When Grizel sailed down to dinner
two hours later, it would have been difficult to recognise
in her the pallid traveller of the afternoon.
She was gorgeously attired in a robe of golden net
covered with an embroidery of the same hue.
The golden sheaf clung round her, and trailed heavily
on the ground; encased in it her body appeared of an
incredible slimness, yet from head to foot there was
not one angle, not one harsh, unlovely line.
Nymph, elf, fay, she was all rounded curve and dimple,
from satin shoulder to arched and tiny feet.
Though one might marvel that a human being could live
in such wand-like form, thin was a word which
could never occur. Grizel was no more thin than
Katrine herself. Her soft, mouse-brown hair was
waved loosely back, and twisted in a fashion which
preserved the shape of the head,-a rare
and wonderful sight at a time when nine women out
of ten carried a cushion-like appendage standing out
many inches behind the ear. Grizel was too wise
to disguise herself by any such freak of fashion; an
artist would have noted with delight that she invariably
respected the natural “line” of the body.
Neck and arms were bare of ornament, her cheeks were
still pale, but with a warm, cream-like tint which
had no trace of ill-health, her honey-coloured eyes
reflected the golden lights of her dress. The
scarlet lips made the one contrasting note of colour.
Katrine stared blankly at the entrance
of the apparition, the inevitable admiration largely
tinged with reproach. How ridiculous, and unsuitable,
and altogether Grizelish to choose such a dress for
a quiet home evening! It was probably the first
that had come to her hand, and she had put it on without
a thought. When there was a dinner party, and
the most important people in the neighbourhood were
assembled to meet her, she would just as likely as
not appear in a simple muslin. Katrine had lived
through such experiences before, and had suffered much
aggravation thereby. She stared with exaggerated
surprise, whereupon Grizel gurgled, quick to appreciate
the criticism.
“Yes, ma’am. My
very best! Ain’t I a pr-etty
ittle did?”
“It would be very suitable for
a Court ball. What possessed you to put it on
to-night?”
“I felt like it,-in
a golden mood! I always dress to suit my moods.
Besides it’s quite new, and the dear thing wanted
its turn. It is my Sheba dress, but you aren’t
nearly so appreciative as Aunt Griselda. She
bowed down before me.”
“I’m not going to bow
down, but it’s a marvellous frock!” Katrine
felt a depressing consciousness of the shabby black
net which had done duty for home wear for several
winters in succession, and woman-like reflected with
a pang that the price of that golden sheaf would probably
equal that of her entire summer outfit. How would
it feel to own a fairy purse, and bid Paquin do his
best?
For a moment she was rent with envy,
then curiosity claimed its day. She crossed the
room, and peered with awe and admiration at the elaborateness
of the dress, the chiffon skirts poised one upon another,
which softened the glare of the satin slip, the exquisite
design of the embroidery, the rare and varied beads
with which it was intermingled.
“Grizel-what gorgeousness!
Every bead is a treasure. It must have taken
months to work. And on a piece of perishable
net. I have read about such things, but
I’ve never seen them... Mrs Brewston would
read you a lesson on wanton extravagance-”
“Decadence,” interrupted
Grizel firmly. “You must always
call it decadence. And I should perfectly agree.
But the poor lambs had embroidered it, so some one
had to pay, and Aunt Griselda might as well
do it as any one else. I wouldn’t have
dreamed of giving the order!”
“Humbug! Quibbler!-Is
there any possible way of getting into it, or do you
wriggle in at the neck? There’s nothing
of you, my dear, but you are modelled so considerately-plump
in the right places! ... The sleeves are a trifle
attenuated, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps they are, but it’s
the fault of my arms. They are so pretty!
Look at that ikkle, ikkle dimple... You wouldn’t
have the heart to hide it!” returned Grizel,
shutting one eye so as to peer with the other at the
soft, infantile dents above the elbow. In praise
or blame she was always markedly honest as regarded
her own appearance. Even when Martin made his
appearance at the door, and came to the sudden stand
as if dazzled by the glittering apparition in the
middle of the dark room, Grizel seemed to see no reason
for changing her pose, but continued to peer and to
crane with undiminished interest.
“I’m showing Katrine a
bonnie wee dimple... This side, to the west!
I can just peer at it like this, but it’s beautiful
viewed from the side, I wear my sleeve cut short `a
pupos.’ ... This is the dress that the
Duck wears, Martin, the night she’s engaged.
He hadn’t intended to speak so soon, but when
he saw her in it he couldn’t resist-”
“I’m sure he couldn’t !”
Martin’s echo came back with
what his sister considered a painful banality.
She flinched before it, as at a desecration.
When one is accustomed to regard a man as seated
on a permanent pinnacle of grief, it is a shock to
find him condescending to the ordinary barter of compliment,
but Martin was oblivious of her frown, for Grizel had
opened her closed eye, and peered upward into his
face with her sweet, lazy smile.
He gave her his arm, led her in to
dinner, arranged her chair, and groped under the table
for a footstool, leaving Katrine to follow, alone
and unnoticed. Never in all the years they had
lived together had he thought of a footstool for his
sister’s feet! As there was only one of
these articles in common use, she was obliged to do
without the ordinary support, and the feeling of discomfort
lasted throughout the meal.
The curtains were undrawn, leaving
a vista of garden sloping upward to the knoll, the
low panelled room was already dim, and the table was
lighted by candles in tall silver stands. A bowl
of beautifully cut old glass was piled high with roses,
and the meal was dainty and well chosen, for Katrine
was on her mettle before Grizel’s quizzical eyes.
Martin sat at the head of the table; he had the long
thin face, the deep-set eyes, the sensitive lips,
which carry the mind instinctively to the days of
old. For him a stock and a fob would have seemed
more appropriate than twentieth-century attire.
His eyes looked particularly dark to-night; he held
himself buoyantly erect.
Grizel rested both elbows on the table,
and began feeding herself with fragments of bread,
before the soup was served.
“Excuse my bad manners.
They’re so fashionable!” she mumbled
in explanation. She attacked her soup with a
zest which one would hardly have expected from so
fragile a creature, and took little part in the conversation
until it was finished. Then once more she rested
her elbows on the table, and smiled across at her
host.
“And so,” she said lazily,
“to-morrow is the Duke’s bean-feast.
It’s no end of a way, isn’t it?
How do we go?”
“Martin has engaged a car.
Several neighbours wanted us to share, and it was
really quite a blessing to be able to refuse.
Last year we went with the Morlands, and they stuck
to us like glue to the bitter end. This time
we shall be free.”
“We three, and a second man. Who is the
second man?”
“We three, and no other man!”
Grizel dropped her hands on to the
table, and stared with distended eyes.
“But, my child, how absurd.
I’m the most unexacting of critters but I make
it a principle, never to share a man! There must
be an odd bachelor in the neighbourhood who’d
be glad of a lift! A presentable, flirtable
creature to make up the four!”
The youthful parlour-maid jerked at
the sound of that second adjective, and scurried from
the room, soup plates in hand, leaving Katrine to
whisper hasty reprisals.
“Grizel, please! Wait
until afterwards. It’s a young girl I am
training. She belongs to the Y.W.C.A.”
Grizel’s stare changed to a smile.
“I don’t object, dear.
I really don’t. So long as she’s
pleased, I assure you I won’t let it make any
difference!”
“But that’s just what
I want it to do! Do please be sensible until
dinner is over, and for mercy’s sake don’t
talk about flirts. She’ll be so shocked.”
“Then she’ll be the first
Y.W. I’ve ever met who was.
And I don’t believe she will, neither.
There’s a tilt to her cap-”
The door opened to admit the Y.W.,
bearing in her hands the fish, and on her face that
expression of concentrated vacuity which denotes acute
curiosity. Every householder has suffered such
moments, and knows by experience the painful pause
which ensues before one of the diners bursts vivaciously
into impersonalities, but to-day there was no pause.
Grizel was too nimble-witted to permit such discomfiture.
There was not the slightest break in the continuity
of her speech, her words flowed on in a smooth unbroken
stream.
“-The which I take
to typify a certain temperamental tendency towards
the ornate, coupled with a desire to please, and be
appreciated by those whom Providence has appointed
lords among us, against which tendency all the restrictions
of that admirable society-”
“Grizel! Idiot! Eat your fish.
You talk too much!”
Martin had burst into a roar of laughter,
in which Katrine perforce was obliged to join.
The Y.W. marched stolidly round the table. She
was by no means so dense as she appeared, was perfectly
aware that the visitor had been reproved in her absence,
and suspected a personal application in the long-winded
speech. She disappeared in search of sauce, and
to report the progress of events to the eager cook.
“I’ll make a compact with
you,” whispered Grizel eagerly. “I’ll
talk like a tract to the end of my stay, if you can
induce her not to puff down my back!
Principles I respect, but draughts I abhor. Just
make it perfectly clear!” ...
The Y.W. returned, and puffed vigorously
the while she handed the sauce, whereat Katrine suffered
a moment of acute suspense, but Grizel only wriggled
her white shoulders, and remarked sweetly:
“Chill, isn’t it, for the time of year!”
Katrine hastily turned the conversation.
“Grizel, did you know that Martin’s
last book is already in its third edition?”
“No. Is it? How very good.”
The words were irreproachable but
there was something lacking in the tone. Katrine
frowned, Martin looked across the table at the sparkling
golden figure, who sat with head on one side, and brows
arched, like a penitent child asking for forgiveness.
Their eyes met, and he smiled in reassuring sweetness.
“Martin’s books are a
forbidden topic at Martin’s table. After
dinner, Grizel, I’ll take you to see my roses.
They are much more interesting.”
“In that dress! In those
slippers!” gasped Katrine outraged. As
neither of her hearers volunteered a reply she considered
the proposition ruled out of court, but after coffee
had been served it was necessary to retire to her
room to write an order to the stores, and upon her
return, lo! the room was empty, the French windows
stood apart, and in and out between the bushes of
the knoll passed a shimmer of golden light.
Katrine’s first sensation was
one of shocked surprise at the recklessness of garden
promenades in a costly new gown, her second an impulse
to go out in her turn, and make one of a party to enjoy
the fragrant dusk. She had gathered up her skirts,
was on the point of stepping through the window, when
like a dart came the remembrance of Grizel’s
words, her avowed dislike to “sharing a man”;
of Martin’s evident agreement. She drew
back, seated herself on the nearest chair, and digested
the unwelcome thought.
They would not want her! They
had probably chosen the moment when she was out of
the room to start on their ramble alone. If she
were to join them now, her presence would form the
proverbial “trumpery.”
Katrine could have understood it,
could have sympathised frankly if it had been a case
of love; lovers naturally wished to be alone, but Martin
and Grizel were merely friends, not even intimate friends,
since Grizel’s visits had come at long intervals
during the past years. They could have no sweet
secrets to discuss.
Sitting alone in the room looking
out into the dusk, a memory darted back out of the
years. Just so had she sat during her first visit
to the house, in that brief summer of Martin’s
wedlock. She had been a young girl then, lately
released from school. She recalled anew the
loneliness which had fallen upon her, while Martin
and Juliet roamed the garden paths, and she sat alone,
listening to the soft burst of laughter, watching
the flit of the white dress.
A white dress, ghost-like, transparent;
a light, slight thing, as befitted the youthful wearer.
Grizel’s dress was gold; it flashed an opulent
orange and red. There was nothing ghostly about
it; it was warm, and human, and alive. It drew
the eye with an irresistible allure.
How could he! How could he!
Along the very paths which he had paced with Juliet.
Beside the flowers which her hands had planted!
Once again Katrine suffered the pang, the repulsion.
All these years she had suffered at the sight of
Martin sorrowful and lonely, now-mysterious,
but incontrovertible fact!-she suffered
afresh at the sight of him consoled.
Without, in the garden, Grizel was
flitting from tree to tree like a big gold moth, bending
her head to drink in the heavy perfume. The curve
of the neck, the curve of the cheek half hidden against
the leaves, the reed-like figure bent low from the
waist, they were the very epitome of grace.
“Martin! Martin!
I must have some of these to take up to my room.
There’s magic in the scent of red roses... real
country roses, living on their own stems. It
has something different from all other scents.
These are the trees which little Juliet planted?
How sweet she was that day, when they were planted,
and she was so happy, so dirty, like a pretty child
in her big pinafore! They ought to be
sweet!”
Martin winced. He did not reply,
but taking a knife from his pocket cut off one or
two of the best blooms, carefully pruning the thronged
stems. For the first months after Juliet’s
death her name had been continually on his lips, he
had loved to talk about her, to hear her discussed;
later on the reference had become rarer, more strained;
now for years it had been avoided as elaborately as
though it had belonged to a criminal, a prodigal.
The young fair face still hung on the walls, but in
the house where she had lived no one mentioned Juliet’s
name. Only Grizel, an outsider, talked of her
still, naturally, simply, with a transparent pleasure
in the remembrance.
Martin was not sure whether the reference
more pleased or jarred. Yes! he remembered!
He should never forget that bright autumn day, the
laughing crowd of spectators, the picture of his girl
wife in her short garden skirt, waving her spade in
triumph. He could never forget, but the personal
significance had faded. There seemed little connection
between himself and that boyish bridegroom; it was
an effort to realise that that sweet child had truly
been his wife.
The present moment seemed far more
real, more vital. Himself, the man, occupied
with the matured work of life; Grizel, the woman, instinct
with the lure of her sex. He held the roses
towards her that she might enjoy their fragrance,
and for a minute they stood in silence, side by side.
Then Grizel raised her head, and looked into his face
with a long, penetrating glance. This was the
real moment of their meeting, and both silently recognised
it as such.
“How goes it, Martin?”
she asked in her soft rich voice. “How
goes it?”
“Haltingly, Grizel, haltingly!”
his smile flickered, and died out. “We’ll
talk of that presently; you are the one person to whom
I can talk on that subject, but first of all
there is something else. Prisoner at the Bar.-Why
don’t you like my book?”
His voice was gentle, bantering, almost
tender in tone. There was not the faintest touch
of offence, but Grizel’s discomfiture was as
naïve and undisguised as that of a child.
“Martin! you said that we were not to discuss-”
“Not in public; not at meals,
not even before Katrine, but certainly when we are
alone. There’s no getting out of it, Grizel.
You said nothing, it was only a tone, but as it happens
I understand your tones. The book may run through
a dozen editions, but for you it has failed.
Why?”
She stood before him, slim and straight,
her face puckered in thought.
“I-don’t-know!
Everything,-or was it nothing, Martin?”
“Can I help you to find out?
A few leading questions perhaps... Is it clever?”
“Very clever.”
“Original?”
“Original!”
“Interesting?”
“Quite interesting.”
“Clever, original, and interesting,
and already in its third edition! What would
you have more, Mistress Critic?”
Grizel lifted her right hand, and lightly tapped her
heart.
“Clever, interesting, original,
but it didn’t touch! The craft is
good, Martin; you are a skilful workman-I
think you grow more and more skilful, but-”
“Go on, Grizel; don’t be afraid.
Tell me the whole truth.”
Grizel faced him in silence.
It was not often that so grave and thoughtful an
air was seen upon her sparkling face. Her eyes
gazed past his, far away into the night.
“Once,” she said dreamily,
“there was a painter. He painted marvellous
pictures, but it was the depth and tone of his colouring
which made him celebrated over all the world.
And of all his colours there was one in particular
which appeared in all his pictures, and the secret
of which his fellow-artists tried in vain to discover.
It was a red, Martin, a red so rich, so warm, so
kindled, that all who beheld it felt warmed
in their souls, and his fellow-artists questioned and
pondered, and tried in vain to produce the same glow
upon their own canvases-and the years passed,
and they grew old and weary, and still they failed.
At last one day the great man died, and those who
tended him for his burial were amazed to find a wound,
an open wound, above his heart. And then
at last they understood. The red of his pictures,
the glow which had warmed the world, had been painted
with his own blood!”
There was silence in the garden.
The scent of roses hung heavy upon the air.
“And I,” said Martin slowly. “I
write in ink.”
Grizel made no reply. She turned
from the rose-bed, and passed along a winding path
which led round the herbaceous border to the slope
of the orchard beyond. It was a narrow path,
too narrow for two to walk in line, so that Martin,
following, could not see her face. It was like
Grizel, he reflected, to have chosen that path at this
moment. She divined that he could speak more
openly unseen.
“And even, Grizel, if I wrote
in your painter’s medium, my reds would have
no glow! One cannot give out what one does not
possess. While I am cold myself, how can I give
out warmth? It is so long, Grizel, since my
heart was warm!”
A sigh floated back to his ears.
“Pauvre!” breathed
the deep voice, but she did not turn her head; the
gleaming figure flitted before him down the darkening
path.
“I flattered myself that I had
made a brave pretence. It was a good enough
sham to delude the world, but You have found me out.
Don’t think that I regret it-I am
thankful to Heaven that some one understands.
To be praised for what one knows to be false is a bitter
pill. Sometimes I wonder, shall I throw it all
up? Settle down comfortably into the rut, and-grow
roses! I could grow good roses, Grizel; the
best of their kind. There would be no need to
be ashamed.”
In the twilight he saw her shake her
head. A fold of the golden robe escaped her
hands, and trailed on the ground. They stooped
together to lift it up, and she smiled up at him with
her sweet gay smile.
“But you couldn’t, Martin;
you couldn’t do it! You might make a hundred
resolutions, but you’d begin again. There’s
no escape that way, dear man. You must write,
as you must breathe, therefore it follows that you
must get warm. Chills are depressing things,
but they are dangerous only when they are allowed
to settle. This old house of yours has its back
to the sun.”
“I can read your parable, Grizel,
but circumstances-like houses-are
not easily turned round. Life has made chains
for me from which I cannot escape. Katrine-”
“I rather-suspect,”
interrupted Grizel drawling, “that Katrine’s
chains are slackening! Some one, or something,
has been supplying the oil. Another creak or
two and she will be breaking loose, and going off at
a tangent which will surprise your innocent mind!”
“Symbols again! I don’t
follow so easily this time, but if the signs are good,
I am uncommonly thankful. I can talk openly to
you, Grizel, for you won’t misunderstand.
Katrine is-on my mind! Perhaps it
would be more honest if I said on my nerves!
I’ve a suspicion that I’m on her nerves
also, and the mischief of it is, that things are growing
worse. There’s nothing definitely wrong,
and yet there’s-everything!
I feel an utter brute.”
To his astonishment, to his relief,
Grizel laughed; a blithe and comfortable laugh.
They had reached the summit of the orchard by this
time, and had paused to look down at the twinkling
lights of the village before turning back to the house.
“Poor, dear, conventional brute!
Am I expected to be shocked? I’m not
one bit, and I can’t pretend to be. It’s
not your fault, and it’s not Katrine’s.
You have both done your laborious bests to accomplish
something that has never been accomplished by effort
since the world began, and you are both overcome with
Remorse because it has failed. I’d like
to present you with a putty medal apiece to the memory
of a successful failure. You have lived together,
two utter strangers, who happen to have been born
brother and sister, for eight long years without once
descending to violence. It’s magnificent,
it’s incredible! You ought to be intoxicated
with pride! It’s the most unique quality
on earth which enables two people to live in happiness
and understanding, and what constitutes it, the dickens
only knows. We’ve got it,-my
old Buddy and I. We are at opposite ends of the poles,
we can on occasions quarrel like cats, but in the
main we understand; we fit! You and Katrine
don’t touch within miles. There’s
no credit, there’s no blame. Fate placed
us together, not choice. I have succeeded because-please
realise this!-I didn’t need to
try. You, poor lambs, have tried away what
little chance you had. It is affectation to
pretend that it is your fault. The only blame
would be to go on living in a false condition.”
“I know it, I know it!
I’ve been feeling it more and more strongly.
It’s not fair to Katrine; it’s not fair
to me or to my work. But what can I do?
I brought her here, she has given up her youth to
looking after me, there’s no other home open,
to her-I don’t pretend that her happiness
is bound up in mine, but she thinks that it
is, and that’s virtually the same thing.
She would feel desperately aggrieved-”
“Oh, you unselfish people, there’s
no dealing with you!” Grizel shrugged impatiently.
“Let her feel aggrieved! If it’s
a case of smarting for a week, or freezing for life,
then let her smart! Can’t you make
up your mind just for once in your life to speak the
bold, blatant truth? `Katrine, my dear, we are getting
sick of each other- let’s cut it,
and part! I’ll give you an allowance-go
off and pay visits, or set up a crib of your own,
enjoy yourself in your own way, but for Heaven’s
sake let me be happy too!’”
Martin shook his head.
“I couldn’t, Grizel; I
couldn’t! It may be the right thing to
do, but I’m a coward. I can’t face
it. Not that way!”
Grizel looked at him whimsically.
Men-the best of men, were so apt to believe
that so long as the words were not actually spoken,
their feelings remained concealed. And woman,-the
pity of it!-could read the meaning of a
sign. This woman already had read the signs.
Undoubtedly, inevitably, a change was at hand!