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Callandra looked at her for a moment, then was sensitive enough to see the hurt in her and understand that probing would only injure further, discussion was no longer any part of the healing. Instead she changed the subject to the practical.
"What are you considering doing now? For heaven's sake don't rush into a marriage!"
Hester was a trifle surprised at such unorthodox advice, but she replied with self-deprecatory frankness.
"I have no opportunity to do such a thing. I am nearly thirty, of an uncompromising disposition, too tall, and have no money and no connections. Any man wishing to marry me would be highly suspect as to his motives or his judgment."
"The world is not short of men with either shortcoming," Callandra replied with an answering smile. "As you yourself have frequently written me. The army at least abounds with men whose motives you suspect and whose judgment you abhor."
Hester pulled a face. "ToucM," she conceded. "But all the same they have enough wits where their personal interest is concerned." Her memory flickered briefly to an army surgeon in the hospital. She saw again his weary face, his sudden smile, and the beauty of his hands as he worked. One dreadful morning during the siege she had accompanied him to the redan. She could smell the gunpowder and the corpses and feel the bitter cold again as if it were only a moment ago. The closeness had been so intense it had made up for everything else—and then the sick feeling in her stomach when he had spoken for the first time of his wife. She should have known—she should have thought of it—but she had not.
"I should have to be either beautiful or unusually helpless, or preferably both, in order to have them flocking to my door. And as you know, I am neither.''
Callandra looked at her closely. "Do I detect a note of self-pity, Hester?"
Hester felt the color hot up her che
eks, betraying her so no answer was necessary.
"You will have to learn to conquer that," Callandra observed, settling herself a little deeper in the chair. Her voice was quite gentle; there was no criticism in it, simply a statement of fact. "Too many women waste their lives grieving because they do not have something other people tell them they should want. Nearly all married women will
tell you it is a blessed state, and you are to be pitied for not being in it. That is arrant nonsense. Whether you are happy or not depends to some degree upon outward circumstances, but mostly it depends how you choose to look at things yourself, whether you measure what you have or what you have not."
Hester frowned, uncertain as to how much she understood, or believed, what Callandra was saying.
Callandra was a trifle impatient. She jerked forward, frowning. "My dear girl, do you really imagine every woman with a smile on her face is really happy? No person of a healthy mentality desires to be pitied, and the simplest way to avoid it is to keep your troubles to yourself and wear a complacent expression. Most of the world will then assume that you are as self-satisfied as you seem. Before you pity yourself, take a great deal closer look at others, and then decide with whom you would, or could, change places, and what sacrifice of your nature you would be prepared to make in order to do so. Knowing you as I do, I think precious little."
Hester absorbed this thought in silence, turning it over in her mind. Absently she pulled her feet out of the basin at last and began to dry them on the towel.
Callandra stood up. "You will join us in the withdrawing room for tea? It is usually very good as I remember; there is nothing wrong with your appetite. Then later we shall discuss what possibilities there are for you to exercise your talents. There is so much to be done; great reforms arc long overdue in all manner of things, and your experience and your emotion should not go to waste."
"Thank you." Hester suddenly felt much better. Her feet were refreshed and clean, she was extremely hungry, and although the future was a mist with no form to it as yet, it had in half an hour grown from gray to a new brightness. "I most certainly shall."
Callandra looked at Hester's hair. "I shall send you my maid. Her name is Effie, and she is better than my appearance would lead you to believe." And with that she
went cheerfully out of the door, humming to herself in a rich contralto voice, and Hester could hear her rather firm tread along the landing.
* * * * *
Afternoon tea was taken by the ladies alone. Rosamond appeared from the boudoir, a sitting room especially for female members of the household, where she had been writing letters. Fabia presided, although of course there was the parlor maid to pass the cups and the sandwiches of cucumber, hothouse grown, and later the crumpets and cakes.
The conversation was extremely civilized to the point of being almost meaningless for any exchange of opinion or emotion. They spoke of fashion, what color and what line flattered whom, what might be the season's special feature, would it be a lower waist, or perhaps a greater use of lace, or indeed more or different buttons? Would hats be larger or smaller? Was it good taste to wear green, and did it really become anyone; was it not inclined to make one sallow? A good complexion was so important!
What soap was best for retaining the blush of youth? Were Dr. So-and-so's pills really helpful for female complaints? Mrs. Wellings had it that they were little less than miraculous! But then Mrs. Wellings was much given to exaggeration. She would do anything short of standing on her head in order to attract attention.
Frequently Hester caught Callandra's eyes, and had to look away in case she should giggle and betray an unseemly and very discourteous levity. She might be taken for mocking her hostess, which would be unforgivable— and true.
* * * * *
Dinner was a quite different affair. Effie turned out to be a very agreeable country girl with a cloud of naturally wavy auburn hair many a mistress would have swapped her dowry for and a quick and garrulous tongue. She had hardly been in the room five minutes, whisking through clothes, pinning here, flouncing there, rearranging everything with a skill that left Hester breathless, before she had recounted the amazing news that the police had been at the hall, about the poor major's death up in London, twice now. They had sent two men, one a very grim creature, with a dark visage and manner grand enough to frighten the children, who had spoken with the mistress and taken tea in the withdrawing room as if he thought himself quite the gentleman.
The other, however, was as charming as you could wish, and so terribly elegant—although what a clergyman's son was doing in such an occupation no one could imagine! Such a personable young man should have done something decent, like taking the cloth himself, or tutoring boys of good family, or any other respectable calling.
“But there you are!'' she said, seizing the hairbrush and beginning on Hester's hair with determination. "Some of the nicest people do the oddest things, I always say. But Cook took a proper fancy to him. Oh dear!" She looked at the back of Hester's head critically. "You really shouldn't wear your hair like that, ma'am; if you don't mind me saying." She brushed swiftly, piled, stuck pins and looked again. "There now—very fine hair you have, when it's done right. You should have a word with your maid at home, miss—she's not doing right by you—if you'll excuse me saying so. I hope that gives satisfaction?"
"Oh indeed!" Hester assured her with amazement. "You are quite excellent."
Effie colored with pleasure. "Lady Callandra says I talk too much," she essayed modestly.
