After breakfast Teresa dusted the drawing-room, made her own bed, and hung over the banisters listening for the moment when her mother should begin telephoning orders to the tradespeople, when she herself might leave the house without fear of further questioning as to the blue blouse. She expanded her shoulders with a sigh of relief on reaching the open air, and sped along the quiet road with the feeling of escape which every member of the Mallison household experienced when the gate was safely closed, before a shrill recall had sounded from door or window.

Teresa's thoughts that morning were occupied as many another daughter's have been before her, in pondering the astonishing problem of her parents' youth. Father and Mother in love! Father ardent, Mother shy!

Father and Mother exchanging love glances; engrossed in one another's society. Could such things be? And if so--lacerating thought!--_could they be again_? In thirty years' time could Teresa and Dane...

Teresa flushed violently. She had not prayed at Family Worship. She had been frankly and emphatically bored, but she prayed now, walking along the public road, in her blue coat and fashionable jam-pot hat, she lifted her eyes to the grey skies, and the voice in her heart cried earnestly: "I'll make him happy! Help me to keep him happy! Give him to me, and make me a good wife." A glow of tenderness softened the hard young eyes. "Make me good," cried Teresa, "_For Dane's sake_!"

She was the first to arrive at the church, before even the Vicar's wife.

Was she not the honoured young worker, to whom had been entrusted the decoration of the east end? A ma.s.s of daffodils, wallflowers, and primroses lay banked in baskets along the aisles. These were the contributions of the poorer members of the community, the villagers and owners of small gardens. Outside the chancel rails were ranged rows of growing bulbs in pots, hyacinths, narcissus, the finer variety of daffodils, great trumpet-like heads of white and cream, orange and gold.

These were the first contribution from the Court; later on the carriage would bring down a hamper of flowers, freshly cut and fragrant. The s.e.xton came forward with a box containing the tin vases and fitments provided for such occasions, and delivered the usual warning about nails. The Vicar would allow no nails. Teresa took off her long coat and placed it in a pew; the blue of her blouse seemed to take an added richness from the austerity of the surroundings. How glad she was that she had disobeyed her mother and kept it on!

Presently the Vicarage party arrived, and quickly following one after another the helpers. Teresa lifted the flower-pots one by one and placed them behind the delicate tracery of the oak screen, so that the pots themselves were hidden and the carved openings appeared to give a vista into a sweet spring garden.

All the while she worked, she kept a strained outlook for Dane's appearance. When another helper approached, and would have loitered in conversation, she made a speedy excuse for hurrying away, lest he should come now, and their meeting be marred; when her back was turned to the aisle she listened for the sound of his footsteps. At any moment he might enter, stand by her side, call to her in his full, rich tones: "Miss Teresa!"

Eleven o'clock came, and he had not appeared; half-past eleven. All the pots were arranged. Intentionally Teresa had lingered over the work, dreading to begin the more elaborate decorations which would require aid. If she were seen mounting a stool, some of the men helpers would at once come forward to a.s.sist; and Dane entering and seeing her thus provided, might attach himself to someone else. A dull ache of disappointment filled Teresa's heart. If he really cared; if the opportunity meant to him what it did to herself, he would not have wasted the hours. She put her last pot in its place, stood back to view the effect, and heard at last the longed-for words of welcome.

"Miss Teresa--here I am; bright and early, you see! What have you got for me to do?"

He was smiling, composed, unconscious of offence. The ache sharpened into pain at the realisation, but Teresa had a wisdom beyond her years, and allowed no sign of disappointment to become visible. To sulk and looked aggrieved was not the way to increase a man's admiration. She smiled into his eyes, and cried readily:

"Heaps of things! I need you for all the stretchy places. You are so big. And those great palms... They have to go into the corners. Will you help me to move them?"

"Certainly not. I'll do it myself. Just point out where they are to go. What's the good of me if I can't save you fatigue?"

The tenderness of his smile was as ointment of healing, but true to her principles Teresa averted her eyes, and put on her most business-like manner, so that no answering sign of tenderness might be visible. Not to the verger himself had her manner been more cool and detached, but Dane showed no sign of dissatisfaction. They had met to work, not to make love; he admired the girl for her brisk, capable ways, and found pleasure in the sight of her alert young figure clad in the short skirt, stout boots, and untrimmed hat. They worked industriously for the next half-hour, banking up comers of palms, covering the foremost pots with a velvety cushion of moss. Side by side they knelt on the marble floor, pulling apart the fragrant sods, patting them into shape. Once when a rebellious morsel refused to remain in place Teresa fumbled among her yellow locks for a hairpin to act as skewer, whereupon Dane made a quick movement to withdraw her hand.

"No, no, it's covered with soil! ... Let me!" He covered his finger and thumb with a handkerchief, carefully extracted the nearest pin, and held it towards her. "That's better! It's too bad to soil your pretty hair. You've got loads of hair, haven't you? I love to see a girl with good hair. How far does it come down?"

"Past my waist." Teresa's conscience p.r.i.c.ked her on account of one braid which could come down as far as required, but there seemed no immediate need for confession on that score. Her cheeks were flushed, she took a long time over the last arrangement of moss, pondering uneasily. Had anyone _seen_? What would they think? She hoped to goodness that Miss Mason's eyes had been averted! What Miss Mason saw at noon, was parish news by sunfall... "By the by, you'll be interested to hear that Teresa Mallison is engaged to that young Peignton. I saw him _distinctly_ stroking her hair." In imagination she could hear the thin, clipped voice scattering the news broadcast. And in time it would come to Dane's own ears...

Teresa rose and cast a searching glance round the church. No one was looking, the workers were engrossed and preoccupied. The Vicar's wife was affixing a cross of daffodils to the front of the pulpit, the doctor's daughters were tr.i.m.m.i.n.g the lectern with stiff little bunches of daffodils. All down the aisle workers were twisting sprays of ivy round the tall gas standards, in the discreet background dowdy n.o.bodies were wrestling with window-sills. The Vicar's wife held firmly to the theory of universal brotherhood, but it would never have occurred to her to ask a wealthy parishioner to "do" the windows, or a tradesman's wife to undertake the east end. Teresa and Dane left the chancel and stood hesitating at the head of the aisle. Now they were ready for the cut flowers, and the cut flowers had not arrived.

"The Squire promised to send down. I wrote again last night to remind him. He _can't_ have forgotten."

"Oh, no. They'll be here soon. There's a car at the door now."

Peignton peered forward, looking down the length of the aisle into the sunlit churchyard beyond, and the girl watching him, as she loved to do at un.o.bserved moments, saw a sudden light come into the lazy eyes. She peered in her turn, and beheld a small grey foot emerge from the door of the car, then a second foot, and finally a tall figure, grey-robed, grey-furred, which stood aside, sharply outlined against the darkness of the background, and waited for the descent of still another figure, coated in white.

Lady Ca.s.sandra! ... she had come herself, and with her Mrs Martin Beverley. They were driving about together in the morning, a sign of intimacy more eloquent than a dozen afternoon meetings. They were smiling into each other's faces as they walked up the church path, talking with the ease of lifelong friends.

Teresa felt a pang of jealousy, not of Dane Peignton,--these women were married and could have no interest for him,--but for herself, and her position in the Raynor household. Proud as she had been of the degree of intimacy to which she had been admitted, in her heart she had acknowledged the presence of a barrier shutting her out from personal friendship. She had been a favoured acquaintance, nothing more, and now a friend had appeared, and the acquaintance must needs stand aside.

Up the church aisle came the two women, side by side, graver now as befitted their surroundings, yet bringing with them a whiff of the world of gaiety and fashion, the influence of which spread subtly over the feminine body of workers. The Vicar's wife pulled down her cuffs, and brushed the leaves from her gown; the doctor's daughters arranged stray locks, and placed themselves in artistic att.i.tudes around the desk, and from the background poor Miss Bruce looked on with widened eyes.

Ca.s.sandra came forward to shake hands with Mrs Evans, the natural hostess of the occasion.

"Good morning, Mrs Evans. How busy you all are! I drove down with the flowers, and brought Mrs Beverley with me. The groom is bringing them in. We promised Miss Mallison--"

She looked around, caught sight of Teresa and Peignton standing side by side, and nodded, faintly smiling. The affair was progressing then! No need for outside help. Teresa, flushed and happy, the blue of her blouse setting off the pink and white of her complexion, looked her most attractive self. Ca.s.sandra envied her, pitied her, felt an inexplicable irritation with her, all at the same moment, but being bred in the school which considers the suppression of feeling to be the first axiom of good manners, her smile of greeting remained unchanged.

The vases for the altar had been carried into a vestry, where they stood on a table ready to be filled. The groom was directed where to carry his hamper, and the two visitors followed, talking in undertones to Teresa and Dane as they went. Inside the room itself there was a greater sense of freedom, and their voices instantly heightened in tone.

They had an air of having nothing to do, and of being indifferent as to how long they stayed, which was far from welcome to one at least of the workers.

Teresa had planned exactly how the vases were to be arranged, and had antic.i.p.ated a happy half-hour, alone with Dane, free from the observation of curious eyes. She was capable of carrying out her own ideas, and wished for no a.s.sistance. It was Peignton who made the unwelcome suggestion that Ca.s.sandra should remain to help.

"I'm out of this!" he said, shrugging. "Never arranged flowers in my life, and don't know how to begin. Dragging about palms is more in my line, but that's done now, and I'm no more use. Sorry to be such a broken reed, Miss Teresa! Perhaps Lady Ca.s.sandra--" He looked at Ca.s.sandra, and once again his eyes lightened, as if what they beheld was good in his sight. "I am sure you know how to arrange flowers!"

"Oh, yes," Ca.s.sandra said calmly, "I'm supposed to be quite good. Well, Teresa, I am at your service. You are in command. Issue your instructions! Mrs Beverley, you won't mind waiting a short time?"

"Oh, no," Grizel said sweetly. "I'll help too!" She made no motion to take off her gloves, however, but stood watching with a lazy smile while her companion threw off her furs in business-like fashion. The square emerald sparkled against the whiteness of her hand, as she turned over flowers, searching for the most perfect specimens. Once more Dane watched it with fascinated attention, once more looked from it to Teresa's hands, reddened and stained with soil, and hastily averted his eyes. Henceforth he kept them averted. There was no disloyalty in admiring a beautiful thing. The wrong began when one stooped to invidious comparisons.

By degrees it came about that Ca.s.sandra arranged, while the others stood by, and supplied her wants. She was accustomed to the handling of delicate blooms, and possessed little coaxing tricks of propping and supporting, which added greatly to their effect. Of the first two vases completed, hers was so palpably superior, that the obvious course was to invite her to undertake all five. Teresa gave the invitation with a good grace, and stood aside handing sprays of lilies, and disentangling delicate fronds of green.

As she stood she faced a small mirror on the wall, before which the Rev.

Vicar presumably concluded his clerical toilet. At the moment it gave back the reflection of herself and Ca.s.sandra, standing side by side, and the contrast stung. At home, by the same law of contrast, Teresa complacently considered herself next door to a beauty, but seen side by side with Ca.s.sandra Raynor, her image appeared of a sudden coa.r.s.ened and blunted. Moreover, the inferiority was not confined to the body; mentally as well as physically she was at a disadvantage;--her words seemed halting and difficult, compared with the other's delicate ripple of conversation. Teresa's honesty accepted the fact, disagreeable though it was. The little ache at her heart was not caused so much by jealousy, as by regret for the hour which she had longed for, the hour which was not to be. Surrept.i.tiously she watched Peignton to see if he shared her disappointment. His manner was quieter than when they had been alone together. He looked less at his ease, but he was interested, his eyes followed the delicate work with absorbed attention. He was more interested, rather than less. Teresa felt suddenly very tired.

She had hoped he would look disappointed!

Meanwhile Grizel had strolled out of the vestry and stood viewing the scene with lazy, smiling eyes. The workers were so busy that they had not noticed her approach, and she had time to study them unawares. For the most part they worked in pairs, consulting together, the more deft-handed arranging the flowers, the less skilful acting as a.s.sistant, and executing her commands. Quietly though they worked, there was in the air a sense of _camaraderie_; and one divined that these workers were friends who had chosen to work together, and enjoyed the companionship. In the background a solitary black-robed figure stood straining upward from the seat of a pew, engaged in covering the sill of a window with fragments of foliage, and those inferior flowers which had been rejected for more prominent places. Grizel took a short cut through a pew, and approached this worker's side.

"May I help you?" she asked, and Miss Bruce turned her head and stared in bewilderment. She was a middle-aged spinster, who lived in a small villa, with a small servant-girl, a fox-terrier, and a canary in a bra.s.s cage. She possessed exactly two hundred pounds a year, and felt herself rich. It was only in the matter of friends that she was poor, for the taint of trade set her apart from the people whom she wished to know, while as a lady of independent means she, in her turn, despised the cla.s.s from which she had sprung. Mrs Evans considered Miss Bruce a "useful" worker, and asked her to tea regularly once a year, in addition to a summer garden party. The churchwarden's wife was asked to meet her on these occasions. "You won't mind, dear, I know," the Vicar's wife would premise. "You _are_ so kind, and it gives her such pleasure, poor soul!" But as a matter of fact the tea party gave Miss Bruce no pleasure at all. She was keen enough to realise the exact conditions of her invitation, and instead of feeling flattered was wounded and aggrieved... "Last week she had nine people there one afternoon, the Mallisons and the Escourts, all that set. Ellen heard about it from the cook. Why couldn't she ask me then?" she would ask herself bitterly.

"Never anyone but Mrs Rose!" Every year she decided to refuse the next invitation, but when it came to the time her courage failed. In the deadly dullness of her life a change was too rare to be lightly foregone. She stepped down from her high perch now, and turned her dull eyes to stare into Grizel Beverley's happy face.

"May I help you a little?"

"Thank you. It's very kind, I'm sure. I shall be much obliged."

"_That's_ all right!" said Grizel cordially, and promptly seated herself at the end of a pew, and extended an arm along the top of the oaken back, in an att.i.tude of luxurious ease. Exactly what form the "help"

was to take it was difficult to guess, but Miss Bruce was not thinking of such mundane considerations; her mind was occupied in grasping the astounding fact that the latest celebrity of the countryside, Mrs Martin Beverley, late Miss Grizel Dundas, had chosen to single out her insignificant self, when some of the most important ladies in the parish were present.

"It's--not very interesting over here," she stammered apologetically.

"Window-sills are so dull. It's impossible to get an effect."

"They _are_ rather muddly, aren't they?" Grizel agreed cheerfully, casting a roving eye over the branches of greenery, scattered intermittently with daffodils which had had their day. "But I daresay no one will look... I don't think I know your name, do I? You haven't called on me yet?"

Miss Bruce flushed a deep brick-red. Her lips tightened in remembrance of the old grudge.

"I--don't call!" she said bluntly. "It would not be--acceptable. I am poor."

"Oh, so am I! There we can sympathise. Isn't it _dull_?" cried Grizel gaily.

Miss Bruce looked at her in silent disclaimer. No one could look into Grizel's face and doubt the honesty of her words, but Miss Bruce reflected tartly that there were different degrees of poverty! Why, the clothes on the bride's back this morning must have cost a considerable portion of her own year's income! The white coat hung in strange and wonderful folds, the outside was severely plain, just a simple, unadorned cloth garment which an ordinary woman might have worn; but as she sat, the fronts had fallen apart, and the spinster gazed with awe upon a gorgeousness of lining such as it had not entered into her brain to conceive. Ivory brocade, shot through with gold; a band of exquisite embroidery where the two fabrics met, cascades of delicate lace. Miss Bruce was fond of coining phrases to express her meaning. She coined one now, "m.u.f.fled magnificence!" It seemed an inconceivable thing that any woman could allow such richness to be hidden away beneath a cloth exterior, yet something latent within her applauded the feat. "m.u.f.fled magnificence," she repeated to herself, her gloating eyes taking in each perfection of detail. Her lips twisted in grim realisation of the difference in degrees of poverty, but a quality of sincerity and kindliness in Grizel's hazel eyes prompted an unwonted confidence. She heard herself saying quite simply and naturally:

"There is something besides poverty, Mrs Beverley! My father was a plumber. Quite in a big way, of course, but still,--he was in trade.

He was a very good father; he educated me well and left me enough to live on. I'm grateful to him, but,--you can understand--"

Grizel gave a soft little _move_ of appreciation.

"A _good_ plumber.--A plumber with principles... Oh, you _must_ be proud! I've travelled all over the world, but I never heard of such a thing before. All the other plumbers I've heard of have brought misery on everyone who knew them... You must certainly come to see me, and tell me all about him, and I'll call on you too, and see his photograph... Had he a chin beard?"