The Misses Mallett | Page 4

his

distress, even in its sincerity, she did not much believe, for he had
failed to touch anything but her pity, and that failure seemed an
argument against the vehemence of his love. Yet she liked him, she had
always liked him since, as a little girl, she had been taken by her
stepsisters to a haymaking party at Sales Hall.
They had gone in a hired carriage, but one so smart and well-equipped
that it might have been their own, and she remembered the smell of the
leather seats warmed by the sun, the sound of the horse's hoofs and the
sight of Caroline and Sophia, extremely gay in their summer muslins
and shady hats, each holding a lace parasol to protect the complexion
already delicately touched up with powder and rouge. She had been
very proud of her stepsisters as she sat facing them and she had decided
to wear just such muslin dresses, just such hats, when she grew up.
Caroline was in pink with coral beads and a pink feather drooping on
her dark hair; and Sophia, very fair, with a freckle here and there
peeping, as though curious, through the powder, wore yellow with a
big-bowed sash. She was always very slim, and the only fair Mallett in
the family; but even in those days Caroline was inclined to stoutness.
She carried it well, however, with a great dignity, fortified by
reassurances from Sophia, and Rose's recollections of the conversations
of these two was of their constant compliments to each other and the
tireless discussion of clothes. These conversations still went on.
Fifteen years ago she had sat in that carriage in a white frock, with
socks and ankle-strapped black shoes, her long hair flowing down her
back, and she had heard then, as one highly privileged, the words she
would hear again when she arrived home for tea. Under their tilted
parasols they had made their little speeches. No one was more
distinguished than Caroline; no girl of twenty had a prettier figure than
Sophia's; how well the pink feather looked against Caroline's hair. Rose,
listening intently, but not staring too hard lest her gaze should attract
their attention to herself, had looked at the fields and at the high,
smooth wall, and wondered whether she would rather reach Sales Hall
and enjoy the party, or drive on for ever in this delightful company, but
the carriage turned up the avenue of elms and Rose saw for the first
time the house which Francis Sales now offered as an attraction. It was
a big, square house with honest, square windows, and the drive,
shadowed by the elms, ran through the fields where the haymaking was

in progress. Only immediately in front of the house were there any
flower-beds and there were no garden trees or shrubs. The effect was of
great freedom and spaciousness, of unaffected homeliness; and even
then the odd delightful mixture of hall and farm, the grandeur of the
elm avenue set in the simplicity of fields, gave pleasure to Rose
Mallett's beauty-loving eyes. Anything might happen in a garden that
suddenly became a field, in a field that ended in a garden, and the
house had the same capacity for surprise.
There was a matted hall sunk a foot below the threshold, and to Rose,
accustomed to the delicate order of Nelson Lodge with its slim, shining,
old furniture, its polished brass and gleaming silver, the comfortable
carelessness of this place, with a man's cap on the hall table, a group of
sticks and a pair of slippers in a corner, and an opened newspaper on a
chair, seemed the very home of freedom. It was a masculine house in
which Mrs. Sales, a gentle lady with a fichu of lace round her soft neck,
looked strangely out of place, yet entirely happy in her strangeness.
On the day of the party Rose had only a glimpse of the interior. The
three Miss Malletts, Caroline sweeping majestically ahead, were led
into the hayfield where Mrs. Sales sat serenely in a wicker chair. It was
evident at once that Mr. Sales, bluff and hearty, with gaitered legs, was
fond of little girls. He realized that this one with the black hair and the
solemn grey eyes would prefer eating strawberries from the beds to
partaking of them with cream from a plate; he knew without being told
that she would not care for gambolling with other children in the hay;
he divined her desire to see the pigs and horses, and it was near the
pigsties that she met Francis Sales. He was tall for twelve years old and
Rose respected him for his age and size; but she wondered why he was
with the pigs instead of with his guests, to whom