The garden fête came off yesterday, and on the surface was a roaring success. The weather was ideal; the vicarage garden proved all that was necessary in the way of a background, and the arrangements were so extraordinarily complete that my practical mind was constantly confronted with the question, “Won’t this cost far more than it gains?” In a big city a charity entertainment may throw out expensive baits with a fair chance of catching a shoal of fat and unwary fish; but in a small village the catch can be calculated to a sou. The big fish of the neighbourhood will heave a sigh of duteous resignation, put a five-pound note in the purse, and start for the fray prepared to spend it all, but not one penny more! The smaller fry carry out the same policy with ten or fifteen shillings. The minnows take half-a-crown, with which they pay for tea, and purchase soap at the provision stall, reporting to their husbands at night that, after all, the money was not wasted. The Vicar might just as well have it as the grocer. All the attractions in the world cannot worm shillings out of a public which is so prudent and canny that it has self-guarded itself by leaving its cash at home!
Many times over yesterday afternoon I saw the flicker of longing in feminine eyes as they gazed upon the tempting novelties displayed upon the stalls, but the next moment the lips would screw, the feet pass by. Guild garments must be bought; tea paid for; tickets bought for the novel Treasure Hunt, wherein—with luck!—one might actually gain by the outlay. The visitors lingered to gaze at the pretty china, and glass, and embroideries with which Delphine had filled her stall; but the afternoon wore on, and it looked as full as ever—horribly full! There were none of those bare, blank spaces which stall-holders love to see. At five o’clock we marked off the odd sixpences; at six o’clock we dropped a whole shilling, but still—hardly a sale!
Delphine looked—a vision! At the first glimpse of her in her cobweb fineries, I was ill-bred enough to gape, whereat she blushed and said hurriedly:—
“Your dressmaker! Yes! Isn’t it a duck?”
And knowing the prices which Celeste charges for ducks with such feathers, I wondered, and—feared! Did the Vicar know? Was it possible that with his small stipend he could afford such extravagances? Had the silly little thing ordered, and never asked? Was it my fault for having given the address? Could I have helped doing so, when I was asked? I had said she was expensive. It was some small comfort to remember that, and Charmion would say it was no concern of mine. A dozen such disconcerting thoughts raced through my mind, but I shook them off, and said heartily:—
“It is lovely! You are lovely! I had no idea you were such a beauty. What does your husband say?”
Her face clouded.
“Nothing. Doesn’t notice. Likes me as much in an old print. But I—love it! Oh, you don’t know what bliss it is to feel ‘finished off’. Everything new, good, pretty, and to match!” She gave a rapid swirling movement of the hand to call my attention to such details as shoes and stockings, embroidered bag, and glorified garden hat. “It’s nothing to you. You have had them all your life, but I have only longed and—starved!”
She spoke with a passionate emphasis, which to many people would seem out of all keeping with the subject; but I am young, and a girl, so I understood. There are many empty-headed women in whom the craving for pretty things is as strong as the masculine craving for drink and cards. Circumstances have compelled these women to wear the plainest, most useful of clothes, while every shop window shows a tantalising display of colour and beauty, and other women not half so pretty as themselves bloom with a borrowed radiance!
No mere man can understand the inborn feminine joy in the feel of fine smooth fabric, nor the blending of delicate colours, the dainty ruffling of lace. To the rich these things come as a matter of course, and the working classes are satisfied with garish imitations; it is the poor gentlewoman with the cultivated taste, the cultivated longing for beauty, to whom temptation comes in its keenest form. It had come to Delphine, and she had succumbed. I devoutly hoped and prayed that the shock of the coming bill would prevent further extravagances!
Charmion and I took charge of the Treasure Hunt. We had given the treasures, which were laboriously chosen with a view to suitability. Umbrellas (lashed flat to the trunks of trees!) bags, photograph frames, writing cases, boxes of handkerchiefs, chocolate, cigarettes, scent, and—this was a cunning idea!—cash orders on a big London store.
There was a great rush for tickets, and the Vicar—very flurried, and out of his element, poor man!—dragged in the Squire to help us. The Squire had arrived with his mother an hour before, and had sat under a cedar, drinking tea with a selection of old ladies and gentlemen, looking as though he liked it quite well. Whenever he met my eye, he glowered, as if to say, “How dare you look at me!” and I smiled back, as that seemed to annoy him most. Now, as the Vicar brought him up, I could hear his muttered protests: “Rather not! Can’t you—isn’t there something else?” Pleasing thing, I must say, to have a man forced to help you against his will!
Well, it was no use making a fuss before a score of curious eyes, so for the next half-hour we stood side by side, selling tickets, explaining the rules of the Hunt, marshalling the seekers in readiness for the signal to start. He is capable enough, I will say that for him, and has a patent knack of silencing garrulous questioners. It was the funniest thing in the world to stand at the end of the lawn, and watch these rustic backs—young, old, and fat middle-aged—all poised on one leg, swaying to and fro, straining to be off! Excruciatingly funny to watch the stampede, after the loud “One—two—three—and away!” The plunges, the waddles, the skelter of flying heels! One might have thought the gold of Klondyke was hidden in the kitchen garden. I laughed, and laughed, in a good old Irish paroxysm of merriment, until the tears rolled down my cheeks. Mr Maplestone stared, turned on his heel, and stalked away.
I strolled back to the upper lawn, and the first person I saw was old General Underwood sitting in his bath-chair, which had been drawn under the shade of a tree, so that he might see everything, and yet be well out of the way. He was too much out of the way, poor old dear! to judge by his looks, and agreeably pleased to see my approach.
“Well, young lady, and how are you to-day? You look very fresh and charming!”
“That’s very nice of you, General! I do like to be admired. Isn’t this rather a dull corner for you? Wouldn’t you like to be moved?”
He looked around with his old, blue eyes.
“Everyone seems to have gone. There was quite a crowd here a few minutes ago. I sent my man to the village to post some letters.”
“We can manage without him. There is a Treasure Hunt going on at the other end of the garden. That is why this part is so empty. Mrs Merrivale has hidden a lot of parcels among the trees and shrubs, and everyone who pays a shilling can go and search for a treasure.”
“Ha!” His face lit up with the hunting instinct, which seems dormant in us all. “Treasures—I see! A good idea. Worth more, I presume, than the entrance shilling?”
“Oh, much, much more.” The pride of the donor sounded in my voice; then I looked at the poor, old, tired, wistful face, and had a brilliant idea. “General, shall we go hunting—you and I? I’ll push and you’ll steer, and we’ll both look, and if it’s a man’s present, it’s yours, and if it’s a woman’s, it’s mine, and if it’s neutral, we’ll toss! They’ve only just started, so we’re in time.”
He gripped the handle involuntarily, then loosened it to say:—
“My dear, I’m too heavy. Wait till my man—”
“Nonsense! I’m as strong as a horse. Who waits is lost. To the right, please, General. Straight down this path, and into the herbaceous garden. Quite slowly, and keep a sharp eye between the branches.”
He quite chuckled with delight. Viewed from the vantage ground of a bath-chair, a Treasure Hunt was delirious excitement, but he was heavy! I remembered a sharp upward curve some way further on, and had a vision of myself pushing, with arms extended to full length, and feet at a considerable distance between the arms, as I have seen small nursemaids push pram-loads of fat twins. How undignified it would be if I slipped half-way, and the chair backed over my prone body! Then, of course, the thing happened which I might have been sure and certain would happen under the circumstances. We came face to face with Mr Maplestone, and the General called out:—
“Hi, Ralph! There you are. Just the man we want. Miss Wastneys and I are hunting. Come and give a hand.”
“Oh, if you have the Squire, you won’t need me. I’ll go off on my own,” I cried quickly; but it was no use, the old man wanted both, and both he would have. The Squire was to push behind; I was to take the handle and pull in front; he himself must be free to hunt, since he was handicapped by old eyes. He issued orders with the assurance of a Commander-in-Chief, and we listened and obeyed.
I started by feeling annoyed and impatient, but honestly, after the first few minutes, it was great fun. The Squire was an abominable pusher; first he pushed too little and left all the work to me; and then, being upbraided, he pushed too hard and tilted me into a run; then we changed places, and he took the wrong turnings, wheeled past plain grass beds where nothing could possibly be hidden; then we both took the back, and the General peered from side to side, and saw nothing, and grew discouraged, and sighed, and said his luck had gone. No treasures for him any more!
I will say for Ralph Maplestone that he is sweet to that old man! He treats him just in the right way, as deferentially as though he were in full health and strength, a martial figure riding gloriously to conquest! We cheered him up between us (I did it rather nicely, too!) and became quite friendly in the process. Two people can’t join in pushing a bath-chair and remain de haut en bas. The thing is impossible. I was most nice to Ralph Maplestone, and he appeared to be nice to me.
Suddenly, in the middle of a bush, I saw a glint of brighter green, the tissue-paper wrapping of a treasure, and instantly my fingers gripped the chair. Mr Maplestone would have pushed on, but I frowned and grimaced, and he looked and saw too, and we both puffed and panted, and demanded a rest, during which I stood elaborately at one side of the bush, and he stood at the other, so that the old dear could hardly miss seeing the paper.
Even then I had to give, it a surreptitious push before discovery came; but he had no suspicions, not one, and was as pleased as a boy at the thought that his old eyes had been sharper than our young ones. We all took a turn at opening the parcel, and it turned out to be a vanity bag, fitted with a mirror and other frivolities, so of course it was presented to me, and I arranged my hair in the mirror, and powdered my nose with the puff, just to shock them, which, by the way, it fully succeeded in doing.
“Girls didn’t do that in my day!” croaked the General.
“All girls don’t do it now!” grunted the Squire.
“My dear, you look far nicer without it.” This was the General’s second venture. I turned to the Squire and asked solemnly, “Do I?” and he gave one quick look, and then stared past me—through me—blankly into space.
“I am no judge,” he said curtly.
Well, let me be honest! It was flirtatious of me, I knew it was, and hurried to rub off the powder, and get back to my briskest, most business-like manner. As we had paid three entrance fees, we were entitled to a treasure apiece, if we could find them, and I insisted upon keeping up the search to the very last moment. It amused the General; it amused me; I honestly believe that it amused Mr Maplestone, as far as he was capable of being amused. He was quite human; once or twice, as we rushed after a “scent,” he was even lively. I began to think he might really be quite nice.
We found one other parcel—a box of cigarettes—and then made our way back to the lawn, where the General’s valet was waiting, and took over the chair. Delphine came up to me and slipped her hand through my arm.
“Evelyn, you have managed beautifully, but you must be dead tired and longing for tea. I’m going to stand over you and make you rest. Stupid of Jacky to send the Squire to help you! You’d have been happier with anyone else, but he’s so dense, so in the clouds, that he doesn’t notice these things. Evelyn, isn’t it strange how he dislikes you?”
“Who? Your husband?”
“Nonsense. No. You know quite well—Mr Maplestone. At first, of course, one can understand he was prejudiced; but now! And when you have been so nice!”
“Thank you for that. I’m glad you appreciate me. Why are you so sure the Squire does not?”
“Because,” she said imperturbably, “he tells me so!”
Curiosity is a terrible thing. It’s bad enough when it concerns itself about other people, but when it comes to oneself, it’s ten times worse. I ached to ask, “When?” and “Where?” and “How?” and exactly in what words Mr Maplestone’s dislike had been expressed, but pride closed my lips, and I would not let myself go. Of course I had known before, but I had imagined that after the chair episode—What stings is not the dislike itself, but the putting it into words to such a confidante as Delphine. No, let me be honest; the dislike itself does sting. I have my own petty feminine craving, and it is to be liked, to have people appreciate and approve of me, if they do nothing more. Even indifference is difficult to bear, but dislike— Well, thank goodness, I have lived in a warm-hearted country among warm-hearted people who have loved me for my name if for nothing else. Really and truly, I believe this ugly, red-headed man is the first person who has ever dared to speak openly of dislike for Evelyn Wastneys!
I pity and despise him. I wouldn’t have his approval if I could. Henceforth I shall never think of him, nor mention his name. To me he is dead. All is over between us before anything ever began! It is finished. This is the end. The fête ended at nine o’clock, and Charmion and I, with the other stall-holders, went into the vicarage to enjoy a supper of scraps. As a rule I adore scrap suppers after everyone has gone, and the servants have gone to bed, and the guests make sorties into the pantry, and bring out plates of patties and fruit, and derelict meringues, and wobbling halves of jellies and creams. They taste so good, eaten in picnic fashion before the fire, with a shortage of forks and spoons, and a plate as a lucky chance. But somehow last night things didn’t go! I think perhaps there were too many “scraps” which should by rights have been sold and paid for in good hard cash. The Vicar was full of hospitable zeal, and evidently enjoyed pressing the good things upon his guests, but there was something in Delphine’s pale glance which checked merriment. She had had her fun, the interest of planning, the excitement of playing hostess to the country-side, the satisfaction of knowing herself to be the best-dressed, most admired woman present, and of queening it over women who had hitherto patronised herself. Poor little butterfly! she had enjoyed her hour, but now the sun had gone down, and she was counting the cost. The treasurer added up the coins handed in from the various stalls and announced the total. There was a little pause.
“Ah!” said the Vicar slowly. “More than last year, but not so much as we hoped. How will it work out, dear, after paying expenses?”
“Oh, Jacky, I’m tired! Can’t we have supper in peace, before worrying about money!” she cried pettishly.
Not another word was said.
When we were driving home, Charmion gave me a shock.
“I rather like Mrs Maplestone,” she said dreamily. “She is stiff and conventional, and it has never even occurred to her that anyone can disagree with her views, and still have a glimmering of right, but, at least, she is sincere. If one could burrow deep enough beneath the surface, she’d be worth knowing.”
“I don’t like people who have to be burrowed. Life is too short. And I am perfectly certain that I should shock her into fits. Personally, I don’t intend to take the trouble of excavating!”
“That’s unfortunate, for she wishes to know you. She has invited us to dinner next Wednesday to meet some friends.”
“Charmion! You didn’t accept?”
“Certainly I did. Wasn’t it your express desire to be sociable, and to know your neighbours?”
“Oh, not them—not there! It’s pleasant knowing a few people, but one is at liberty to choose. I think you might have consulted me!”
In the soft dusk she laughed, and stretched out a caressing hand.
“Tired, dear, and—cross? I thought you’d be pleased. Why and wherefore? Tell me the truth?”
“Oh, don’t be so tiresome, Charmion. Of course I am tired. I’ve been on my feet all day long. Cross! Why should I be cross? Only—I don’t choose to accept hospitality from that man. I tell you plainly I won’t go.”
She bowed her head, deliberately, once and again.
“Oh, yes, Evelyn, you will! I gave you your choice, and having made it you will play fair. I should have preferred to remain peacefully at Coventry, but having taken the first step at your request, I don’t propose to allow you to force me into society alone.”
What could I say? What was it possible to say? There is no way out of it. I shall just have to go!