and a c.u.mbersome body. This combination is also widely known, and deplored by grown-up daughters.

No sooner had an idea entered her mind, than she wished it put into instant execution--by a daughter. Whatever the daughter might be doing, however responsible might be her work, she must leave it, dismiss it from her mind, be ready with heart and will to execute her mother's behests. Such was a daughter's duty; to fail in it was to risk references to serpents' teeth, and to that subsequent burden of remorse, to be borne by the delinquent, when death should have removed her mother to another sphere. Mary Mallison found it simpler to give in at once, leave a letter half-written, or a photographic plate half-toned, and adjourn upstairs to move the position of jars on the storeroom shelves, or make sure that a drawer was safely locked. She would even rise in the middle of her breakfast, and walk meekly into the drawing-room to feel if the palms needed water; but Mary was thirty-two, and anaemic into the bargain, and her axiom in life was, "For goodness' sake, let us have peace!" It was easier to walk a dozen yards into the drawing-room, than to be talked at for the rest of the meal. Mary obeyed, swallowing a constant mental revolt, the strain of which showed in her wan bloodless face. Long ago, when she was twenty-four, she had loved a curate, and the curate had not loved her in return. No man had ever loved her; it was to the last degree unlikely that anyone ever would.

Mary offered automatic thanks weekly for the gift of creation, and smothered as wicked the wonder what she had been created for? She also, like her mother, wondered drearily what troubles lay ahead.

Teresa was young, and pretty, and had been educated at a public school.

She had inherited from her mother a fair skin, flaxen locks, a strong will, and a pertinacity of purpose which might in time develop to disagreeable proportions. In the meantime she was the admired youngest member of a plain and heavy family, and was by nature affectionate and appreciative. It was only on occasions that Mrs Mallison was conscious of running up against a dead rock when she opposed her will to that of her youngest daughter; only in glimmering rays of light that she realised that what Teresa desired, almost inevitably came to pa.s.s. Over and over again the same thing happened. Teresa had come forward with a proposition: consent had been withheld, Teresa had withdrawn. Weeks, even months had pa.s.sed by; to all appearance Teresa had abandoned the proposition, and then suddenly it crystallised, it became fact.

Quietly, placidly, Teresa had bided her time, clinging with limpet-like determination to her point, moving the p.a.w.ns on the board, waiting for the right moment to make the final dash.

Teresa had left the proud position of head girl in a great school to vegetate in a dull country town, dust the drawing-room, arrange flowers, make her own blouses, and "keep up her music," and had found the routine as unsatisfactory as does every other modern girl. The Mallisons were comfortably off--that is to say, they had a small detached house, in a good-sized garden, kept two indoor maids, and a man who looked after the garden and drove the shabby dog-cart. They were also able to pay their bills with praiseworthy regularity, and to take a yearly holiday _en famille_. They likewise allowed each daughter thirty pounds a year for dress and pocket money, and would have strongly resented an insinuation that they were not acting generously in so doing. Mary had "managed" on thirty for a dozen years. Teresa managed for two, and then relinquished the struggle. She made no moan, for moans would have had no avail, except to bring about her ears a harvest of precepts. Teresa informed her sister that "they must be shown," and she proceeded to show them.

She bought no new dress, she went about with her parents in aggressively shabby clothes, she walked incredible distances to save twopences, and thereby made herself late for meals; in short she demonstrated to her old-fashioned parents, that if they wished to possess a pretty, creditable daughter they must be prepared to pay for her. The allowance was increased to fifty, and Mary languished beneath a sense of injury.

Thirty had been considered enough for _her_!

On the morning after Grizel Beverley's reception the Mallison quartette was a.s.sembled at breakfast in the stiff, sunless morning room. Mrs Mallison poured out coffee; Major Mallison sat facing her before the silver bacon dish, the morning light streaming in on his tired, discouraged face. Mary sat on the right, opposite the toast-rack and the egg-stand. Teresa on the left, by the marmalade and honey jar. The _Morning Post_ lay neatly folded on the sideboard. Mrs Mallison approved of sociability at meals; conversation helped digestion. When the Major declared that he loathed general conversation at breakfast, and would rather be left in peace than listen to the finest conversationalist alive, he was told that he was unamiable and selfish, and a burden of regret prophesied for him also "when he had _no_ one to talk to!"

Mrs Mallison poured out four cups of coffee, made her usual lament _re_ the price of bacon, and cast a disapproving eye on Teresa's blue _crepe_ blouse.

"I thought, my dear, that you were going to church this morning to decorate the chancel."

"I am, Mother."

"In that blouse?"

"Certainly. Why not?"

"Most unsuitable. Too light. A dark flannel is the right thing for the occasion. You will have time to change it before you start. Don't forget!"

Teresa cast down her eyes and applied herself steadily to bacon. She had not the slightest intention of wearing a dark flannel blouse. The blue _crepe_ had been chosen, not for its durability, but that it might look pleasant in the eyes of Dane Peignton. All the mothers in the world could not have made Teresa change it; so what was the use of discussing the point! She gave the conversation an adroit little switch.

"Don't wait lunch for me, Mother. I shall probably go to the Vicarage.

We shall need all our time."

"We are having fried steak. If you come at all, you must be punctual.

If it's done too long, all the strength has gone. I could give you sandwiches to eat in the vestry. Or it might be stewed. If papa did not object, it could _quite_ well be stewed. He dislikes the onions.

If we had carrots instead, would you object, papa? But, of course, there's the flavour. Carrots are _not_ so seasoning... Perhaps it had better be sandwiches. Mary, is there a gla.s.s of that chicken and ham paste? See if there's a gla.s.s, dear. Cook could make some nice fresh sandwiches."

Mary moved automatically, but Teresa stopped her with a waving hand.

"I loathe sandwiches. I shall go somewhere and have a proper lunch.

Don't bother, Mother."

"My dear," said Mrs Mallison reproachfully, "I am your mother. When you have a tiring day before you I am naturally anxious that you should be fed. They will be busy at the Vicarage. Cold meat and salad. One could hardly expect more, but you are accustomed to a hot dish. It is the day for steak, but if papa didn't object we might change. I don't care for changes as a rule, it upsets the servants, but just for once.-- A chicken now! You like chicken. Just run to the telephone, dear, and tell Bates to send one up. Good, roasting. Three and six. If papa doesn't mind."

Not a flicker of expression pa.s.sed over the Major's face. He was the Jorkins of the establishment, and knew well that, useful as he might be for purposes of quotation, he was negligible as a working factor. He continued resignedly to partake of bacon. Teresa vouchsafed an appreciative smile.

"We'll have fowl for dinner. Plenty of time when the boy calls. I'm going out to lunch, Mother. I'd rather. It's part of the fun."

Mrs Mallison sighed. Here was one of the expected trials. A daughter, unappreciative, preferring to roam abroad, oblivious of the fact that after a morning's church decorating she would be in possession of a harvest of small talk which a mother would naturally desire to hear.

Who decorated the lectern; who the finials; who did the windows this year? The windows were the least coveted post. A mother whose daughter had been honoured with the east end would naturally feel agreeable sympathy for the mother of those who wrestled modestly with window-sills. Then also there were subsidiary interests. Who brought the Squire's flowers? Did Lady Ca.s.sandra drive down? Was the Vicar tiresome about nails? Exactly what did everyone present say about Teresa's scheme of colour? The good lady felt it hard that she should have to wait until evening to satisfy her interest on these thrilling points. She set her lips and said to herself, "Certainly not! If young people have no consideration for others, they cannot expect to be indulged. _Not_ fowl. Roast end of the neck."

At the side of the table Mary sighed, and stared dejectedly into s.p.a.ce.

Eight years ago _she_ had been asked to "do" the east end, and the curate had been by her side all day helping her, reaching to high places, bending down, taking the vases from her hand. After all these years she could still see before her every line of the smooth boyish face. He had never loved her, he had gone away and married another girl, but he had been admiring and attentive; several times in the course of that day he had made her sit down to rest; at tea at the Vicarage he had placed a cushion behind her back. In Mary's starved life such small incidents took the place of romance. She looked across the table at her sister, not so much with envy, as with pity. Poor Trissie! she also was dreaming; she also must awake. And Teresa understood the glance and set her red lips. She had not the least intention in the world of following in Mary's footsteps. Thirty-two should never find _her_ dragging along at home! She thought of Dane Peignton with the warm glow at the heart which always accompanied the thought. If Dane did not "care," her dearest hope would be blasted, but it was characteristic of Teresa that she could put aside the possibility, and be a.s.sured that even Dane himself could not spoil her life, or reduce her to Mary's apathy of indifference.

After breakfast came "Worship," when the maids came in and sat on two chairs placed as near as possible to the door, and the mistress of the house read aloud a chapter in the Bible, followed by a long prayer from a book ent.i.tled _Family Devotions_. The chapter this morning was taken from Judges, and had little obvious bearing on the lives of the hearers.

It is doubtful if anyone attended after the first few verses. The cook was listening for the tradesmen's bell. If it rang in the middle of Worship it was understood that she was to rise softly and creep out.

Under such circ.u.mstances it was, as she expressed it, difficult to "settle down." The housemaid was thinking of her young man. Teresa was considering her scheme of decoration. Major Mallison and Mary were resignedly sitting it out. For the prayer everyone rose and knelt down, but the mental att.i.tude remained unchanged. They rose once more with sighs of relief.