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قراءة كتاب Lady Cassandra
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removed from the garments of men. Teresa was essentially tailor-made. A good thing too, for the wife of a poor man!
“I wonder what on earth made her many him!”
“Made her—” Teresa’s blue eyes widened in astonishment. “Lady Cassandra? Because she loved him, of course.”
“Is it of course? Are there no other reasons for marriage, Miss Teresa?”
“There ought not to be. There are not... in Chumley. But of course we are not smart.”
“No.” Peignton was once more unconscious of offence. “Still, it’s sometimes difficult to fit the theory to individual cases! Do you never look at the couples around you, and wonder how on earth they came to fancy each other? I believe many of them wonder themselves before a year is past. I can’t imagine Lady Cassandra choosing Raynor!”
“Mr Raynor is very nice. He is a good landlord. People like him very much.”
“I like him myself. He’s a very excellent specimen of his type. I’m not depreciating Raynor as a man—only as a husband for one particular wife. She’s everything that is vivid and alive, he’s everything that’s—slow! It’s a mystery how she took him!”
“Perhaps,” Teresa said shrewdly, “he wasn’t so slow then! He was in love with her, you see.”
She used the past tense in placid acceptance of an obvious fact; Peignton accepted it also, his curiosity concerning the Raynors eclipsed by a tinge of jealousy aroused by the girl’s words. She seemed to understand a good deal of the behaviour of a man in love! How did she come by her knowledge? He had thought the coast clear, but was it possible that one of those local fellows—? Man-like, his interest was quickened by the suspicion, and Teresa gained in value at the thought of another man’s admiration. There was unmistakable inflection in the tone of his next words:
“When I am married, I shall hope to remain in love with my wife!”
Teresa straightened herself, and forced a cough. She was in terror lest the shabby groom might overhear the words, and repeat them for the benefit of the maids in the kitchen.
“Oh, yes, of course!” she said lightly. “That is so nice... Then you will come, and help with the decorations? One needs a man to reach the high places. The Vicar won’t allow a single nail.”
“Yes, I’ll come. I’d like to!” Peignton said. He smiled to himself in the dusk at the thought of standing before the altar in the old church, side by side with Teresa Mallison, her hands heaped with white flowers. He wondered if to her, as to him, would come the thought that there might come another occasion when they would stand there for another purpose. As the horse trotted up to the door of Major Mallison’s house, he was mentally seeing a picture of Teresa in her wedding robes, a gauzy veil covering her head.
A moment later as they bade each other goodnight, the light through the opened door fell full upon the face of the real Teresa in her Burberry and knitted cap, and looking at her, Peignton felt a sudden stab of disappointment. The familiar features seemed in mysterious fashion other than those he had expected. Faults of which he had been happily unconscious, obtruded themselves upon his notice. It was almost as if he looked upon the face of a stranger. He walked down the deserted street pondering the mystery, and like other unimaginative men, failed to find an explanation.
How could it have been possible that he had dreamed of another face?
Chapter Three.
Household Words.
Marten Beverley and his wife Grizel confronted each other across the breakfast table. Only the night before they had returned from a protracted, wedding tour, to take possession of their new home. Each was superbly, gloriously happy, but there was a difference in their happiness. Martin was not tired of play, but the zest for work was making itself felt, and he looked forward with joy to the hours at his desk which would give extra delight to the play to follow. Grizel faced work also, but faced it with a grimace. How in the world to settle down, and to be practical, and keep house?
“Here beginneth the second volume!” she chanted dolefully across the breakfast table. “The happy couple return from their honeymoon, and settle down! ... Martin! I don’t want to settle down. Why should one? It’s out of date, anyhow, to have a second volume. Nowadays people live at full pressure, and get it over in one. Let’s go on being foolish, and irresponsible, and taking no thought for our dinner. It’s the only sensible plan. And it would prevent so much disappointment! I’m a daisy as a honeymoon wife, but I’m not a typical British Matron.”
“You don’t look it!” said Martin, and thrusting his hands in his pockets, tilted back in his chair and sat staring across the table, his eyes alight with admiration. A fire blazed in the grate, but Grizel’s morning robe suggested the height of summer. It was composed of some sort of white woollen material, which showed glimpses of a delicate pink lining. She wore a boudoir cap too, a concoction of lace and pink ribbon at once rakish and demure. Martin was certain that she looked a duck, what he was uncertain about was the suitability of such plumage for the mistress of a small ménage. Had he not kept house for eight years with a sister who had visited the larder every morning, and kept a stern eye on stock-pot and bread-pan, clad in the triggest of blouses, and the shortest of plain serge skirts! His eyes twinkled with amusement.
“Is it your intention to visit the scullery in those garments, may I ask?”
Grizel tilted in her turn, and returned his stare with an enchanting smile. She looked young and fresh, and adorably dainty; an ideal bride deluxe.
“In the first place,” she said, dimpling, “what precisely is, and does—a scullery?”
“A scullery, my child, is an apartment approximate to, and an accessory of, a kitchen. It is equipped with a sink, and is designed for the accommodation of pots and pans, brushes and brooms. Likewise boots, and er—uncooked vegetables. Every mistress of a small establishment visits the kitchen and scullery at least once in the twenty-four hours.” Grizel considered the subject, thoughtfully rubbing her nose.
“Why vegetables?”
“Why not?”
“With brushes and boots?”
“It seems unsuitable, I grant. But they do. I’ve seen them when I’ve been locking up. On the floor. In a wooden box. Carrots and turnips, and potatoes in their skins.”
Grizel straightened herself determinedly, and attacked her breakfast.
“I shall never visit the scullery!” she said firmly. “It would spoil my appetite. Thank you so much for warning me, ducky doo!”
“Not at all. It was an exhortation. The cook will expect it of you. So shall I. You must kindly remember the sink.”
“I take your word for it. Suppose there is? What in the name of fortune has it to do with me?”
“It’s your sink, Madam. Part of your new-found responsibilities. I don’t wish to harrow your susceptibilities, but it might not be kept clean. It is for you to see that it is.”
“You should have told me that afore, Laddie!” warbled Grizel reproachfully. “Nobody never warned me I should have to poke about sinks! And I won’t neither. It’s a waste of skilled labour. Aren’t there lots of sanitary kind of people who make their living by that sort of work? Let’s have one to look after ours!”
“Every morning?”
“Why not? Every evening too, if you like.”
Martin burst into a roar of laughter, and stretched a hand across the table.
“You’re a goose, Grizel; an impracticable little goose. I’m afraid we shall never make a Martha of you.” Then suddenly his face fell, and the caressing touch strengthened into a grasp. “You